I was pretty confident that I would do well in this year’s Alpine Challenge. After all, I rode 7000 miles last year and while I haven’t been on my bike so much this year, I’ve been running a lot; I figured my cycling form hasn’t deteriorated all that much. And I’m pretty sure the 15 extra pounds on my bathroom scale is muscle weight, right?
I should have known something was awry when I put on my Fat Cyclist jersey. It’s the most snug of all my jerseys, and I was horrified at how it looked on me. It’s mostly white with black trim, and being very form-fitting, all of my luscious bulges were hanging out for the world to sneer at. I have never considered myself one who would have a muffin top but when paired with lycra cycling shorts, the jersey left nothing to the imagination. I felt like I was in a wet t-shirt contest, except I wasn’t wet, and the jiggly parts weren’t where they were supposed to be. To put it bluntly, I was too fat for my Fat Cyclist jersey, and it had to go. I sheepishly looked for the most non-form-fitting jersey in my possession, which happened to be the jersey from last year’s Alpine Challenge.
Despite this initial setback, I was still unphased in my plan to stay with the lead group as long as possible and blow the field apart on the 5-mile ascent of the Dehesa Grade. Insert derision here.
Last year, I started away back from the front and had to claw myself up to the front group. This year, I knew to start close to the front. I saw the Descenders and felt shame for my physical condition. I hoped no one recognized me.
Cue the CHP dude with the usual “be safe, follow the rules of the road” speech (man I felt bad for him, everyone was just talking over him. No respect.). Cue the cute high school girls singing the national anthem in 3-part harmony (seriously, good job girls!). And we’re off.
Did I mention how last year I was able to claw my way up to the front? Well this year I was already at the front and I had to claw my way just to hang off the back of the front. Which sucked, because once I caught up to the next last guy, he’d get dropped, which meant I had to work to bridge up to the next last person in the group, who would get dropped. Repeat. Soon I realized I was working way too hard at the beginning of a long ride, and while I felt really good at sprinting, I wasn’t recovering the way I used to.
But I was killing it on the descents (this is where the extra poundage comes in handy), so I was able to stay with a second pack that had dropped off the front for a bit. I hoped they would capitalize on my Mad Descending Skillz (or at least my Mad Obezity), drafting off of me while I flew down, and letting me draft off of them when the road turned back upwards. But I began to feel like a Pariah. On one of the descents, at well over 40 mph, two guys sprinted from behind and as they passed, they pushed me farther to the right of the road than I wanted to be and I had to back off to keep from crashing. Seriously guys? On the Alpine Challenge? Take your aggressive Cat-5 crap to the races. I just want to have a fun day out in the hills. There seemed to be an organized attempt to drop me from their group: any time I took someone’s wheel, they’d slow down and take me out of the group.
Finally I decided to just enjoy the ride and leave them to their testosterone party; besides, the Dehesa Grade was coming up and all of this jostling for position was wasting energy. I would let the Grade separate the men from the boys.
As soon as the Dehesa Grade started, I knew I was in for a long day. My legs just weren’t there, and while last year I had the pleasure of passing lots of guys, this year I was the one being passed. The Grade let me know where my manhood stood, and it was humbling.
I knew at this point that I wasn’t going to make it through the entire 72 miles and decided I would take the turnoff for the 60 mile route when it presented itself. Which was still 15 miles and lot of painful climbing away. I was disappointed that this would be my first year without the extra loop to Pine Valley, but as soon as I made the decision I knew it was the right one.
While I only stopped once last year to answer the call of nature, I had to stop at 2 SAG stations to recover enough to keep going. The Descenders, coming back from the full 72 mile route, overtook me a good 15 miles from the end. I feebly tried to get on their wheel but couldn’t. In a word, I was cooked.
My final time for 60 miles was around 3 hours 45 minutes at an average speed of 15.9 mph. Compare that to last year: 72 miles in 3 hours 56 minutes at an average speed of 18.1. It’s amazing how quickly cycling form turns to mush.
But the event itself is still my favorite. This year we’ve had lots of rain, and all the meadows were green and flowers were blooming. The SAG stops are at perfect intervals, though I’m not sure what’s up with the HEED drink mix. That stuff is like drinking lead.
