Posted by Dan on 3. October 2010 20:24
Monday, September 20, 2010
Another frigid night over. Not wanting to be rushing to the start, I used science to deduce there were roughly 90 riders in the TT going off at one minute intervals with the first rider starting at 9:30. I guessed my start time would be around 11:00. I was close. It was 12:07. Glad I got up at 6:30 to eat. I ate (a lot) and went back to bed. Riley and I left for the course at 9:30 while the track riders piled on the bus to do their thing at the velodrome.
The course was a straight shot, out-and-back on very gentle but long rollers. To our delight, the winds were blowing the dust and stench from the nearby dump away from the start, but those same winds would be a force to be reckoned with on the outbound leg. Temps were hot and climbing. Slim chance for a cooling shower during today's ride.
Arriving with more than an hour before our start times, I joined other riders in the shade of an old Toyota, lying on our backs with our legs pointing to the scorching Cuban sun. A little food, a lot of water and a hour later, I began the warm-up, riding down the intersecting highway for a few miles and then returning. My warm-up road was a three lane highway with a giant but cluttered shoulder. Cyclists, motorcycles and anything horse-drawn could happily take the right lane and not be bothered by traffic. Passing busses and trucks would honk, but only to gain your attention as they rocketed by. There just wasn't that much traffic to make these roads dangerous. It was about here that I questioned my hopes for doing well as a Brazilian on a Cervelo P3 with disk and tri-spoke flew by on the wheel of his coach's motorcycle.
Warmed-up, I headed to the start line and sat down in the ditch to wait. I had about 5 minutes and as many riders ahead of me. When it was my turn, I was called to the line and got ready. I fiddled with the Garmin and shifted to the right gear before clipping in. The official helpfully counted down in English and the race began.
There was a stiff headwind leaving the starting line, but the downhill slope compensated for it nicely. I hit 30 mph and easily maintained it for a while, thrilled I could hold that speed into a headwind on the Madone. The power meter said I was going a little too hard, but I was feeling fine and figured I would just suffer a little more on the return.
10k later, I approached the turnaround point. Coming in, I could just make out a rider on the other side of the divided highway. He looked less than a minute away. There was another one 10 bike lengths behind him. I hadn’t passed anyone at this point, but it seemed I was getting close. Encouraged, I picked up the pace a little.
After the turn, the return trek started with a 2-3% incline and a good tailwind. On the opposite side of the road was a rider on a black TT bike, possibly a Felt, with a disk and Zipp 1080. This guy was coming fast and looked like he'd catch me very soon. Spooked, I shifted, scrunched my shoulders, lowered my head and picked up the pace a lot. I spent the next 10-15 minutes deep in the red to make sure the Felt didn’t come close. Halfway home, I realized he should have caught me by now and must have blown up. Good. On the other hand, I never caught the two riders I saw coming into the turnaround. I crossed the line blind, gasping for air and wishing I'd wore something with long, absorbent sleeves to wipe away all the fluids that were streaming from my head.
After an very abbreviated cool-down lap, I went back to laying down with my feet up a tree. This time I placed my head on a fire ant hill to mix it up a little. I only got one bite but one's all it takes when it's in your precious neckflesh. Chatting with Mike about fire ants, I noticed an American flag being pulled from the giant box of flags. Apparently “Den Nixon” from America had won something. Mike confirmed that I had in fact had the second best time in my age category and had won the silver. I was a bit shocked to be on the podium at all given the circumstances and the fact that I didn't pass anyone.
Silver medal. Gold comes with a jersey.
Standing on the podium, I saw the black Felt from the turnaround. After our pictures were taken, I turned to the Bolivian standing to my right (the one wearing the champion’s jersey) and asked him if that was his Felt. “No no no” he said, waving it off like it had herpes. When we stepped down, his teammate brought his bike over and he proudly displayed it to me. I don’t remember the exact make and model, but for visualization purposes, let’s say it was an 1987 Schwinn with mis-matched wheels, each weighing several pounds, with a frame pump and what could be called clip-on aero bars. Definitely not the DA I thought the winner would be riding. On closer inspection in the next race, the bike was not as bad as I just made it out to be, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't know what it was. I do know I rode a 0:27:25 and he beat me by 16 seconds.
With the excitement for the day over, Riley and I set out for the 18 mile cool-down ride back to the hotel. During the ride home, Riley was introduced to my rear wheel as I braked to avoid an inattentive Cuban man who just got off a bus. He'd eventually need two stitches to close a cut to his eye. Road rash and bruising kept the pace a bit more tame for the remaining few kilometers, but we still made it back to the hotel in time for lunch. After showering, the team headed into town for dinner at the Hotel Nacionale, the nicest hotel in Habana built with Mafia money. Dinner was fantastic but not as great as climbing into my ice-bed later that night. At least I could sleep in tomorrow.
Read Part 5.