Bike racers are a tough breed. We like to pride ourselves on being able to withstand more pain than the average person, persevere though hellish conditions, and survive – and thrive – in the most bleak of circumstances. All of these traits were tested to the max at the 2011 Quabbin road race this year.
The forecast called for light rain and temps in the 50s. While sucky, this wouldn’t have been anything I haven’t had to deal with before. Upon arrival the car read 38 degrees, and it was a steady rain, with….snow on the ground. I had definitely jinxed Doug and I by saying, “well, at least it’s not snow!” on the drive in. Are you F_ing kidding me!?! Was all I could say and think upon getting out of the car and heading to the registration tent.
What followed was the worst time I've ever spent on a bike, and possibly the worst time I've ever spent anywhere, doing anything, ever. The first 3 miles of the race are all downhill, and by the time the group actually started to pedal, as we made the turn onto Route 9, I was already completely soaked and freezing. Already there was talk in the peloton of 'screw this', and 'this sucks, I don't think I'm going to finish'. Due to me having zero warm up, it being 38 degrees and me being completely drenched, I was anything but warmed-up, and I was promptly dropped on the first major climb. I tried as hard as I could to rejoin, and was about 50 meters from jumping back on, when apparently the lead motorcycle took half of the pack through an intersection, when they were supposed to actually take a right. I followed thruogh the intersection, too, until a guy in a Mini Cooper, who had previously been yelling at me encouraging me to get me back into the pack, yelled at me that I had missed the turn. "But I saw them go straight!" I yelled back, in my highly oxygen-deprived state, "He's taking them the wrong way!" he shot back. Great, so now, fewer than 10 miles into the race, I'm soaked, the Cat 4 men have been effectively split in two, I have no hope of rejoining, and I have about 55 miles to look forward to riding on my own. After a few miles I began passing rider after rider going the other direction, who had apparently had enough of the abysmal conditions and decided to ride back to the parking lot. While I was cold and wet, I wasn't completely miserable yet, and I loathe the thought of seeing a DNF next to my name, so I pressed on. Looking back, I kinda wish I hadn't.
The next 3 hours were miserable. Completely and utterly miserable. Everything gradually and consistently got worse. The rain never let up, it never warmed up, and a head wind began kicking up. I rode alone for a long time, until the Masters category came up behind me. I rode with them for 10-15 miles, until some asshole gave me a hard time about riding with them because I was a Cat 4. Seriously buddy? Am I negatively affecting you by riding in your group? This is why roadies have a reputation as assholes. At this point, my morale went from .01 to zero and I gradually fell off the back and was alone once more. At this point things got really, really bad.
First I couldn't feel my hands, then my hands just plain wouldn't work. No amount of taking them off the bars and shaking them or flexing them did anything. Completely numb. I lost all coordination and strength. It was all I could muster to spin out 200 watts in the middle ring. My hands became so ineffectual I couldn't shift; I couldn't squeeze my water bottle for a drink. Descents were terrifying because of the sheer coldness, and because I had almost no ability to grasp and squeeze the brake lever. The last 15 miles were the longest of my life. I literally was staring at my Powertap, watching the distance tick down. I thought of how beautiful the scenery and roads would be on a nice day, when I wasn't teetering on the brink of hypothermia.
On numerous occasions during this time I had blurred and double vision. I should have pulled the plug and given up, and I probably would have, if the opportunity presented itself. Doug, a much wiser man than me, who was racing with the 5s, was offered the chance to hop in a team van around mile 45 and gladly accepted. Don't know what happened, but I never saw that van!
To add insult to injury, the last 5k of the race are uphill. Felt like forever, but I ground up slowly but surely, and finished. Somehow. At this point my body was deeply in survival mode. I had trouble pushing the unlock button on my car keys. It took me about 40 minutes to change, as I lacked the dexterity to button my pants, and even putting on socks was a challenge. Even now, Monday night, my fingertips are still somewhat numb. Hopefully this will fade with time.
If ever presented with race conditions like we experienced on Saturday, Doug and I agreed we will gladly take a DNS like many others did. This was just pure unadulterated torture.
