l'Alpe d'Baldy
By: Ian Shapiro
After all the cycling I did this fall and winter when my knees were forcing me to take some time off of running, I figured I ought to get into a few spring bike races. The problem is that between coaching and track meets and visiting Davis I had hardly any weekends free to get myself to collegeiate cycling races. California schools in the WCCC organize events almost every weekend, but sometimes getting to them requires a drive to the central coast or northern california.
The Claremont race held at Mt. Baldy, however, seemed ideally situated in the schedule, and the start at Baldy Village was a mere 45 minutes from Pasadena. After racing a track 5k at the Oxy distance carnival two weekends earlier, I decided my knees needed a break from running and got back in the saddle to whip myself into cycling shape. After one big week of riding I already felt sort of flat and overtrained, and even picked up a mild cold. Still, Baldy was my only solid chance at doing a race before the season ended, and I figured I'd just ignore the sniffles and at least ride for the experience. In addition, the course seemed suited to my strengths: lots and lots of climbing over a relatively familiar route, with little likelihood of any tactical racing or a sprint finish. The race flyer, put together by Chris DuBois of Pomona, billed the race as l'Alpe d'Baldy, after l'Alpe d'Huez of Tour de France fame. It sounded great.
Sunday morning I was up early, and after breakfast of a baked potato, coffee and toasted bagel, packed up all my cycling gear and picked up Will and Ruby at their place. Earlier this year Will had been tearing up the west coast collegiate cycling scene, racing to several top-5 finishes, but he'd broken his clavicle in a criterium a few weeks earlier and was resigned to spectating for the rest of the season. On the ride up to Baldy Village I mentioned that I was entered in the 'B' race, which prompted a rather passionate response from Will: "What?!? That's outrageous! How can I live vicariously if you aren't in the A race? We'll fix that as soon as we get up there. Besides, it'll just end up being a time trial and it won't matter if you get dropped."
Upgrading to the men's 'A' race was made easier by the fact that everything was delayed an hour (some people forgot about the time change), and none of the race fields were full. After switching me over, the A race still had a a paltry 15 riders. As I warmed up with a few short climbs and munched on a power bar the day unfolded beautifully. Most of the previous week had been cold and rainy, but now even at the 4500' start the sun was crisp and clear and the air just warm enough for short sleeves.
As the A's gathered at the start for our final instructions, the finishers from the men's C and Women's B races began trickling in. They looked pretty beaten, and their respective race routes didn't include the final few miles on Mt. Baldy Rd. leading up to the ski lifts, which we'd be doing after we passed back through the start area. Our race officially began at 11:30, though the first 16 miles, descending 3000' to the San Gabriel River on a car-free road, were designated as neutral. Our pack cruised through the descent, and it was a great opportunity to soak in the snow capped peaks surrounding us, not a single car or building in sight. It wasn't quite the Alps (not that I've seen them in person), but it's up there with the very best southern California has to offer.
At the turn around point we all stopped for a pee break, and peeled off all unncessary layers, stashing them in the chase car. I ate a gel pack and picked up a full water bottle from Will. All was still casual and relaxed as we lined up again for the real race start and rolled into the initial climb up East Fork.
The peace lasted about five minutes. Then someone at the front decided they'd had enough. A pack of seven riders quickly separated from the rest of the field. All along I'd been telling myself to find my own pace, and that drafting in a tight pack wouldn't be important in an extended hill climb like this. I let them take off, picturing those final terrifying miles to the ski lifts, figuring it would be more than worth it not to burn myself out early. But I hadn't counted on the headwind. After a few minutes of internal debate I decided being in a pack would be worth it, and launched into a chase. Will, Chris and Ruby drove up behind me on their way to the front and urged me on. I could tell I was gradually reeling the lead pack in, but the anaerobic clock was also ticking in my things. At one point they were so close I swear I could hear them breathing. They couldn't have been more than 30 yards away when the oxygen debt took over and forced me back. I settled back into a sustainable rhythm and waved the chase car by. "It's all right Ian, just find your pace and hold it," I heard Chris yell as they pulled by to approach the lead pack. I picked up on an edge of disappointment in his tone though, one I've become familiar with as a coach. You've got to be optimistic when you're dealing with someone on the edge, and you've got to come up with something positive to say even when the situation doesn't look good. It was a darkly comic moment. I like dark comedy though.
From the mile markers it looked like I still had about 3 miles of climbing left on East Fork Rd before turning onto Glendora Ridge for the long traverse back to Baldy Village. I glanced back on one of the sharp turns and saw another rider stalking me from 70 yards back. After a few minutes he'd caught me, and I hooked onto his rear wheel for the last section of the climb. Turning onto Glendora Ridge Rd we had our first flat stretch, and I was happy to at least have someone to draft with. "Hey man, what's your name? I'm Art." he said. "Ian, " I replied. "Have you been on this road before?" "Nope." "Well, we just finished the biggest climb, at least before the last few miles. There's still some elevation gain this road, but it's nothing as sustained as what we just did."
That was about all the talking Art and I would do. We alternated leads on the brief flats and downhills, though we'd separate a little on the climbs. He seemed to be a strong rider, and I wondered how long I'd be able to keep up. But suddenly on one of the last real climbs before the rolling approach to the start area he faded inexplicably, and later I'd find out that he didn't finish. I pushed ahead, gaining momentum on the rolling downhills and using it to try to power up the few short climbs. My familiarity with the road, having done it as recently as a week before, was invaluable. Passing the start I heard a few cheers, and used the brief descent to Mt. Baldy Rd. to take in as much water as I could mange between gasps. "No respite between here and the finish," I thought, steeling myself for those cruel switchbacks, remembering in the back of my mind how crushing the final climb to the ski lifts had been last time.
On Baldy Rd. there were also, unfortunately, cars. The shoulder was plenty big to avoid feeling squeezed, but they're just plain old unsettling, especially when you're out of your mind on physical exertion. Also, the unpleasant smell of burning brakes from the cars having just done the descent was something I'd forgotten.
Passing the "Ski Area, 3mi" sign I finally felt the draw of the finish and tried to refocus myself. I'd saved my final gear, a 26-tooth cog in the back, for just this point of the race. It was invaluable on the steep turns between switchbacks, and though my pace was a crawl I was redlining on effort, trying to get close to the edge while keeping in the back of my mind the thought of that even steeper final mile. I hardly noticed the cars crawling up the turns with me, though I do remember being passed at some point and looking over with an expression of drool and wild eyes. On one of the relatively long straights I even caught sight of another rider, my first in nearly an hour, about 150m ahead. There was nothing to be done in terms of catching him though. After another few minutes I was suddenly surpised to pass by some college kid waving a flag and standing by a cardboard box with a '1K' hastily spraypainted in orange. "Great job, only one kilometer to go!" He said. Wanting to protect myself from the cruelest possible joke, the only words I could think to rasp out between gasps were "That's bullshit!" He responded with a dispassionate "well, whatever", though before I rounded the next turn I heard him yell, "Oh, they moved the finish! It isn't at the top now."
I tried to believe what he said. I tried to imagine the finish line less than half a mile away and power though the turns. But I had to leave something for that last crushing climb, just in case. Only when I rounded a sharp corner and saw everyone screaming just a hundred yards ahead was I able to upshift and launch into a slow-motion sprint. Crossing the chalk line I rolled to the shoulder, unclipped, and rested my head on the handlebars.
Will, Chris and Ruby were all there at the finish. Lying down and finally straightening out my back was the sweetest sensation imaginable. Will pulled out my extra water and handed me a power bar. After a few minutes I actually felt pretty good. "Man, I was holding back. I thought we'd have to do that last stretch." "Yeah, there's a traffic jam up there or something, so we had t to put the finish here. Chris was really pissed about that."
It turned out I was only a few minutes behind the lead pack, which had dwindled to just 4 riders at the kilometer-to-go mark. Watching the rest of the A's, and soon also the first B's (they started 15 minutes beind us), roll raggedly into the finish, I couldn't help but say, "Wow, I'm glad I didn't have to race anybody at the end there. I'm not sure what I would have done." Will responded with, "You actually did pretty well. After you dropped off we figured you'd be 20 minutes back in no-mans-land by the end." I finished in 8th. In an unusually small field. With some of the top riders out with injuries. But hey, that still scores some points!
After ten or fifteen minutes I pulled on my extra clothes and pedaled back down to Baldy Village, passing cars riding their brakes through the turns, cheering for riders still finishing the agonizing climb. Going up the last ascent from the village to the start area I felt great, even strong and fresh in some distorted sense of those words. Later that evening the fatigue and my cold caught back up with me, plunging me into a 12 hour sleep-of-the-dead, interrupted only by a brief dreamlike interaction with Zane and Michelle as they ate their anniversary burritos.
After all the cycling I did this fall and winter when my knees were forcing me to take some time off of running, I figured I ought to get into a few spring bike races. The problem is that between coaching and track meets and visiting Davis I had hardly any weekends free to get myself to collegeiate cycling races. California schools in the WCCC organize events almost every weekend, but sometimes getting to them requires a drive to the central coast or northern california.
The Claremont race held at Mt. Baldy, however, seemed ideally situated in the schedule, and the start at Baldy Village was a mere 45 minutes from Pasadena. After racing a track 5k at the Oxy distance carnival two weekends earlier, I decided my knees needed a break from running and got back in the saddle to whip myself into cycling shape. After one big week of riding I already felt sort of flat and overtrained, and even picked up a mild cold. Still, Baldy was my only solid chance at doing a race before the season ended, and I figured I'd just ignore the sniffles and at least ride for the experience. In addition, the course seemed suited to my strengths: lots and lots of climbing over a relatively familiar route, with little likelihood of any tactical racing or a sprint finish. The race flyer, put together by Chris DuBois of Pomona, billed the race as l'Alpe d'Baldy, after l'Alpe d'Huez of Tour de France fame. It sounded great.
Sunday morning I was up early, and after breakfast of a baked potato, coffee and toasted bagel, packed up all my cycling gear and picked up Will and Ruby at their place. Earlier this year Will had been tearing up the west coast collegiate cycling scene, racing to several top-5 finishes, but he'd broken his clavicle in a criterium a few weeks earlier and was resigned to spectating for the rest of the season. On the ride up to Baldy Village I mentioned that I was entered in the 'B' race, which prompted a rather passionate response from Will: "What?!? That's outrageous! How can I live vicariously if you aren't in the A race? We'll fix that as soon as we get up there. Besides, it'll just end up being a time trial and it won't matter if you get dropped."
Upgrading to the men's 'A' race was made easier by the fact that everything was delayed an hour (some people forgot about the time change), and none of the race fields were full. After switching me over, the A race still had a a paltry 15 riders. As I warmed up with a few short climbs and munched on a power bar the day unfolded beautifully. Most of the previous week had been cold and rainy, but now even at the 4500' start the sun was crisp and clear and the air just warm enough for short sleeves.
As the A's gathered at the start for our final instructions, the finishers from the men's C and Women's B races began trickling in. They looked pretty beaten, and their respective race routes didn't include the final few miles on Mt. Baldy Rd. leading up to the ski lifts, which we'd be doing after we passed back through the start area. Our race officially began at 11:30, though the first 16 miles, descending 3000' to the San Gabriel River on a car-free road, were designated as neutral. Our pack cruised through the descent, and it was a great opportunity to soak in the snow capped peaks surrounding us, not a single car or building in sight. It wasn't quite the Alps (not that I've seen them in person), but it's up there with the very best southern California has to offer.
At the turn around point we all stopped for a pee break, and peeled off all unncessary layers, stashing them in the chase car. I ate a gel pack and picked up a full water bottle from Will. All was still casual and relaxed as we lined up again for the real race start and rolled into the initial climb up East Fork.
The peace lasted about five minutes. Then someone at the front decided they'd had enough. A pack of seven riders quickly separated from the rest of the field. All along I'd been telling myself to find my own pace, and that drafting in a tight pack wouldn't be important in an extended hill climb like this. I let them take off, picturing those final terrifying miles to the ski lifts, figuring it would be more than worth it not to burn myself out early. But I hadn't counted on the headwind. After a few minutes of internal debate I decided being in a pack would be worth it, and launched into a chase. Will, Chris and Ruby drove up behind me on their way to the front and urged me on. I could tell I was gradually reeling the lead pack in, but the anaerobic clock was also ticking in my things. At one point they were so close I swear I could hear them breathing. They couldn't have been more than 30 yards away when the oxygen debt took over and forced me back. I settled back into a sustainable rhythm and waved the chase car by. "It's all right Ian, just find your pace and hold it," I heard Chris yell as they pulled by to approach the lead pack. I picked up on an edge of disappointment in his tone though, one I've become familiar with as a coach. You've got to be optimistic when you're dealing with someone on the edge, and you've got to come up with something positive to say even when the situation doesn't look good. It was a darkly comic moment. I like dark comedy though.
From the mile markers it looked like I still had about 3 miles of climbing left on East Fork Rd before turning onto Glendora Ridge for the long traverse back to Baldy Village. I glanced back on one of the sharp turns and saw another rider stalking me from 70 yards back. After a few minutes he'd caught me, and I hooked onto his rear wheel for the last section of the climb. Turning onto Glendora Ridge Rd we had our first flat stretch, and I was happy to at least have someone to draft with. "Hey man, what's your name? I'm Art." he said. "Ian, " I replied. "Have you been on this road before?" "Nope." "Well, we just finished the biggest climb, at least before the last few miles. There's still some elevation gain this road, but it's nothing as sustained as what we just did."
That was about all the talking Art and I would do. We alternated leads on the brief flats and downhills, though we'd separate a little on the climbs. He seemed to be a strong rider, and I wondered how long I'd be able to keep up. But suddenly on one of the last real climbs before the rolling approach to the start area he faded inexplicably, and later I'd find out that he didn't finish. I pushed ahead, gaining momentum on the rolling downhills and using it to try to power up the few short climbs. My familiarity with the road, having done it as recently as a week before, was invaluable. Passing the start I heard a few cheers, and used the brief descent to Mt. Baldy Rd. to take in as much water as I could mange between gasps. "No respite between here and the finish," I thought, steeling myself for those cruel switchbacks, remembering in the back of my mind how crushing the final climb to the ski lifts had been last time.
On Baldy Rd. there were also, unfortunately, cars. The shoulder was plenty big to avoid feeling squeezed, but they're just plain old unsettling, especially when you're out of your mind on physical exertion. Also, the unpleasant smell of burning brakes from the cars having just done the descent was something I'd forgotten.
Passing the "Ski Area, 3mi" sign I finally felt the draw of the finish and tried to refocus myself. I'd saved my final gear, a 26-tooth cog in the back, for just this point of the race. It was invaluable on the steep turns between switchbacks, and though my pace was a crawl I was redlining on effort, trying to get close to the edge while keeping in the back of my mind the thought of that even steeper final mile. I hardly noticed the cars crawling up the turns with me, though I do remember being passed at some point and looking over with an expression of drool and wild eyes. On one of the relatively long straights I even caught sight of another rider, my first in nearly an hour, about 150m ahead. There was nothing to be done in terms of catching him though. After another few minutes I was suddenly surpised to pass by some college kid waving a flag and standing by a cardboard box with a '1K' hastily spraypainted in orange. "Great job, only one kilometer to go!" He said. Wanting to protect myself from the cruelest possible joke, the only words I could think to rasp out between gasps were "That's bullshit!" He responded with a dispassionate "well, whatever", though before I rounded the next turn I heard him yell, "Oh, they moved the finish! It isn't at the top now."
I tried to believe what he said. I tried to imagine the finish line less than half a mile away and power though the turns. But I had to leave something for that last crushing climb, just in case. Only when I rounded a sharp corner and saw everyone screaming just a hundred yards ahead was I able to upshift and launch into a slow-motion sprint. Crossing the chalk line I rolled to the shoulder, unclipped, and rested my head on the handlebars.
Will, Chris and Ruby were all there at the finish. Lying down and finally straightening out my back was the sweetest sensation imaginable. Will pulled out my extra water and handed me a power bar. After a few minutes I actually felt pretty good. "Man, I was holding back. I thought we'd have to do that last stretch." "Yeah, there's a traffic jam up there or something, so we had t to put the finish here. Chris was really pissed about that."
It turned out I was only a few minutes behind the lead pack, which had dwindled to just 4 riders at the kilometer-to-go mark. Watching the rest of the A's, and soon also the first B's (they started 15 minutes beind us), roll raggedly into the finish, I couldn't help but say, "Wow, I'm glad I didn't have to race anybody at the end there. I'm not sure what I would have done." Will responded with, "You actually did pretty well. After you dropped off we figured you'd be 20 minutes back in no-mans-land by the end." I finished in 8th. In an unusually small field. With some of the top riders out with injuries. But hey, that still scores some points!
After ten or fifteen minutes I pulled on my extra clothes and pedaled back down to Baldy Village, passing cars riding their brakes through the turns, cheering for riders still finishing the agonizing climb. Going up the last ascent from the village to the start area I felt great, even strong and fresh in some distorted sense of those words. Later that evening the fatigue and my cold caught back up with me, plunging me into a 12 hour sleep-of-the-dead, interrupted only by a brief dreamlike interaction with Zane and Michelle as they ate their anniversary burritos.
posted by John McKeen at
1:17 PM
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