Facebook Friday: Garministan Invasion

I got rear ended at a toll both outside of Chicago on the Eisenhower expressway more than ten years ago.  In slow motion, as I sat stopped waiting to pay, I heard the skidding.  Then from my rear view mirror I could see her coming in way to fast.  A white sedan skidding, looking for the lane with more room to stop.  Bam.  Crash.  Smash.  Bang.  Dominoes.  One car plowed into another, till the rear window of my 1991 Honda Civic hatchback caved in and the Proflex bike on my roof rack flipped onto my hood.  I was okay.  Glass was everywhere.  My frame got cracked.  In a shaky trembly half-scared half-adrenaline spiked voice, much like the one Tyler Farrar used in post race interviews to describe yesterday's sprint at the 2010 Tour De France, I narrated to the officer what happened.  Farrar was freaked out and for good reason.  Crazy things were unfolding in slo-mo in front of his eyes.

After watching the tour coverage of Thursday's sprint over and over, in slo-mo, upside down from the trapeze bar in my living room with binoculars, and by cocking my head side to side like a dog trying to figure out what it's owner is saying, it's pretty clear that nobody in the sprint was riding a line straight enough to pass a breathalizer test.  Check out the video link of "How The Race Was Won" here.


In post race interviews, both Julian Dean and Mark Renshaw, veteran lead out guys, prided themselves on clean sprinting, holding their line.  What I found fascinating, is that neither Dean nor Renshaw mentioned the headbutts.  Headbutting is not against the rules, deviating from your line is.  If you're getting crowded off your line, better defend it with your head than to use your hands at 40mph.  Problem is, Renshaw did more than defend his real estate.  That's what the race jury saw.


Like a game of Risk, Renshaw pounded his way to gain more acreage.  These are big boys.  They know what's going on.  Pro sprinters can thread a needle an inch wider than their handlebars.  There was 3-4 feet to the left of Renshaw, plenty of room to throw a sprinters disco party let alone for Renshaw to pull off and let Cav go straight.  Problem was Renshaw was getting beat by Dean, consequently Farrar was getting the upper hand on Cav.  

Renshaw saw that the only way to regain dominance at the line for both Cav and himself was for him to cross the border on his right.  Sorry, but that was the land of Garministan.  Look at it like a double paceline.  Guy on the left (Renshaw) goes left, guy on the right (Dean) goes right.  While exciting for TV, I think we got robbed of a drag race between Farrar and Cav and for that matter a three up race with Petacchi.  Too bad.  Maybe that's what the jury saw.  This is the Tour De France and we want to see the best go head to head.


Still, the general consensus among FB friends and fans is that the punishment didn't fit the crime.  Getting ejected was a bit harsh.  So, what should've been the punishment?  It's Facebook Friday.  Every week we ask our Facebook fans a burning question and post the comments here.  To be a part of fit, fan us here on FB.  


This weeks question was: "Instead of being kicked out of the Le Tour for Le Head-butting Julian Dean, how should've Mark Renshaw been punished?" 

Goodwheel Hunting: Making Sense of a Bunch Sprint

I was Luke Skywalker deftly flying my X-wing fighter through the labyrinth of the Death Star as TIE fighters attacked and fell.  I pitched and rolled.  I would save Aldaraan.   Okay, enough Star Wars geek coo-coo talk.  After I crossed the finish line, I rolled up alongside a good friend and said, “I’ve been racing road bikes for what now, 7 years, and this is the first time I could see my way through the chaos that is a bunch sprint finish.  Heavenly harps and Disney birdies circled my head.  It wasn’t chaotic.  It was clear and calculated.  I was calm and cool.  It wasn’t any scarier than parallel parking on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.  Granted my placing wasn’t anything special, but now I know I can do this.

Normally a sprint for me is like a demonstration of what it feels like to have Autism, an overload of sensory information.  Colors flash by you in both directions.  Your smell cork brake pads burning, hear a cowbell, a guy cuts in front of you, you lean to avoid contact, a little girl shouts from the sidelines, you see the 200 meter sign, a hole opens, and shuts down just as quick.  Somehow I was Matt Damon in Goodwill Hunting, able to see the answer to the problem in my head and show the math to prove it.  It all made perfect sense.  Yesterday the chaos was nothing more than driving toward the finish and making rational split second decisions till I arrived at the front.  If X, then Y.  If Z then A.  The speed, closeness of the riders and distractions were secondary.  I felt as if I were running through the concessions crowd during the 7^th inning stretch without hitting anyone and bagging the 12^th urinal in the men’s room. 

It was more than following “a good wheel.”  The sprint actually started 5-6 miles away on the back stretch.  Halfway through the lap, a slight uphill rise into a right turn onto a skinny twisty road proved to be a choke point that stretched out the pack every lap.  Even warming up, I knew I had to be near the front going into that corner or you’d end up at the mercy of others letting gaps go.  The first half of the last lap all I thought about was being in a good spot through that corner.  I did have my eye on two wheels, a Team Type 1 development rider and a stalwart veteran from Zephyr Wheel/Cyclesport.  I had a third eye on a big dude from a Pittsburg team.  All three were in the mix at the front.  The “good wheels” were more of a sign that I was in the right place than a golden ticket to the podium.

From there it was a matter of defending position and staying with one of those wheels.  Guys would come around on both sides, and like a jewelry store smash-and-grab heist you had to take it when you saw it to stay near the front.  On The final right hand turn onto the finishing road, swinging a bit too wide I lost some ground and my “good wheels” by letting a few go by underneath.  I remember clearly thinking that this was the moment where I could ease up and ride it in for a mid-pack finish, or drive forward and make the most of it.  I got up on the pedals over the next riser hill and stuck my bike into the first hole I saw.  Now committed, I drove forward making my way to the stack of $29.95 DVR’s at Best Buy on Black Friday.  I woke up at 3am, camped out on a lawn chair in 25 degree weather and by God I’m getting that deal. 

Photo Courtesy Jeffery Jakucyck

On earlier laps, with the wind pushing from the Northwest, I remember the right side of road over the overpass would open up as riders drafted more toward the centerline.  I poked my way to the right and rode it up past a couple before the lane shut down.  Down the hill and back up the next rise, a rider shot left to right across my bow almost touching my wheel.  I had to pinch off some brake and pitch to my right an inch to avoid it.  I drove on.  Boxed in on the right and somewhere in twentieth-land, I stayed on the gas patiently waiting for something to open up.  The 200 meter sign was in sight.  The sprint opened to both sides of the road.  Riders fanned left, leaving Swiss cheese holes in front of me.  I shot forward and dug deep sliding past spent riders and ping-ponged my way forward.  I could see the finish line tent, open real estate and a smattering of riders.  2-3 more ran out of steam before the line.  Left.  Right.  I surged past.  Crossed.  I counted the guys in front of me.  3-3-3-1. I counted again.  4-3-3-1.  11th or 12th.  Oh, and there’s my “good wheel.”  Not too shabby I thought.  It wasn’t so much where I finished, but how I got there that I was happy about.  I figured this thing out.  I haven’t been so excited about something so mediocre since the day I front parked my car to get elusive street parking on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.  

Out Pippin’ The Pipper

After 40 miles of sweet chilled out rolling goodness, we crested the last riser. On the other side, Bromley Kentucky and the wooden sign that proves it. Beyond that, the usual easy 10 mile city cruise over the Ohio River and along the other shore to home. The thought was in my mind. Rolling with my favorite wingman, Tony, my wife and a guy from another team, I knew at least 3 out of 4 were thinking sprint. The guy from the other team, not familiar with our little ride, probably didn’t know about the sign. Plus, it was January and it was a chilled out just glad to be on the bikes type of ride. I decided not to sprint, not fair if there’s someone in the bunch that doesn’t know about it. Tony, usually sharing the same cyclo-ethics as I do, I guessed would do the same and just roll on through the sign. My evil wife on the other hand…

The pace stayed civil toward the climb. I led nearly up to it. On purpose of course, it would give me a position on the back to sprint from. It may be January, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn't be at least thinking like a bike racer. Tony took it to the top and pulled off. The guy from the other team, unknowing that a sprint sign loomed, took it down toward the line. I didn’t even look back under my arm to confirm that Tony wouldn’t go for it. He wouldn’t. Besides, he can outsprint me 9 out of 10 times from the front spot. 250 meters-ish. Downhill. I stayed on the hoods. 200. 150. 100. I remembered I had a Clif Bar in my pocket. 50. My wife pulls out and gives it for the sucker-pip! Dang! I launched to her wheel and around! 25! 3 wide at the front. 15-10. I threw my bike and got her by a half wheel. “Aw man,” she shouted in fun as she half heartedly banged her bars with her cute girl fist. I looked back and smiled.

Let her win? No way! I’m not an asshole. She simply wouldn’t want me to let her win and besides, I’ve seen her beat the boys all on her own, present company included. She’s a smart and strong rider and can hold her own. That’s being a good hubby. Sometimes we’ll get in cahoots and I’ll lead her out. That’s a blast. Other times, she’ll go for the line and I’ll take the wheel of anyone who follows so we at least go 1-2 or 1-3. Regardless, a pip is hardly a sprint. The pip and smile is the friendly sucker punch of cycling. From my wife, the pip says, I love you honey bunny. It puts that little sprinkle of sugar on a sour cold winter ride. However, what’s even sweeter is out pippin' the pipper.