The Page Valley Road Race and My Physical Limits

So I sat in the grass by the side of the road. My helmet was off lying upside down in front of me, my sweaty head in my hands. I was on the summit of the climb just past the finish line. I was deep in oxygen debt, breathing so fast. I was burning up from the 95 degree heat. I poured hot water from one of my bottles over my head---one more insult. Here is where my race season ended and what a weird,wacky season it's been. The Page Valley Road Race had done me in once again.

A good friend and teammate asked me by email after we had left the mountains of Virginia far behind if I had left my PV experience behind also. He knew I was beating myself up for abandoning my first race. But I had already thought about it and told him you can never leave the Page Valley race behind completely.

It's just that it's so beautiful up there and everything we do together preceding the race is so memorable as well. The training rides taken by themselves are worth the effort and traveling. You can't stay completely stuck in your own race results especially what you might interpret as failures when in this context, this landscape. I can't take my racing that seriously. I raced Category 4 where I race against all ages. My racing age is fifty-eight. Yeah, this race I had reached my limits.

We live on the Outer Banks. Yes, we're "flatlanders". The highest mountain training site for us is the 80-foot high Wright Memorial, U.S. Park Service property. We often do hill repeats there from first light of day until the the park opens. But it's not the same as the PV experience. We do however have wind to torture us on the road, and plenty of it. It's the "mountains" of the Outer Banks.

But we don't have real mountains. You know, the 1-5 mile kind with 6-12 percent gradients. As cyclists we understand you must taste this in order to know the whole of the sport. So we do the PV road race, the Jefferson Cup, and the hills of North Carolina's Piedmont Triad Omnium. I throw myself at it, the PV as such. It's been a nasty sight each year. Then we witness the real, epic climbs of the Tour De France and the climbing specialists. We are reminded where we stand in our lowly world of amateur bike racing. We speculate those Tour riders would take Page Valley's climbs in the big chainring and never strain and fight their bikes the way we do up the mountain.

Robert and I met at Hawksbill Recreation Park Friday afternoon to recon the race course. It was a cloudless day in the low eighties. Perfect. We rode two laps of the 11-mile circuit. We felt great and fought the urge to work hard into the strength our legs offered. From here we drove south on route 340 to Waynesboro and then over Afton Mountain to Mark's family's farm. There we waited for our other teammates Mark and Ricky.

The next morning the four of us did a light 20-mile spin-up on the local winding, undulating roads in the vicinity of the farm. We then drove into Charlottesville for groceries and a visit to Roger Friend's bike shop.

Ricky's and my race was at three Sunday afternoon. We arrived on the scene around noon, registered at the Hawksbill Rec Park, and then drove through the course up to a field to park the car near the feed zone. It was within the last 200 meters of the final climb to the finish line.

The Cat 1-2 race was in progress. A 5-man break was off the front of the main peloton. It contained a rider from each of the domestic teams in the race so the peloton rode the tempo of a Sunday group ride. On the following lap the peloton had fractured but the break was holding together. I heard the race finale and blistering 10-mph sprint to the summit was contested by two surviving riders from the break.

Robert and Chris' Cat 3 race was next. Chris, a close friend who now races for Atlantic Velo, flatted after his second lap. As he flatted he recalled hearing someone in the peloton mutter, "Lucky", as in 'now you get to have a reason for quitting this hellish race'.

Robert looked as though he was suffering mightily as each lap passed. Ricky and I had to return to the Rec Park for our pre-race rituals and warm-ups so we couldn't see his finish. I still don't really know Robert's race results as he is genuinely modest about discussing such a thing when someone like me is around licking his wounds over his own not-so-hot results. I believe he may have finished at least in the top twenty.

AT THE LINE

I rested on my top bar in the thick heat with 99 other Cat 4 riders as the head race official discussed the course. They had reduced the race to 4 laps or about 42 miles. They would enforce the center line rule. This means the peloton must ride wholely in the right half of the road and cannot cross the center line or center of the road. A Sheriff's Department truck with flashing lights would lead the peloton through the miles. Two race referees, replete with striped jerseys, would monitor riders' compliance with the rules. One near the front and one following the peloton's rear on motorcycles had them in good position to catch violators. A pickup truck followed the rear carrying tagged extra wheels riders had placed there prior to the race to cover the possibility of a damaged wheel or flat tire.

I had discussed race tactics with teammates before the race---that is tactics for me---ride at the front where it's usually safe; ride in the rear and ride through the carnage as the repeated climbs take their toll. It would, after all, be a race of attrition. I ended up riding in the middle of the peloton. Our beginning tempo was around 27-28 miles per hour. Other riders slid past me, while others slid backward as the miles rolled under us.

By the end of the first climb I had slid to the rear. As we summited I charged to the following descents and finally snugly back into the teeming mass of riders. I held the steady tempo of the peloton back around on the flats of Kite Hollow, Ida, and Farmview Roads. Thankfully I saw no crashes.

When we reached the lower slopes of the first climb I glanced quickly at my computer: 21 mph! I was pushing up the right edge of the road passing surprised, unsuspecting riders. I knew the upper slopes of this climb and the following climb would take their toll on me. I wanted to have as many riders behind me as possible so as to stay in contact should I fall toward the rear again.

I was firmly entrenched in the peloton's ranks now, though really suffering with the intense climbing pace. The young climbers at the front were laying down a blistering pace just the way they should be to drop weaker riders. I might be one of them. But when you start a race, you believe those weaker riders are other riders, not you.

Every now and then I could see Ricky near the center line through the mass of helmets and hunched, working backs up ahead. He's 24 years-old and super fit. I always have high expectations for him in these races.

On the final climb of this lap I was near the tail of the peloton. I was hurting badly and at once realizing I had to do all that I could possibly do to hold onto the main body. I was told by race officials later that riders were scattering all over the mountain about now. The heat, the climbs, and the pace were exacting the toll.

I bit into the final 200 meters of the 3/4-mile climb at 11-12 mph. I spilled everything I had left into the climb, passing the feed zone begging my teammates there to pour water over me. I was burning hot. I could feel the water pour over me, but could not feel anything cool.

As I summited I watched the gap between me and the last rider widen. I watched him seem to drop into the hot road as he began the first descent. I looked down at the road sliding under me, water pouring down on it from my head and face. I coasted off the right side of the road, laid my bike down, unclipped my helmet and sat down gasping for breath. My race season was over.

I'm now looking forward to the Fall surf I know is coming. There's nothing more fun than that---nothing.