There's a certain etiquette and decorum in every sport. These unwritten protocols and unofficial rules make up the very essence of the cultures within each sport. Learning how to navigate this stuff, to me, is a significant part of the challenge of cycling on deceptively simple looking group rides all the way to road races and criteriums.
It seems because the sport of road cycling is still so arcane and strange to most Americans, there doesn't appear to be much written about just what the norms are out there on the road, and not just between motor vehicle drivers and cyclists, but (and especially) among cyclists themselves. So much seems to depend upon who's in the group and their level of experience. Each sets its own unspoken parameters. Being only a Cat 5 racer myself (about to upgrade to Category 4) I often can't recognize the nuance all around me all the time especially on group rides where experience levels mix. Most of us will defer to what the more experienced riders/racers have to say about situations. That is, of course, unless one of them is out of line. Then you're left only with your own internal compass of what is fair to others.
So here's what happened. Yesterday on our group ride conflict occurred between experienced riders---an out-of-towner with fairly high level race credentials versus a few of our riders of the same caliber. Some in the group, like myself, were at least semi-oblivious to what occurred.
We were working in a paceline at a tempo of around 27 mph. Everyone working to the front, taking their pull in the wind, falling off to the rear and continuing to rotate forward as successive riders peeled off the front. I noticed one of our riders fall off the front and the out-of-towner, who was on his wheel, stayed on his wheel as they both drifted to the rear of the paceline. There were about eight of us so this put me and others on the front again sooner. I really didn't hardly notice what he had done, nor did I care. I like getting the work up front. That's the purpose of these rides to me.
I figured he was just trying to stay on with us as he might be racing the next day or wanted an easy workout and was going to "sit on". "Sitting on" or "sitting in" means riding in the pack (peloton) or back in the paceline protected and out of the wind where there is about 30 per cent less workload. If a rider is "sitting on", it means he apparently has no intention of coming to the front to work in the wind for the group. Most experienced riders will tolerate this, no problem. But what happened next, his attack, riding away from the group, demanded an answer from the group and an atonement from the offending out-of-town rider, or outright expulsion by the group by laying down a crushing speed. A single rider often cannot maintain the speed organized riders can lay down after the effort required to attack and then stay away from the group like he had. What I witnessed next was a sort of rare primal justice served.
I had just completed a fairly long second pull down Woods Road in Kitty Hawk. We approached Twiford Road, a righthand turn. As we started into the turn, the out-of towner came out of the paceline from behind and attacked the group. "Attacking", for those unfamiliar with the lexicon of bike racing, means sprinting out front and away from the main group. You'll hear this talk many times in the sports coverage of the Tour De France, for instance, and any races for that matter.
The rider took the speed up to 29 mph or so. Suddenly one of our stronger riders followed him out. I was trying to increase speed and stay on his wheel. We turned left onto Kitty Hawk Village Road and all hell broke out on the road.
The out-of-town guy and our guy were away from the group now about 30 yards. Another one of the guys in our re-forming paceline was second wheel and growling at the frontman to ride faster and faster. The frontman fell away. Our speed went up to 31 mph. We clawed back up to the two leaders and fell in on their wheels. The out-of towner cooled out and drifted to the rear. I never saw him again.
Our strong chaser said he had ridden with that rider and the group the previous day and he had done the same thing---not worked for the group, and then attacked the fatigued group by riding away showing off his strength so to speak. He exacerbated the situation beforehand by bragging about how, in this type of "down" economy, he doesn't have to work as he is a real estate investor. This is not the time or place to put that out to others who may not have the same fortunes. Verdict: our group does not like riders who avoid work and then later, make a display of their (rested) strength on group rides where all have put in their work except him. Those who transgress shall pay.
In a race however, everything changes. We'll talk about that later I'm sure. Thanks for reading. Keep riding (cause there's no surf here right now).
Monday, May 26, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
A Real Man, De-Pantsed by the Surf
Alright, this is directed to all you real men, real surfers, real watermen out there. I once stood proudly among your ranks---strong, unaffected, immortal, a genius even. "You shoulda' been here fifteen minutes ago," you'd proclaim. "It was a lot bigger and the wind was still offshore. You really missed it." You just knew you were the man.
I had this shell cracked wide open two particular times and countless other times. (I'm sure you've had your dose as well. Confessions can be left in the "Comments" section following this blog post. We'd love to hear your story.) I wasn't and still am not the untouchable shredder I may have thought I was from time to time those years ago. Yeah there were specific rides memorable for a lifetime. I've talked about this with a few friends before.
That night after the tube ride of the year, you can close your eyes as your head touches the pillow, and play it back, crystal clear, moment-to-moment as if it were all happening again. It's all there: everything you saw and even heard from the takeoff into the barrel, and the kickout over the wave back, both arms raised to the sky, body clenched. Seems all our efforts in our sport aim at havin' some of that, again and again.
But then there are all the other things that happen---the ones that bring us down from our self-anointed lofty platitudes. I thought wives and girlfriends were the only agents put on earth to pop our bubbles of self-impressiveness, just to watch us fly around the room and land deflated. The surf can do it too---to us all.
Years ago, about 1978, I was surfing in South Nags Head at Domes. My girlfriend sat on the beach reading and sometimes watching us surf. I took a very clean little chest-high right from the first sandbar all the way to the reform inside over the first slough. (I'm goofy-foot, so I was backside to the wave face.)It then wound up spinning itself into an intense little barrel at the shorebreak. I couldn't resist riding all the way to dry sand. I got a bit too high in the wave face. My inside rail lifted, spinning my board up with the tube. As I fell off the tail, the surfboard's (single) fin cut my boardshorts from the leg seam to the waistband in the back, leaving my whole ass completely exposed. I sure knew how to impress the women on the beach and anybody else who got an eye full. I hobbled in humility back to the truck, clutching the fabric together for the benefit of my fellow men and women of course.
A few years before that, around 1973 in Kaneohe, Hawaii, was a similar impressive moment in my surfer's resume. This incident revealed the deepest depths of my modesty possibly residing one notch above resisting death even. I was surfing at North Beach on the Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, a spot I loved to surf as it filtered out the crowds by it being on base.
The surf was solid 12-foot+ faces with stepladder sets every so often. I got caught inside by one of these sets and paddled swiftly outside all the while knowing I was done. The whole horizon seemed to lift up and transform into a wave face. I took off my leash as the wave marking me homed in on the very spot I paddled. As I slid into the water beside my board, pushing it away all in one fluid movement, I saw the wave's nasty-thick lip pitch up and then out. It would land directly on me.
I dove downward when the impact came. In one micro-instant my whole body shuddered and my white Kanvas By Katin's came unsnapped and untied. I don't know what happens in your mind in such a micro-instant, but in mine, as I felt the boardshorts blow down my legs, I actually had the presence of mind to think, "If I lose them, I must return to the beach without my board and with only my manhood before me." All this passed through my brain as my boardshorts flashed from my waist to my ankles, at which point I spread my legs thus holding my pants at my ankles so as not to lose them. I might die. But I would not die naked.
I came to the surface eventually, pulling my boardshorts up and re-securing them as I broke the water's surface gasping for air. Miraculously, my board floated right behind my head. I pulled myself back up, continued paddling outside to the lineup, and re-took my rightful place among the other overly dignified immortals surfing that day. I was shaken up, glad I had saved my britches, but still not finished pondering why I had while under such duress. I love our sport. Get more waves.
I had this shell cracked wide open two particular times and countless other times. (I'm sure you've had your dose as well. Confessions can be left in the "Comments" section following this blog post. We'd love to hear your story.) I wasn't and still am not the untouchable shredder I may have thought I was from time to time those years ago. Yeah there were specific rides memorable for a lifetime. I've talked about this with a few friends before.
That night after the tube ride of the year, you can close your eyes as your head touches the pillow, and play it back, crystal clear, moment-to-moment as if it were all happening again. It's all there: everything you saw and even heard from the takeoff into the barrel, and the kickout over the wave back, both arms raised to the sky, body clenched. Seems all our efforts in our sport aim at havin' some of that, again and again.
But then there are all the other things that happen---the ones that bring us down from our self-anointed lofty platitudes. I thought wives and girlfriends were the only agents put on earth to pop our bubbles of self-impressiveness, just to watch us fly around the room and land deflated. The surf can do it too---to us all.
Years ago, about 1978, I was surfing in South Nags Head at Domes. My girlfriend sat on the beach reading and sometimes watching us surf. I took a very clean little chest-high right from the first sandbar all the way to the reform inside over the first slough. (I'm goofy-foot, so I was backside to the wave face.)It then wound up spinning itself into an intense little barrel at the shorebreak. I couldn't resist riding all the way to dry sand. I got a bit too high in the wave face. My inside rail lifted, spinning my board up with the tube. As I fell off the tail, the surfboard's (single) fin cut my boardshorts from the leg seam to the waistband in the back, leaving my whole ass completely exposed. I sure knew how to impress the women on the beach and anybody else who got an eye full. I hobbled in humility back to the truck, clutching the fabric together for the benefit of my fellow men and women of course.
A few years before that, around 1973 in Kaneohe, Hawaii, was a similar impressive moment in my surfer's resume. This incident revealed the deepest depths of my modesty possibly residing one notch above resisting death even. I was surfing at North Beach on the Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, a spot I loved to surf as it filtered out the crowds by it being on base.
The surf was solid 12-foot+ faces with stepladder sets every so often. I got caught inside by one of these sets and paddled swiftly outside all the while knowing I was done. The whole horizon seemed to lift up and transform into a wave face. I took off my leash as the wave marking me homed in on the very spot I paddled. As I slid into the water beside my board, pushing it away all in one fluid movement, I saw the wave's nasty-thick lip pitch up and then out. It would land directly on me.
I dove downward when the impact came. In one micro-instant my whole body shuddered and my white Kanvas By Katin's came unsnapped and untied. I don't know what happens in your mind in such a micro-instant, but in mine, as I felt the boardshorts blow down my legs, I actually had the presence of mind to think, "If I lose them, I must return to the beach without my board and with only my manhood before me." All this passed through my brain as my boardshorts flashed from my waist to my ankles, at which point I spread my legs thus holding my pants at my ankles so as not to lose them. I might die. But I would not die naked.
I came to the surface eventually, pulling my boardshorts up and re-securing them as I broke the water's surface gasping for air. Miraculously, my board floated right behind my head. I pulled myself back up, continued paddling outside to the lineup, and re-took my rightful place among the other overly dignified immortals surfing that day. I was shaken up, glad I had saved my britches, but still not finished pondering why I had while under such duress. I love our sport. Get more waves.
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