Photo: David Greif
***
What are you doing, you idiot?
Despite being sick and injured, I continued to train as if healthy for the 11 days between the Redlands Classic and the San Dimas Stage Race. I had crashed hard on Stage 3 of Redlands, finishing with severely bruised ribs and minor road rash. The ribs were the worst. It hurt to sleep. It hurt to lie down. It hurt to put shoes on. And oh my god it hurt to cough, sneeze, laugh…anything that forced my chest to move quickly and forcefully. I didn’t cough or sneeze much during the race; but that would be coming soon.
The day after Redlands, I woke up sick. Sore throat, dry mouth, and a runny nose. I should’ve seen it coming. My body was destroyed, in-part from the racing, but mostly from the crash. And not only that, I had raced for 8 hours in total over the three days immediately following my crash. You’re not supposed to get out of bed with severely bruised ribs. Just take pain pills and sleep, is what the doctors in the medical tent told me following the final stage, after they did a chest ultrasound because they thought I might have broken ribs or pneumothorax.
In the 11 days between Redlands and San Dimas, my legs felt good. My power was better than ever, and I didn’t want to stop. I should’ve shut it down and rested – it’s easy to say in hindsight – but that’s not easy for me to do. I enjoyed some of the best roads I’ve ever ridden, in and around Carlsbad, California, where I stayed with my wonderfully-generous friends’ family for a week. I can’t thank them enough. My favorite ride was up Mount Palomar, a 5+ hour day in which I smashed myself for an hour just for the heck of it. Or maybe it was for training. Either way, it was painful, it was horrible, but it was fun, and I enjoyed the suffering.
A few days before San Dimas, my confidence was high. I was still sick (and I would be for another week), but my legs felt good and I thought I could win. Oh how foolish I was. I had set a power target in my mind, and I knew I could hit it. On a good day, with a proper warm-up and race nutrition and focused mind, I knew I could do it.
I fell 10 W short, but my time was horrible. I was really, really slow. A minute down on my expectations. Barely Top 20.
I wanted to quit. The sport of cycling. I was done. I shot for the stars and barely got my feet off the ground. I came crashing back to Earth in a crumbled, coughing, and wheezing pile of depression.
So I did what I always do in a crisis: I called my parents. My dad talked me down, told me to give it a minute, and focus on tomorrow. I didn’t want to believe him, but in the back of my mind, I knew he was right. I went for a post-TT spin with my teammate, David. But I was still struggling to move on from my massive failure.
***
The next day, I lined up for the road race determined to make the early break. I started at the front, worked hard to stay there, and followed a number of promising moves in the opening miles. I even tried a move of my own. But as luck would have it, I missed the break, resigning to the field for the majority of the day. I tried a few attacks – one was promising, the others were stupid – and my legs felt great. I was determined to get something out of this race, get in the winning breakaway, force a split, or demolish the field somehow – something. Anything.
All of my attacks were chased down, including a move on the final lap where I solo bridged to a group containing the white jersey of Best Young Rider, and yellow jersey of Overall Leader, with 2k to go. But as soon as I got there, they sat up. The breakaway sat on my wheel – I still have no idea why – until we were caught by the field with 200 meters to go. I was not happy. ‘What a stupid race.’
***
The final stage consisted of 85 minutes of racing around a 6-corner crit course in downtown San Dimas. A gradual climb led up the backside of the course, the perfect place to attack. This is where I would make my move(s). I tried hard to force a breakaway. I attacked a lot, and got chased down a lot. I soloed twice, for about a lap at a time, hoping that someone would bridge up to me. But it wasn’t working.
With 9 laps to go, the winning move went. And I missed it. ‘The only breakaway that you weren’t in’, one of my friends said after the race. He was right.
I saw the move go, but was too far back to jump on it. I watched them ride away, up to a 15-second gap that stayed there until 4 laps to go. Not wanting to sit around waiting for the field sprint, I had a plan: bridge across to the break, or die trying.
At 3 laps to go, I went for it. I attacked on the hill, putting in an all-out sprint from bottom to top. I didn’t look back. As I crested the hill, I rounded the next few corners without braking – a big deal for me personally, as I often struggle with cornering at 30+ mph in pro-level crits. I didn’t look back until I came flying through the start/finish line with 2 laps to go. I had a gap on the field, I was solo, but I was still 8 seconds behind the break. S***, this is gonna hurt.
I couldn’t breathe, but I kept pushing. My legs were dying, but I kept pushing. My legs were screaming at me to stop, but my mind told me to keep pushing.
I caught the break less with just over 1 lap to go, gassed from my effort, but spurred on by the motivation that I might be sprinting for the podium (James Piccoli was already solo off the front and would go on to win the stage). But with less than a lap to go, I could see the field was strung-out behind us, and they were come up fast. I gave it one last-ditch effort up the hill, but with half-a-lap to go, we were caught. I was disappointed, of course, but I was also happy. The best way to put it: I was perfectly content.
I gave it absolutely everything I had. I tried as hard as I could. I knew I couldn’t have gone any faster. And I came up short – but so what? That was me at my best. It didn’t work out that day, but that’s just bike racing. There are a lot of reasons why I didn’t win that day: timing, tactics, wasted energy…but my effort was not one of them. I walked away knowing that I had tried my best, and I can be content with that.