I believe Johan Museeuw said that when he was asked who his best friend in the peloton was. A little sappy, and at times, hard to believe. And it doesn’t go with the cut-throat mentality that seems to reside in every racers brain. It’s more than just trash talk.
Today was the first stage of the Milk Ras, and I saw both the cut throat and the compassionate side of the racing world. The race was spread out across the road, gutter to gutter, from the gun. It seemed like the wind was coming from the left, so the field hugged the right side of the road at the front and spread out behind to move up. Exactly what one would want to see in the US, but not Ireland, where they drive on the left, and the rules explicitly state that all racing must be on the left side of the road.
It was a serious wink at the rules. Motorcycle marshals and cars would come up along the right by blaring their horns. The marshals were going ahead so they could put oncoming traffic off the road so we could have a clear road. Still, riders weren’t always moving out of the way, and they were definitely not ceding too much space to their competitors. The first 50k were on narrow, twisting two-lane roads, and it was a surprise how we echeloned off to the right and fought for the right-hand side. Once I started to get comfortable at this, there’d be a swerve left to avoid a marshal and some stopped cars. I think most of this was going on at about 28 or 30 mph, and the other riders seemed totally comfortable with it.
Finally, after 50k, we switched from back roads to a highway. After a few k on the highway, I saw a guy from the British national team smack one of those pulled-over cars. He hit pretty hard and bounced off, but didn’t take anyone down. It got me a little concerned for when we returned to the smaller roads and the finish got closer. I think a few teammates waited for him and he got back in the race.
The Irish riders have widely-varying abilities. Some, like Mark Scanlon, are world-beaters and serious threats to the overall, others just want to get to the front when the race passes through their home county. Many seemed to be fighting for every wheel from the first k on. I was surprised that riders who should have known the roads were doing swerving to avoid the reflectors on the center of the road. One guy would pass me and then couldn’t decide which way he wanted to go, switching right and left for reasons unknown.
With 25k to go, I got popped. It happened halfway up a third category climb right before a KoM. This is a categorization system that I think is unique to Ireland. It was a big-ring hill for maybe a k. “Relax,” I told myself, “I’ll make the time cut. Maybe I can hide out in the caravan--called here the cavalcade--and get back in. The caravan was at least 38 cars long. I was told not to draft cars, but I couldn’t imagine a commissaire would do anything after the center-line violations. As my car, car 23, came by, I got two bottles from Joe Taylor, our American mechanic who is vacationing with us from his home in Sweden. Car feeding is all that’s allowed in the race. Feed zones were prohibited for fear of finding and spreading foot and mouth disease. I’m going to have to figure out how to do the car feed, as two bottles is not enough for most races, even this fast 95 miler.
Got the bottles, and started to fade back. The Telekom car then came by. The passenger, Peter Becker, Ullrich’s mentor/coach, asked me if I needed anything. I asked for a coke. “Coffee?” He asked. “Coke.” He told the mechanic in the back seat who hunted it down for me. He passed it out the window. I grabbed it. He hurled me forward at over 30 mph with the handsling. I opened the can. Then he motioned for me to get behind his car. I did it. I was drafting the Telekom vehicle at about 30 while sucking down a can of Coke. As adrenalin-inducing as both were, it wasn’t enough to keep me going. I faded back. Another car, way down in the caravan, also told me to get behind. I shared their bumper with one of their team riders.
It always amazes me how much help people give up when you’re on the edge of cracking. There also seems to be a direct correlation between the difficulty of the race and the help you get. Do a local race, a regional race, and the help is barely there. Do a pro/am, or a national stage race, and people will help with whatever they can to see you continue on. It is almost the Plague scenario Camus wrote about.
Conversely, at the front, Papp was fighting for the stage win. Hooks, jabs, even punches were thrown at the race went thermonuclear in the final few k. He got 7th. The winner finished a few seconds ahead of the field. We had two in the top 125 who finished together, with Josh Horowitz in 44th. Our third was second in the second group, which put us low, well last, on team GC.
The leaders did the 95-mile race in 3:26, while I rolled in at 3:41. Not hilly, but windy, and narrow. At least we finished with no mishaps.
Sure, this is just a bike race, but it does have a different level of attention and organization. We were paraded out of town, with a band playing, and girl scouts walked in front of the international teams, holding placards identifying the squads. Every town we went through had a small crowd cheering us on. When I finished solo, a good bit behind the field, I got an ovation from a hundred or 150 standing by. I was then offered up a pint milk carton. Anything was looking good, so I drank away. Tasted like skim. Drank some more, tasted like water. It was water.
Whatever, it was liquid. We changed and got packed up to drive to the hotel. Turns out we have two Irish support personnel helping us. One, Lindsey, is our team manager. The other, Tighe Moriarity drives our gear. On the drive from the race, Tighe got to talking about how the race is run. People like he, Lindsey, the moto marshals, and most of the staff are volunteers who take a week off from life because they want to see the race live on. Many of the motos are former racers who became motorcycle policemen--kind of like Mile-a-Minute Murphy, who worked as a moto cop in NYC after retiring from racing--and their race-savvy showed at how easily and patiently they moved up past to the field. Of course, many of the older guys compete in the “night stages” at nearby pubs and see their kids racing. The Ras is the it race for every racer in Ireland and many train all year in the hopes of making their county team and finishing. Tighe’s son Eugene raced for the Irish National Team the previous years, finishing as high as 7th in the Ras. Now he’s on a county team after a falling out with the national team. Tighe proudly pointed to the race program; his son is almost nipping fellow national team member on the final stage in Dublin last year.
Gotta eat more now. More later. More in the morning. More on the bike. Tomorrow is a flat 130k. Wednesday, the hills begin.
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