Pffft…

I had found a wheel.

My heart must have burst a minute ago, my legs were definitely full of molten lead, my lungs were quite possibly bloody rags by now, but yes, I had found a wheel.

“Dammit! Why hadn’t I shifted to a larger cog?”

The race in the elite category had just begun.

November 19, 2016. The day of my last road race for this season and, well, not my day. I was fresh back from home– two weeks off the bike, fat, sluggish, and with my legs in cryo-sleep. The route recce the preceding weekend had involved a fueling foul-up with some rather embarrassing consequences, and I knew as I attempted to assemble my bike with cold-numbed fingers, and peered shortsightedly at the other elite riders through the thick fog, that I would be lucky to simply finish the race. I

“Gosh, I definitely should have stayed where I belong…”

2 km to the U-turn

I did something I would never have dared to while riding in the amateur bunch. I yanked a bottle out of its cage and squirted water into my mouth. Riding in the elite peloton was definitely something else (Yes, this was my first elite road race. Yes, I’m a rookie. And yes, I know that.). Everybody. Held. Their. Lines. Everybody. Gave. Signals. Wow!

The pace had not exactly been scorching so far, and I had spent a fun hour chattering away with Ajjay Kamble from Chennai and moving up and down the group looking for the other Ministri boys. Anantha and Shankar seemed to be pulling up at the front, with people like Craig, Naveen Raj and KKR always hovering around the second and third positions. It was obvious that the moment we rounded the U-turn, they were going to take off like acetone-soaked cats; and when that happened… well, I didn’t want to think about when that happened.

U-turn

It was utter bedlam. I possess this mysterious power of being at exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time and, well, I duly found myself near the tail of the bunch, stuck in the biggest gear and muttering obscenities as I struggled to meander my way through the chaos. I could see a small group of riders about 100 metres ahead. A split-second lapse in concentration had cost me the chance to gun for the ‘star-studded break’, and I was not happy about it.

“Pffft… Not another time trial!”

3 km past the U-turn

I was redlining. My heart rate had never dipped below 180 bpm in the last 3 km. I needed to find shelter, and quick!

“Raghu!”

“C’mon-c’mon-c’mon…”

I put all I had into a sprint to close the 20 metres to his wheel.

“Yes!”

I was safe for a bit.

5 km past the U-turn

I had had to sit behind Raghu for three full minutes before I could start working with him. We had jumped on the wheel of another rider as he hammered past us and had convinced him to work with us. We had picked up Pramod and Vivek (Bhateja) shortly afterwards, and the strength of our chase group had gradually grown as we swept up more and more riders who had been dropped. A few of them seemed to have been considerably weakened, but everyone willingly did their turns. The whole situation had a somewhat apocalyptic feel to it ( I don’t enjoy getting dropped. No sir, I don’t.), but the throb of my bruised ego had subsided enough for me to start enjoying the race.

“Hey! Wait a second!”

I noticed a group of riders a small way ahead as I moved up for my turn.

“Guys! We need to catch them! Come on!”

I raised the pace a little.

8 km past the U-turn

I surged after Vivek as he accelerated. I could see Nikhil, Vinesh and a few people from Spectrum, in what surely was the first chase group, about 50 metres ahead.

“Almost there…  just a little longer… hang in there…”

Aaand we had caught them!

“Whew! That was fun!”

My race was uneventful post this moment, except for responding to a few sporadic spurts of acceleration. The group was full of banter, and Vinesh and Vishwesh seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in egging Rajat (from Pune) on into putting out intermittent bursts of speed. Imagine being picked on by a 17-year old kid! *rolls eyes.

We stayed together till the base of Nandi, until both of my legs seized up and I had to slow to a crawl while the others took off. I somehow managed to finish the race in 3 hours and 10 minutes- about twenty minutes after KKR.

I felt a slight rush of pride as I sat slumped on my handlebars and massaged some semblance of life back into my legs. I had just realised that I had finished all the races I had signed up for this season! The pride is probably misplaced because I’ve never won anything, but hey, I’ve had one awesome year getting progressively fitter and faster!

Lord Venky’s blog describes all the heroics that were going on up ahead while I was chilling in the chase group.

I got to make it to the breakaway next time. The video was charged with raw adrenaline!

Until next season, then.

 

Roadie scum goes M’tubbing

The sun shines warm on my neck, weaving magic as it filters through the greenery surrounding us. It is a crisp blue morning- slightly cold, with an occasional, rather austere, breeze. The tarmac looks enticing- beautifully dry and smooth. But today I am going off it; on a sluggish orange bike which with its too-small chainrings and morbidly obese tyres, is the polar opposite of my regular steed.

I must be nuts.

I roll down into the field after Peter, my stomach in a tight knot. Branches whip my knees as I follow the faint trail of dust his tyres kick up, my nostrils full of the smell of the earth. He drifts through a corner. I rise up in my saddle, feathering the brake levers, and…

Wow!

I can roll over gravel without skidding! I can power over ditches without flying over the handlebars! I can drop from a height without breaking my wrists! It’s a bit of a culture-shock, and idiot-grin fun!

I feel invulnerable.

The easy skill with which my companions manoeuvre their bikes amazes me. I, however, possess all the grace of a steamroller, crunching over gravel, dirt and bushes with the sheer brute power of my roadie legs.

But you cannot possibly hope to get away with trying to flatten anything and everything that gets in your way, as a boulder soon teaches me on a climb.

“Eeek!”

I fly off my line into the thorny embrace of a bush as Hugo and Peter slowly pull away.

“C’mon-c’mon-c’mon…”

I leap onto the saddle, and extend my leg full-force. There is a funny screech from my rear tyre as it struggles to find traction.

“You can’t be serious!”

I lean back further from the handlebars, and kick again. The front tyre lifts off the track and the bush warmly declares its undying love for me.

“Too far back!”

I am more careful with my torso this time, and…

“Yes!”

I am rolling again.

I peer up the slope, and spot Peter and Hugo about halfway up. Can I catch them before they get to the top? I lean forward a little, just enough to ensure that my front wheel stays on the ground, and shift to a smaller cog.

“God mode: Engage!”

“Good climbing, man.” Hugo gives me a fist-bump as the two of them roll up to where I stand waiting for them. I suppress a chuckle as I resolve to put the 50/34 crankset back on my road bike for the next race.

It is perhaps time to try out a few XC races. I think I am getting the hang of it. There is only one, minor, snag- I shall have to buy yet another bike.

Follow this link for a video from the ride.

Photo courtesy: Hugo

BBCh TTT 2016

 

9:00 p.m., September 17, 2016

“Dude, you can’t be serious.”

-“You bet I am! I never joke about food.”

I watched with disbelief mingled with amusement as Vinesh proceeded to scoop king-sized dollops of ice-cream into the bowls.

“That’s a strange way to carb-load…”

5:20 a.m., September 18, 2016

I stifled a mega-yawn as the car inched forward in the queue at the toll. I had been hoping to catch some shut-eye on the way, but…

“Boy, does the parakeet ever stop?”

I heaved a sigh, resigned to my fate of being treated to ‘The Life and Times of Vinesh Chawla’, and leaned back in my seat to quickly go over our preparations for the time trial:

1. Monster teammates: Check!
2. Squeaky clean bike: Check!
3. Sparkling (somewhat) drivetrain: Check!
4. KOM with roller fatigue: Check!
5. Flying off the rollers: Check! (Do not try at home.)
6. Mojo: Check! (Even if you can’t ride well, you gotta look good. On the bike and off it. No excuses.)
7. Rejecting gay taxi driver: Check! (Too much mojo, apparently. Don’t ask.)
8. Energy gels: Check! (Probably redundant with 1 litre of ice-cream in your system, but anyway…)
9. Death Rays: Check!

“Cool! All set and ready to roll.”

6:55 a.m.

Or was I?

The sight of Naveen Raj warming up on his time trial bike, resplendent in the SKCT skinsuit and with what looked like the cranium of a dead alien perched on his head, had given me a bad case of the willies. Gosh, I wasn’t even wearing shoe-covers!

” We’re so about to be destroyed today!”

I rolled down the road to smother the wriggly feeling in my gut, and immediately wished I had not. There sat Anantha, warming up on his turbo; the Terror Trio of Craig, the Lord and Dr. Bhateja were zipping up and down the road; and gosh, was our team the only one that didn’t have aerobars?

“Damn, I probably should have stayed in the amateur category.”

7:40 a.m., Kilometre 0

“Three… two… one… GO!”

I quickly settled behind Vinesh and glanced back to make sure Mr. M was on my wheel.

“Steady… steady… ON!”

“Come on, Bharat Benz, get us up to speed.”

Kilometre 16

I moved up for my turn, relishing the faint hum my spokes made as they cut through the air. Our transitions had been smooth so far, and my legs were fresh and awake. With the amazing weather, the cool brightness of the morning and the satisfaction of an well-executed team effort, this promised to turn out to be one heck of a day.

“Oh, ROT!”

Naveen Raj powered past us, with Anantha clinging on to his wheel.

I watched, with bemusement that was mutating lightning-fast into horror, as their support car rumbled past us, drew level with them to pass instructions, and slowed down, with us right behind it.

“What the f***k, mate?”

ZAP!

I watched with savage satisfaction as scorching blue flames engulfed the car. My Death Rays had been right on target. I hammered past my victims as they disintegrated into atoms, lips twisted in an evil-galactic-warlord smile.

(Okay, I was kidding about the Death Rays. The car fell back after being bombarded with some truly innovative swearwords from my teammates, and kindly waited until NR and Anantha had built up a larger gap before streaking after them. A regrettable incident, since we lost speed and time in the ruckus, but I suppose it could have happened to anyone.)

Kilometer 20

“@#$#%! *&$^#@#! @#$%$…” (Unprintable Hindi)

“What the hell is Bharat Benz honking at?”

I peeked out from behind him.

“OHMIGOD!!”

I swerved right just in time to avoid smashing headlong into the huge buffalo, while Vinesh shot off towards the left.

“@#$#%! *&$^#@#! @#$%$…” (More unprintable Hindi, but a different voice)

I glanced out of the corner of my eye, mirth bubbling up from the pit of my stomach.

“Mr. M? Not bad!”

We had lost more time.

Kilometer 32

“PUSH, PUSH, MAAAN!”,  the yell barely made it through the rush of the wind in my ears. It felt like I was trying to push my way through a solid, but invisible wall.

I caught a glimpse of Vinesh slotting in behind me.

“Mr. M?”

-“Dropped.”

“Oh, damn!”

10. Human sacrifice to the wind god: Check!

5 km to go

This was beyond ridiculous. Every fibre in my legs burned. The winds were unrelenting. Each pedal stroke was agony. I was nearly at my limit. Our pulls had long since stopped being evenly measured. The two of us pulled as hard as we could, for as long as we could. I had only a vague awareness of who we passed and where we were. All that mattered was the screen of my Garmin, which coldly displayed how the headwind was winning with every passing kilometre. I reached into my jersey pocket for my third gel, and felt my left leg give an ominous twitch.

“Please, not now!”

500 metres to go

“Please, NO!”

My left leg had cramped.

“Vinesh, pull! Pull!”

“Can’t be far now…”

100 metres to go

“Sprint! Sprint!”

“Already?”

I willed myself out of the saddle.

Pain…

“Almost there, almost there, almost there… MADE IT!”

I collapsed back on the saddle, my breath rattling in my chest, and retched. Thankfully nothing came up.

“Well, that’s sure to have burned the ice-cream off!”

We had clocked an average of 37.4 kmph over the 49.3 km course, and were the fourth fastest team of the day- 1 kmph slower than Ministri Racing. The two teams on the podium had clocked over 41 kmph! I certainly have a lot of room for improvement.

 

Gawd, it was a hard, hard ride.

On to the next!

P.S. All the photos I’ve used here were taken by the ace photographer Chenthil Mohan. What a boss!

 

 

Suffering like a boss: Check!

I grew up in a house full of cats. Seventeen of them, to be exact… tabbies, calicos, gingers, whites, each with their different temperament and personality. They had one thing in common, though- dip the tips of their tails in a small amount of tape-cleaning fluid (Acetone. Perfectly harmless.), and they’d zip off like the road-runner in that lovely cartoon show. All of them. Without fail. I think one or two of them might have even broken the sound barrier. I’ve done some truly evil chemistry as a child.

Funnily enough, this was the memory that kept running through my head as I hammered away on that cloudy morning, gasping like a fish taken freshly out of water. I was in the hardest race I’d done yet, KKR and Murali had attacked, and I was required to break the sound barrier myself to escape getting lapped.

“What goes around, comes around.”, I thought wryly.

9:40 a.m., July 17, 2016.

I felt a chill slither down my spine as I rolled up to the start line.

I’ve always had some serious misgivings about my capabilities as a cyclist. I’m not good at certain aspects of riding, as my more physically endowed friends at IISc never fail to remind me. But I had somehow, unbelievably, done OK at the BAR criterium last month (race report here.), and since none of the boys was racing amateur anymore, it seemed only right that I should move up as well.

So here I was, sitting among the big boys in the elite category, wondering what I was doing here and desperately playing the”Aal-eez-well” mantra over and over in my head.  I had three plans of action for the race:

Plan A: Survive

Plan B: Survive

Plan C: Survive

The whole group had designs on Vinesh’s wheel, much to his consternation (Vinesh, if you’re reading this, who asked you to grow so big, you muppet?). The agreement was to race our individual races, but if the Trivandrum guys went on the attack, we were going to work together and reel them in.

9:45 a.m.-10:15 a.m.

I was among monsters. It was the BAR crit all over again, only a mutated and jacked-up version of it. I was sucking in air like a giant vacuum cleaner, my legs seemed to be tearing themselves apart, but it just wasn’t enough! One moment I had the draft, and the very next moment I was frantically groping for it. It was like being stuck on the ends of a spring:

Hammerhammerhammer-corner-boiiinnng-sprintforyourlife-corner-sproiiiinnng-chasetillyoudie-corner-repeat.

God that hurt!!

10:15 a.m.-10:35 a.m.

Half of the field had been decimated. Phani seemed to be really suffering, somehow, and had dropped out soon after winning the opening prime. Nikhil had vanished, one of the Trivandrum riders had crashed, another had shot off a corner, KKR and Murali had attacked on a bend and had not been caught, Vinesh had opened up a small gap from the main bunch and seemed set on time-trialing away… chaos reigned. And surprisingly, even after all the beating I had taken at the beginning, I felt good. In fact, I’d never felt better. I cast a look around. Only Anantha Viswanathan and Vivek Bhateja left.

“Looks like another team time trial.” I thought with a dry chuckle.

10:35 a.m.

“LAST LAP!!”, the shout cut through my TT-daze like the crack of a whip. I rolled up to Vivek.

“Good ride.”

He reached out, panting, and gave me a pat on the back.

I’d escaped being lapped. Again.

Quite a few people said I’d put out a good ride, even going to the length of using words like “brilliant” and “awesome” in their kindness.  As always, I’d take their compliments with a pinch of salt, but they made my day despite the cramps shooting lances of pain through my legs. Mr. M’s wheels definitely helped a lot. Maaaybe I ought to give myself more credit, but the doubt remains…

I need to teach myself how to corner better and how to anticipate the correct gear ratio for the sprints that follow. But I’m hopeful that would come with experience.

Here’s my ride data on strava if you’re interested.

As a post-script, I’m seriously considering repeating my childhood chemistry experiment on a nameless kitten in a certain bike shop. The fool meows at me piteously asking to be petted, and the moment I succumb to her considerable charms, she tries to take my arm off. Every bloody time. I even have scars to prove it.

Anyway, it’s time to build powah for the TTT, and for some more blogging hibernation. Until next time, then.

 

 

 

BAR crit: Posterior view

I’m not a sprinter. Gosh… I haven’t the faintest notion what on earth I am. I’m too fat to fly up hills, too slow in time trials, and by the time I’ve found the right gear for sprinting, my rivals are already waving like windmills from the podium. Boy, does it get frustrating at times! Well, I certainly am a sucker for punishment, because when I saw the notification about the BAR criterium on the 26th of June , the only thought that crossed my mind was,

“Why the hell not?”

An open category race- on a course with corners tight as a jar lid and headwinds that make you feel like you’re forcing your way through congealed silicone oil- against all the speed-fiends from the darkest depths of Bangalore, eager to dole out unlimited servings of pain… sure, why the hell not?

Rishow briefing us in Yenglish

Start line

Laps 1-6

What had I gotten myself into?!!

My heart was bursting, my legs were screaming, my bike refused to respond to sprint efforts, I was on a constant and futile lookout for the draft… I was so out of my depth here!

“Why in the whole wide world did I give those wheels back??!”

Another corner, another speed bump, another surge like the Devil himself were after us, and I was spat out the back like a gob of chewing gum.

“Ach! Great!”

It was carnage. The field was being torn apart by the big guns up at the front. Another half lap, and the breakaway was clear.

“Dang! When would I have an engine like that?”

I began my examination of the debris.

Lap 7

“Mohan!”

Awesome! My race wasn’t over yet.

Lap 8

“My turn!”, I yelled at Mohan as we cornered into the windy downhill stretch. I had had to sit back for one full lap to recover from trying to chase the break on my own.

“Better start our team time trial now!”

Laps 8-16

The group gathered at the start point seemed to be growing larger with each lap. The break seemed perpetually to be one curve ahead. I kept slipping in and out of a daze, only dimly aware of my surroundings and the sizzle in my legs. It felt weird. Was I chasing? Or was I being chased? I stole a look at the clock on my Garmin. 38 minutes.

‘Just a little longer…”

Lap 17

“It’s over!”, Venky’s shout barely cut through the cobwebs in my head.

“Good one!”, Mohan said as we rolled to a halt and shook hands. Relief washed over me. We’d escaped being lapped.

“YES!!”

This was the first criterium I have ever ridden, and it was certainly one for the memory banks! I need to develop a king-size engine to keep up with the big guns, but next time, whatever happens- I puke, I die, I fly off the road into a bush- I’m not riding amateur . “Elite rider” has a nice ring to it. Hmm…

I was a little incredulous when I received a few pats on the back and was told I had put out a good ride. Now that’s not something I get to hear often. 🙂

Oh, did I mention it was Mallick and Duggal’s last race in Bangalore for some time to come? The crit, and the yummy lunch at our favourite local bike shop afterwards was the best way we could have told them to get lost, I guess.

What a day!!

Here’s my ride data on Strava, and now that it’s out of my system, it’s time to go into blogging hibernation again. I got a bleddy PhD to finish!

Wheelsucking 101: Passed with distinction!

“This is going be fun, boys!”, came the boom from the driver’s seat as the car trundled over the bumpy terrain to join the other vehicles lined in the field.

“From a car?”, I asked. Rather waspishly.

There was an evil-guy-in-a-top-hat-tying-the-damsel-to-the-train-track laugh as Pavan eased himself out of the car. (Mr. M, if you’re reading this, how’s this for an evil laughter?)

May 22, 2016. Big day. The day of the BBCh road race. A day my bike gang and I had been looking forward to since forever. We were all racing in the amateur category- even that bugger Phani (Some things simply should not be allowed, like bringing an effing cannon to an effing knife fight!)- and with the incessant scheming and pep-talks, the week leading up to the race had been as exciting as it could possibly get.

I tasted the same electricity in the air as I stepped out of the car (Mr. M, you’re my main man!) and scanned my surroundings. People dressed like  vacuum-packed sandwiches, people accompanying the people dressed like vacuum-packed sandwiches, flashy helmets, socks with outrageous colour schemes, beeping Garmins, clacking cleats, the musical (to my ears) ticking of high-end wheels, the machines themselves- sleek and seductive… I loved every bit of what I saw.

Kilometer 0

Forty minutes later, bike assembled, the boys located and transponder tied securely to my ankle, I found myself at the start line, chuckling at the light-hearted banter flying around and desperately trying to ignore the quiver in my arms. The elite-level monsters were already off, and I could hear the countdown begin somewhere near the front of the bunch.

“Damn I needed more work on my VO2max!”

“GO!”

And it was mayhem.

“Get-to-the-front-get-to-the-front. C’mon-c’mon-c’mon.”

I could see all our boys doing the same, swerving and zig-zagging through the mass of the slower riders, and within minutes, our troop was at the head of the bunch, with some U-18s and some other people unknown to me hanging on to our tails.

Kilometer 3

I sat on Leander’s wheel, watching for the approach of the first of the long ascents. Darshan, Vinesh, Riyaz and Phani were ahead at the front. I worked my way up to Phani.

“Shaunak, can you get to the front and raise the pace a little?”

Cool.

“Phase 1: Execute.”

I got on the drops, forced myself to take long, steady breaths, and slipped into VO2 mode.

Heart rate: 101% of LTHR…103% of LTHR…106% of LTHR…

“Are the squirrels gone yet?”

And Phani went flying out of nowhere.

“The hell, dude?”

The bunch surged ahead.

“Shit!”

The first wheel went past me, the second wheel, the third. Crap, I had to get back in line!

“Ack! Gah! Grrrr…” A minute later, I sat gasping behind the fifth wheel, heart happily beating away at 192 bpm, but safely back in the slipstream.

“More VO2 training is in order.”

I risked a glance over my shoulder. Only Crankmeister, Ministri, and U-18s.

“Splendid!”

 

Kilometer 15

I sat behind Akshat, contemplating the meaning of life and the ways of the Universe (Drafting him and Vinesh is a lot like drafting trucks, even for a largish guy like me, so there’s not a lot else you need to worry about.), when I saw Rajat from Pune Wolfpack tinkering with his bike on the roadside. I winced at the thought of the pain the chase back to the elite peloton would undoubtedly bring him. The best course of action for the amateur bunch was probably to leave him to his own devices. But that was not to be.

Kilometer 17

Rajat shot past us on a descent, hammering away for dear life. Darshan jumped on his wheel almost immediately.

“HEY!! Not cool!”

The rest of us had no choice but to follow.

 

 

Bad move.

U-turn

The group shattered as Darshan finally detached from Rajat’s wheel and we braked to avoid a car bearing down on us like we didn’t even exist, but re-formed almost immediately as everyone sprinted together.

“Smart move.”

We had some loooong and gentle rises in gradient in store for us now, and there’s generally a headwind on this section of the route.  Whatever it would cost me, I was going to stick with the group.

Kilometer 35

Leander shot off the front like a bat out of hell, with Phani clinging on to his wheel. The rest of us watched like they were a mildly interesting TV program, but made no attempt to bridge across.

“Come on, Darshan!”

Aaaand he jumped, with the rest of us sitting comfortably on his wheel. After three minutes of a game of cat and mouse, Lee and Phani were tucked safely in the middle of the bunch.

“Guys, how many of you have seen Civil War?”, Akshat roared.

“Me!”, I yelled back through barely suppressed laughter.

Kilometer 37-40

This time it was our Punjabi munda Akshat. The same drill. Attack, stay away for four or five minutes and let Darshan bridge the gap.

“Pretty windy out there…”, Phani observed once Akshat was back in the bunch.

“Darshan, what do you think?”, Akshat asked innocently.

Kilometer 45

I sat on Leander’s wheel, a little too cosy. The plan to set Phani up for the final sprint seemed to be going smoothly, with him tucked behind Vinesh. With all the banter, needling Darshan and pulling fake pain-faces whenever a cameraman appeared, I felt like I was out on a Sunday fun ride.

“Sheesh! Our training rides are a lot harder than this!”

 

Kilometer 46

Akshat was up at the front, chatting away with Darshan about his exams and stuff. I noticed a subtle rise in the pace, and saw Phani and two of the U-18s move up.

“So soon?”

Kilometer 48

“Phani, go-go-go!” Akshat yelled as he dropped back.

The wheels in front of me were gone in a flash!

“So bloody soon!!”

It was a little too late to open my sprint, and a top-ten finish was anyway guaranteed, so I sedately cruised past the finish line to where the other boys were celebrating. Phani had won, obviously. The twat could have probably won the sprint pedaling one-legged, but our plan had been executed to perfection. And he had had a good photograph taken.  Cool photos are one of the many things that keep us going! 😛

Compared to the happenings in the elite peloton and Lord Venky’s heroics, our race was a walk in the park- a measly 36.5 kmph over 48.5 km. Vinesh cribbed to me afterwards that he felt fresh enough to ride back home. As a matter of fact, so did I. But anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed my first time in a peloton. I have raced time trials before, but I realise now that group rides are more my thing. After some more dates with the Gorilla (read gym work, VO2 and sprint training), maybe I’ll be ready to move on to the elite category. 🙂

Riyaz raced an extremely smart race and came in at a well-deserved second place. Azhar did pretty great throughout, too! But the race wouldn’t have been half as fun without Akshat and his banter. He did a marvelous job controlling the pace and keeping our spirits high.

Phani told me afterwards how he had marked the climbs on our recon ride, so that he’d know when to open his sprint. That explains why I saw him and the two U-18s move up and towards the right. Well played, sir, well played. The middle of the bunch certainly was not the best launchpad. Guess this is another thing I need to learn, besides figuring out how to eat and drink in the bunch. 😛

Here’s a video of the final sprint to the finish.

A big shout out to Pradip-da and Debu-da for hauling themselves out of bed at those ungodly hours, only to act as our support crew. You rock!

And thanks to Chirantan-da for letting me use the photographs from his album shamelessly. Cracking job with the photos, though. You captured the mood of the race better than even Veloscope did.

See y’all at the crit!

A thousand deaths

I am a simple man. I see a good road bike, I drool. So when I saw the notification about the BAR 20 km Individual Time Trial (No team support, no protection from the wind, it’s only you against the clock.) on the Manchanabele Machas facebook page (out of the friggin’ blue, as usual.), there was no dilly-dallying the decision. Even the elevation profile of the course was not going to keep me away from the race.

March 13, 7:10 a.m. Distance: 0 km, Average speed: 0 kmph

 I took my position behind Demon Duggal, fighting a nervous breakdown at the sight of the veins bulging out of his ginormous calves, and consoling myself that at least I didn’t have a pink ball with a smiley face dangling from my saddle. He said something about it being a lucky charm from someone (Presumably his girlfriend. I’m the only loser around here, apparently.), or something to that effect. My apologies to the dude, but it looked seriously funny.

7:12 a.m. Distance: 0.5 km, Average speed: 40 kmph

I pushed off into the block headwind rolling over the grey expanse of the road, still chuckling at the memory of Duggal’s lucky charm and at Akshat’s plan to pace himself using me as a reference.

“Bad choice, mate!”

I had the most elementary of plans- get on the bike, watch the distance and hammer till I puke. Shrewd pacing strategies are simply a waste on someone with my weekly training volume.

7:20 a.m. Distance: 6.2 km, Average speed: 36.5 kmph

“What the…!!”

I watched with desperation bordering on panic as Ronny slowly went past, apparently without breaking a sweat. I bit down on my tongue (hard!) and started clawing my way back to him, but my heart rate was telling me I could not sustain this power for more than five more minutes. That left me with two choices- maintain a constant gap with Ronny without drafting him (I was not going to cheat!) and blow up within the next ten minutes, or slither back down to my threshold power level and finish the race. It stank. All of it.

“MAN I got to get stronger!” (But there’s no time to train! *sighs*)

Only consolation (read excuse): the guy’s Belgian!

Meme credit: Manchanabele Machas

7:27 a.m. Distance: 9.1 km, Average speed: 33.4 kmph

“AHMAHGAWD-where-the-heck-is-that-bleddy-service-road-grrrrrr-I-hate-you-lactic-acid!!”

7:28 a.m. Distance: 10 km, Average speed: 33.2 kmph

“Oiii speed up speed up!” I heard, or rather I thought I heard Akshat yell as he crossed me at the U-turn. It was time.

“God Mode: Engage!”

(My personal God Mode does not give me super-strength, but brings my situational awareness down to only the bare minimum required not to smash into anything or fly off the road. The results are a blank mind and almost zero pain. It usually requires a reference point to focus on to, and lasts for about an hour in a TT effort. There are other names for it like digging deep and HTFU, but I think God Mode sounds a lot cooler.)

The return leg was a blur, thanks to God Mode. I vaguely remember zipping past some other racers; drawing level with a mini-truck and leaving it behind, sprinting whenever my God Mode nexus (Akshat’s back) threatened to build up a gap greater than a hundred meters, and WHOA! I was at the finish line!

“What? Already?”

I got the shock of my life while comparing Ronny’s ride data with my own. The bugger clocked an average speed of 39.7 kmph at an average heart rate of 150 bpm; while I died a thousand deaths, heart rate hovering around 177 bpm, to crawl through the 20 km course at 35.3 kmph. Heck, where do I stand in terms of fitness?

Nevertheless, my last season of racing in Bangalore has been a lot of fun so far, and here’s a picture of me in God Mode at the finish line. Heh! Uncool as always. This is starting to get tragic.

I’m a prat

“Eeeek saw keelomeeter!” (A hundred kilometres!)

I struggle to find my poker face.

“Haan ji.” (Yes sir.)

“Thakte nahi ho?” (Don’t you feel tired?)

Ohmigod! I’m usually as good as new following a half-hour nap after the Sunday torture sessions, and I stopped feeling the 50 kilometres-in-one-and-a-half-hour rides several millennia ago, but I fail to muster the will to explain that at that moment.

“Nahi ji.” (No sir.)
Don’t say it! Don’t you bloody say it!

“Pagal ho kya?” (Are you crazy?)

My poker face instantly hardens into the Mongol cold face.

“Haan ji.” (If you say so.)

A memory from the BBCh ITT swims to the front of my mind.

Distance: 22.1 km, average speed: no idea, average cadence: 89 rpm, heart rate: 87% of max. HR

I shoot past the rider on the Scott Speedster, relishing the resistance the headwind offers. He has to be the twentieth I have crossed after I started.

“Come on, man, give me a fight!”

He scrabbles to get ahead of me, and fades.

I sigh.

Distance: 22.9 km, average speed: still haven’t got the foggiest idea, average cadence: 88 rpm, heart rate: 84% of max. HR

“Where-the-heck-is-my-God-Mode-at?”

I hover on the edge of death by boredom.

Distance: 23.9 km, average speed: I just don’t care anymore, average cadence:  I just don’t care anymore, heart rate: I just don’t care anymore.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? SPEED UP!“

I almost jump out of my skin.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Warmth floods back into my legs as I zoom after Vinesh.

“Not fair!“, he laughs. “Not drafting you!“ I holler back as we both rev our engines.

Finish line.

“Awesome ride, man!” Vinesh yells at me. I clap him on the back. “Not nearly as awesome as yours!” 

We’re buddies. Instantly.

It’s amazing how “Brilliant ride!”, “That’s a beautiful bike!”,”That was well-written!”, “What’re you reading now?” get you rolling with people. It’s even more amazing how these individuals invariably turn out to be absolute gems! 🙂

It’s a treat, watching people light up when they chatter away about things they’re besotted with. It’s a treat to have a flat stomach, to have your heart beat at 48 bpm, to rocket around Delhi for twelve hours a day, for one full week, without ever feeling any kind of fatigue, to be able to climb Yercaud at 45 degrees and live to tell the tale, to be able to lift yourself out of depression and get back to work when nothing seems to go your way. I’m a prat for riding my bike. Certainly. 🙂