at the Tour of the Gila?
Good question.
Pronounce it as you will. The Hee–laa, or the Gee–laa. It is all the same.
Hills. Mountains. Wind.
I am riding in the wind. Not much different than Holland, but much wider roads.
Photo by Jonathan Devich
I am climbing.
I don’t think I am in Holland anymore.
But I can’t exactly tell you what I am doing…
Things I learned this trip:
Photo by John Pierce PhotoInternational
An obvious danger of trial by fire is you can still get burned. But that is what makes us stronger, further refines us, and makes us more valuable. A refining process requires high heat and pressure in order to make something more precious, and more beautiful. What would gold be without the refining process?
I want to be refined. Not only as I go through the highs and lows of life, letting myself become open and receptive to being refined, but it also applies to my current profession, bicycle racing. You have to challenge yourself to get better. You never learn anything by always winning. Every once in awhile you have to step into the fire. If we are talking about bike racing in Holland, I think that is jumping feet first into the fire pit. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Oh the fires and perils of racing in Holland. Where goat roads and bicycle paths are turned into a war zone for position and a miniscule draft. Where the drop offs into the wind swept canals lined with tulips and green grass suddenly look ominous with the possibility of hot lava, shark finned alligators and fanged polar bears residing within them. True statement. I was told not to fall into the canal just to avoid further destruction of what lurked beneath their white capped water. Yikes. If that doesn’t strike a survival instinct within your core, the Dutchies’ tenacity to ride in such conditions will. It was war. It was fire.
I completed my last race in Holland with the USA National team yesterday. Phew. Now it is time to keep shaking this cold, get rested, recover, and get ready to race with my team at the Tour of Gila!
Did I get burned? A little bit. Every single time? Nope. Did I get refined? Absolutely. This process is not even close to being over, but the opportunity to race against the world’s best in the world’s toughest conditions has furthered refined me, not only as a person, but as a bike racer. This opportunity was incredible. You never know your limits until you encroach on them. Pray. Breathe. Race. Refine.
Photo by John Pierce PhotoSport International
I brought my cobble home with me. He was worth the heavier bag.
Now on to the Gila.
I am partial to France. Holland is orderly and welcoming, but something about France always tugs at my heart. That being said, I am not in France. However, I was in the French side of Belgium for the classic race, Fleche Wallone. The roads suddenly felt familiar. The language was calming. The buildings were nostalgic. Ah. France. It wasn’t Flemish, it was French. Apparently there are two sides of Belgium, and I have been residing in the French side. It was like a big welcome home to me.
I wasn’t there for a spring vacation. I was there to race. Another World Cup. One of the biggest Spring Classics for les femmes, held on the same course and same day as the Pro Tour men. Fleche Wallone. This was a pretty big deal. This was not the time to immerse myself in the French, c’est la vie, life. It wasn’t the time for chevre chaud et aubergine avec sauternes. It was the time to race our bicycles.
Team presentation was in the square of Huy the evening before the race.
Team Prezzo
Fleche Wallone is by far the most fun bike race I have ever competed in, and I would love to return to this race. With 9 significant climbs, and the terrain rolling through the hilly Belgium countryside, you constantly feel the lurch in your stomach and legs on a brutal roller coaster of power and attrition. The Mur d’Huy is a monster all of its own. A wall of a climb through packed streets and fans as the grade hits 26%. Oh, it’s a monster all right. Unfortunately, I had come down with a significant head cold the day prior to the race. That race is a beast, but doing it while under the weather? That makes a mole hill a mountain. Team USA was able to work for KMac throughout the race, and she finished a very strong 10th. The race was a complete success, yet I have some unfinished business there. Fleche Wallone and your infamous Mur d’Huy. I will be back for you, healthy, and ready to rock and roll.
Next stop. Izegem. One more race on my dockets until I head back to the states for some more racing.
Vitamins. Water. Must get healthy now.
Rhonde van Drenthe World Cup.
Apparently you are supposed to roll your “r’s” and make the name sound dramatic and romantic. It is a World Cup after all, shouldn’t it contain a dramatic flair? It is a race that has been called the women’s Paris Roubaix. If there was a “Hell of the West” for the women, this may be it. The race contains 5 sections of true cobbled pave through Hollan farmland in a grueling 132k. If that isn’t Spring Classic romance, I don’t know what is. Just say it. Rrrrrhonde van Drrrenthe…
I have been racing in Holland 5 x now. I should be used to the chaotic starts. The 174 women. The Dutch language. The local folk music ensemble playing, “Oh When the Saints…”. Yet, I was filled with nervous energy. I thought racing in Holland was challenging enough.
This wasn’t just any race. This was a World Cup. A real World Cup. My first one.
Welcome to the big show.
The race started as they normally do. Crashes and sprints within the neutral section. Blind corners. Bricks. Roundabouts. A GPM of 26% 9k into the race. Wait a second, isn’t Holland supposed to be flat? Apparently the waste needs to go somewhere. We would climb “trash hill” 3x within the race, in addition to the cobbles and the narrow roads. Trash hill was like it sounds. Over a dump. A little smelly, and with a grade of 19-26%, but just a short pitch.
The VAMberg it was called. Much more romantic than “trash hill”.
It was lined with fans. The road was painted. It was a wall. A trash hill wall. It was as romantic and dramatic as a dump can get. I think the folk band was at the top as well.
“Oh when the saints…”
After the first GPM, the peloton strung out to begin the large loop through the farmlands and cobbles. Attacks started occuring. Why settle to be pack fill? Why just let the race dictate itself. Why not make a difference? A difference I made. I countered an AUS attack, and found myself with a Nederland Bloeit rider and a gap. She was protecting the WC leader’s jersey within her team, and wasn’t allowed to work initially but eventually was allowed to contribute some to the breakaway effort. I could smell the pave sections coming up. I put my head down and went for it. 30s turned into 1min which turned into almost 2min. For 80k.
Photo by CJ Farquharson
Finally, we were caught by a splintered peloton that was whittled down into several groups. But I had absorbed all the pave points. I was in the Pave Sprinters jersey. The race then looped back up and down, and back up and down the VAMberg before sailing into town. Vos won the bunch sprint.
Photo by CJ Farquharson
I was called to the podium. I won the Pave Sprinters award, which apparently is translated at “Keienprijs Wereldbeker Borger-Odoorn 2011″. Instead of a trophy, it was a piece of the cobbles. Even though the little guy is pretty heavy, you better believe he is coming back to the states with me. I love my keienprijs.
I then returned to the podium again for the “Most Active Rider”. In the US, we may call this the “Most Aggressive”, and in France it is called, “Most Combative”. Apparently in Dutch, it is “Most Active”. I will take it.
They said they were impressed with my ability to “time”. I think that is time trialing. Yes. He asked if I would go to the Olympics. I said I sure was going to give it my best effort. With this honor, came a World Cup jersey honoring my stamina and racing. Not bad. First World Cup, and I was on the podium. Twice. Next time, I should just try that breakaway the last 80k. Not the first 80k. A big step towards a big future.
Photo by Bart Hazen
The pomp and circumstance of the races never ceases to amaze me. The band returned. Accordian and all. “Oh, When the Saints…” resumed. I had a jersey, a cobble, 3 bouquets of flours, 3 bottles of wine, Villeroy and Boch china, chocolate, glass figurines, and multiple kisses.
Rhonde van Drenthe World Cup. You were a success. I will be back for you. I will be queen of the cobbles again, but maybe I can win you sometime, or at least do my best.
The Rhonde van Drenthe World Cup had offered all the drama, romance…and more…
Often statements or meanings can get lost in language translation.
What you meant to say in English may become twisted or offensive in Dutch, French, German, or whatever other language. What may seem crystal clear to you, may be confusing for another. It is hard enough translating from my American English to my team manager/owner’s British English. What is a light pole to me, is a lamp post to her.
When I asked a local Dutch man to translate the ingredients on a pudding carton to see if there was any flour in the contents for my gluten-free teammates (I am not one of those crazies)… The man looked at me in bewilderment. Flowers? He said. No no no…Flour. The conversation ended there.
For dinner, the options were a Red Mullet or a Hare with Forefoot. Now, I know it isn’t a mullet, but is it really a hare? Yes. Lapin. It was tres bon.
Upon entering the finishing circuit of the last day at the Energiewacht Tour, the announcer yells, “1 to do, 1 to do!”. It was different then the infamous Dave Towle’s “One to go, one to go, one to go…” But, I will take what I can get.
When we finished the race yesterday, after an agressive move by my teammate Jackie, she was summoned to the podium. They were speaking frantically in Dutch to us. We assumed she had won the Pave Sprint through the cobbles while she was off the front. We congratulated her for her jersey. Yet, no jersey was delivered. She actually had won the most aggressive rider, not the Pave jersey. Whoops. All I know is she got a special treat.
As we were lined up before the start, watching the local masses on their bikes whizzing to school, to work, to coffee, to the bakery, a small boy riding a Dutch bike 5x his size pedals quickly by us. “USA!” He screams. “Do your best!”. Simply put little guy. That may have been his only phrase he knew in English, but he could not have been more clear.
We are here. Racing in Holland. Doing our best. There are language barriers, food differences, and skinny roads. Big girls, big horses, big cows, small rocks, and small roads. It is all different here. Yet, one common theme holds us together. Do your best. You don’t need a translation for that one. It is quite simple. Do your best. Don’t let up until you have done your best. Don’t wallow in your mistakes, in your misfortunes. Get stronger. Never say die. Do your best. Always.
There is no loss in translation in that statement. Thank you, little Dutch boy. That was a refreshing reminder.
Spring Classics.
This is the look of the Spring Classics in the Netherlands. I think I wear it well. I hope that is mud…
That's a narrow road.
Cycling often lends time for some thoughtful pondering. That’s what I love about the sport. I like to look at the scenery, and think. I think a lot. Probably too much. No one really should know the inner dialogue that goes on inside my head. Recently, I have missed those peaceful moments on my bike. I am racing in Holland. There is no time for pondering. There is no time for reflection. There is only time to suffer.
We finished Stage 4 of the tour today. 4 races down. 5 to go, but who’s counting. The Energiewacht Tour is completed. 4 really hard days of racing. Motorpacing if you will. We covered 130k yesterday in just over 3 hours. That is fast. I climbed 55ft in that 130k, but don’t think that was an easy race. The road twisted around a canal, and was not wide enough for cars. I have seen nicer bike paths than that road. Actually, the bike paths in Holland are wider than that road. However, I learned that no matter how narrow the road, you throw in a wicked cross wind, and the peloton shreds into guttered individuals, one by one. Nothing feels narrow when you are single file. When the 140 girls are lined out along the flat terrain as they blow, and the group shatters to smithereens. Suddenly as the wind gusts, you can do nothing but gutter others, or be guttered. There is no mercy. There is no relief. There is no choice. Take no prisoners. Fight. Fight for survival. Fight for a wheel. Fight for position.
And what goes through my head? I search for a song. Something with a beat. Something with an obnoxious repetition. Nothing comes to me. I try to think of happy thoughts. I try to think of beaches, cabanas, and a BBQ. Nope. I try to think of what I am going to eat post race. Nope, I start tasting my breakfast return to me. I try to think of my goals. I think of why I am here. I question myself. Then it hits me. They took 170 women in the fertile farmlands of northwest Netherlands, and we chased each other around the fields. Full gas. For 4 days. 4 days, we pummeled each other into the wind. Into the rain. Into the think manure scent. Brutal. Only 80 survived. If you want to learn to race your bike, you don’t need mountains, you don’t need hard terrain. The wind is selective enough. The position is a fight. The racing is hard.
I have 3 days now before our next race. 3 days to rest, recover, and ponder. I welcome it.
Learning how to shoot.
I am on Day 2 of racing in Holland. The USA National team is doing the Energiewacht Tour, wish I prefer to pronounce “Energy WHAT!?” Tour. You would think the flat roads would be predictable here. Isn’t the entire country technically below sea level? What surprises could the country possible come up with?
If only it were that simple.
Holland is full of surprises. From the mystery meat, to the sour milk, to the sterile modern brick homes. This place has got it all. Bikes have the right-of-way. Women of all ages ride in heels and skirts while balancing a bread basket. The flat roads wind around delivering wind, sporadic lawn furniture, and bricks. The sweet aroma of manure, fertilizer, and deep fryers. You think of smoked meats and cow poop. You don’t want to know what is in those big trucks spraying the fields, but the Dutch painted on the side of them looks suspect. Mud flings up in your face. You sure hope it is mud, but unfortunately it might resemble manure. You don’t want to know what is caked all over you.
I don't think this is mud...
What looks predictable is far from it. How could a race be so hard, and so flat. How could it be blue sky in the morning, and rain just in time for our race? Where does the wind come from? Does everyone ride bikes here? If there is one place to learn to race bikes, it’s here. There is bike riding, and there is bike racing. I am racing my bike. Selections can occur here at a mere shift in the wind. A compact peloton can shatter into millions of pieces with an appropriately timed echelon. Time to race my bike.
If you aren’t passing, you are getting passed. This isn’t too different then if you aren’t shooting, you are being shot at.
Bike racing in Holland. Kind of like learning to shoot. 2 more days of racing for Energiewacht.
We are a traveling circus.
My “anniversaire” was only 12 hours. This is what happens when you cross the GST. I flew straight from my birthday to not my birthday. And unfortunately United Airlines didn’t say “joie d’anniversaire” to me by giving me an upgrade.
I went LAX-CHICAGO-BRUSSELS.
Ah. Beligium. Home of chocolate, stroupwaffels amd dreary skies. It was raining. Of course it was. We were transported to Izegam, the home of the USA Cycling U23 Men’s Development house. I was very impressed with the set-up there, what a great program for the U23 boys! It is quite the rainy riding, pasta eating, focused racing, factory! It was a short stay as we loaded up the car to head to Holland the next morning for a 4 day stage race starting tomorrow! Nothing like starting hitting the groud running (or racing in this case) as soon as we touch down! We waste no time.
The traveling circus.
We have just began our trek across Western Europe to hit all the spring racing hot spots. Bring on the traveling circus. Our entourage contains 1 USA team bus (including a rice cooker, wash machines, 12 bikes, 36 wheels and full mechanics work station), 1 USA mechanic, 1 USA soigner, 1 USA team director, 6 riders, 1 USA team van. Try getting that through security. Something about mixing electrical components and organic material. We are carrying spare cranks, heart rate monitors, SRMs, rain jackets, shoe covers, food (you never know when they will feed you next), Tums, and a French press…
We are truly a traveling circus. As we sail away from Izegam, we have many adventures ahead of us. We will use our much needed GPS and our acute sense of tracking down some brutal, flat, fast Spring Classic Racing. I welcome the sound of the French language strung along the Flemish influences, the smell of a fresh baguette mixed with the sultry aroma of natural fertilizer, the absence of “to-go” cups with the decreasing in size of a espresso, the multitudes of bikes, and women in heels on bikes, and the promise of very hard European racing.
Bienvenue Traveling Circus.
