Ran into Matt in the chilly parking lot of the High School in Durango while the sun was still finding its way behind some ridge to the east. Our field boasted 180 some odd riders but, in point of fact, there were about 120. What happened to the other 60 is any one's guess. Nevertheless, we two sole representative's of Mix 1, felt a little out numbered.
Matt pointed out that Las Vegas Louie had come to town and, as our group was staging and shuffled forward like cattle in the chute, we saw him and a posse of his minnie-me's hanging out by the side and jumping in to the head of our field just before the start.
When we started, Matt and I were in the front 10--where we stayed for the whole show. A couple of fruitless attacks had Louie send up two of his more burly team-mates to set pace and did they ever. They got us to the Hermosa climb in just over a half an hour. Matt and I sat not too many places behind in a peloton shaped like a large tear-drop. This was the place to be as we flew past the legions of tourists who left before us, choking up the shoulder and well beyond. Never thought I'd yell at cyclists to stay to the right of the shoulder. It looked like an accident waiting to happen. When the big boys pulled off and drifted back after averaging over 23mph, I patted one on the back in sincere thanks.
Matt and I stayed to the front. I was feeling pretty good and spun comfortably in a 36x23 as the incline pitched up to 10%. Hermosa worked its magic and in some twenty minutes we were down to a group of about 8. Louie was the marked man and as the course flattened out our pace slackened. Nobody wanted to work for him (his team was nowhere in sight) and he displayed his usual antipathy for facing the wind alone. Some shedlings came back and we were about 12 at the base of Coal Bank Hill.
Here, Louie set the pace. I worked my way towards the front of our dwindling group. Eventually, I sat near to Louie, my elbow about even with his rear cassette. We labored on for some time until we were but a group of five. Louie churned on but I felt my strength ebb and suddenly some daylight appeared between us. I blinked at how rapidly the gap was growing. "Son of a bitch is going to solo," I thought. I turned to Matt and rasped: "Take my wheel." I got out of the saddle, closed the gap and then drifted to the back of the group and hoped for the best.
I don't know how much more time passed. Four grimacing cars behind a truculent engine. Just when it hurt the most a gap appeared again and grew wider. This time I said to Matt: "If you've got anything left use it now." because I had nothing. Matt bridged the gap and I watched from the back of the group. So we stayed for some time but it was like trying to stop a leak in a fish bowl with chew gum. Again a gap formed and Louie was now pulling away. Twenty-Five, 50, 75 and closing in on 100 meters ahead of us.
Out of the saddle and passing the others in our group said "Verdampt noch mal!" and went after him. Cursing is best in German. There was Louie, daylight, me, daylight, and the other two with Matt. I started fading and two riders passed me at a steady labored pace, no Matt. Now I saw a group of two up the road and Louie threatening to disappear round the next bend.
Suddenly, at the side of the road in a jeep, in the middle of 100,000 acres of wilderness, some dudes with monster speakers were blaring some heavy mettle and shouting at us at 9:00 in the morning. Talk about auditory coffee. I insanely ignored my fatigue, the way we do when we do "just one more" anarobic interval for the third time in a row. Eventually they caught Louie and I caught them--and finally Matt rejoined all of us just as we crested Coal Bank Hill, a group now of five.
On the decent, a moment's inattentiveness, had me gapped off. On Molass Pass, I stamped on the peddles and only succeeded in increasing my fatigue. One mile short of the summit a rider shed from the lead group softly mutter some profanity as I lumbered past him.
I spun over Molass Pass and started down the decent to Silverton like it was a time trial. Matt somewhere ahead of me would come in third. All the way down I intermittantly tucked my head and took furtive glaces under my arm to see if anyone was coming back. I kept thinking: "Okay, fourth place, not a bad morning's work". To the right, over the edge of the road, the irregular buildings of Silverton got bigger and more distinct. "Alright I'll ride into town on my own."
As I approached the last hairpin, I saw two riders baring down on me. One I recognized as the guy I overtook. After the hairpin I knew they had my wheel. I hammered into town. The last kilometer was narrowed down with irregularly placed cones and a shouting gauntlet of faceless voices to the width of two bikes, no more. My man did not come around me, good, but this other guy I didn't recognize sprinted by in a blue kit. With 200 meters to go I was on him and thought to sprint but it was so narrow and claustrophobic that the thought "Aw, let the Cat 3 cross the line uncontested" flashed though my mind. You see, everyone looks younger in a kit and I thought he was some kid from an earlier race. That's how I ended up in 5th rather than 4th, as I thought.
A fun and deeply satisfying race as always. I hope they run it forever.
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