Vic Masters 2011

A Numby's tale, or a discourse on the peregrinations of Jonas Tuck, Esquire (or is that eSquire? Or iSquire?) on the first day of Holy rest in the second month of the year 2012 after the passing of our Lord, the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Skipeth thee to the end if ye be of impatient temperament or if ye be on yonder Eastlink tollway and unable to pause for an hour.

I arrived at DISC feeling relatively confident despite how little time I've had on the track lately. My training hasn't been great, but I've still been working and hoped that I would at least be a chance at a bronze, or maybe even a silver if everything went really really well - that is, I qualified non-dead-last so I didn't have to race Neil, and managed to beat whoever else qualified 2-3. But my goal was basically simply to post a satisfactory time in the flying 200, and race as well as I could against whoever I ended up against.

After a bit of a roll around and a jump, I decided on 102" for the 200. Neil kindly offered to lend me his spare rear wheel, but I declined because, well, how much difference would it really make? And, again well, I don't really feel like I can justify using anything performance-enhancing, as it were. I'm just too far off my capacity. So anyway, I rolled off just after Nic Marc had set a 12.119 and thought: Hmm. He's gotten a lot faster! But maybe that's an indication that I can set a good time, too? So I wound it up, trying to keep the speed high without wearing myself out, and keeping focussed on what I needed to do. My jump was solid if not quite explosive, but I felt like I was carrying okay speed. I slipped low coming through turn 4 and very nearly went on to the duckboards. That may have cost me a tenth, perhaps, but generally my line felt fairly smooth. I crossed the finish, looked up... 13.04. Fuck. Okay, it's a PB, but Fuck. The rest of the times come through and in a field of four, I'm the slowest by 7 tenths of a second. 1.4 seconds slower than the Neil I'm going to have to race in the first round. Fuck.

So I was a bit despondent. I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to beat Neil, but at least since there were only 4 riders, I'd be in the bronze medal final. Still, I decided to be aggressive in my races against Neil, knowing that he wouldn't have to (and I'd be beaten by half a lap if he were) and my only chance to finish on the same straight was to catch him in the middle of a giggling fit. So the first race, he led, I sat behind by a few lengths, figuring I'd try the old accelerate in the saddle in to space and then get out of the saddle to pass trick. And, for a given definition of 'work', it worked - I got past him with 1.5 to go and stayed there for 3/4 of a lap. Then he passed me, probably still giggling, and won by 20 metres or so. Second race, I led, he took height, I let him have it while keeping the pace up-ish (but not really enough) then gave him a mini-hook coming in to turn three and dove for the lane. Second verse, same as the first, except this time I sat up more and he won by about 30 metres.

Nothing surprising in all that, but I was still feeling kinda low. But Nic put in an awesome effort to beat Craig Arnel (who qualified in 12.327) in three and I figured - well, this is where my race day restarts, effectively. So while trying to keep cool, I thought about how to race Craig, got some tips from Nic, and basically tried to get myself in a headspace to be able to win/come out of the day with some jewellery.

I drew the high spot for the first race in the best-of-three, and asked Carl to give me a hold. I'm not very used to starting held, and every time it's happened, each person has done it slightly differently. I was a bit nervy, focussed on what I was doing, and in the process managed to kick Carl in the knee while setting my pedals. He didn't come back to hold me for the next race, believe it or not. Anyway, I rolled off, deciding to stay on the bank while Craig went down on to the boards. We rolled around, pace not too fast, Craig trying to keep me on his hip and pushing me up. I saw a chance for an opening though, because he was too far forward, and coming around to turn three with just over a lap to go as we started up the incline through the turn, I let my speed wash ever so slightly, enough to open the gap behind him and allow me to dive for the lane. I pushed, then pushed again, then pushed again, and coming through turn 4 just before the final straight I pushed so far forward I came off the front of the saddle, losing a bit of power and momentum. I had no idea where Craig was - until about 20 metres from the line I felt/heard him on my outside, and 10 metres to go I could see him. I pushed again, threw for the line... but he came over the top of me, by about a wheel rim. Bugger.

So if I was going to come away with a bronze, it was going to be three races, and I was feeling pretty shattered, but in a way which almost made me feel more energetic, and I knew he was feeling much the same. So I tried to cool myself down, and thought about how I could ride the race from the front this time. I considered going up and down the bank, keep him guessing, but decided that that was a bit too risky. In the end I went with the plan of winding the pace up and up, keeping a close eye on him, not letting him jump off the bank (or at least not with height) and trying to hold him out of the lane. Which is how it went - except that down the front straight with a lap to go, he just managed to get far enough in front of me to drop in to the lane. I hesitated a moment - or, crucially, two moments - before running up the bank and down again to take a run at him. But because I'd left it slightly late, I didn't take enough height - mainly because it was the exit of turn 2 and there wasn't enough of it left. But I got the run, came round him in turn three, and tried to chase him down as he'd done me. And I pushed and I pushed and I huffed and I puffed... but I missed him. By about a wheel rim. Damn.

And, well, that was it. Back in the pits I could hardly walk properly; my quads were so sore/tired I couldn't lock my legs straight for a couple of minutes. Neil took out the gold over Nic, giving them a repeat Gold/Silver from the Kilo the day before. And I packed up and went home.

So what's left then? Well for the moment, Summer Sprint Series Round 4 next weekend. But otherwise? Well, a couple of things. Firstly, who am I? Not in a metaphysical sense, but simply - who am I riding with? I'm not really part of a team - I had to wear a plain black jersey yesterday, which at least (along with my bandana and generally piratish appearance) made me a favourite with Brendan, the commentator. But I don't have any aboc kit - partly because I didn't have any money when the order was done. I train (when I train) with them, I'm (nominally) coached by Carl, and generally I do the things they do (only slower.) But I don't really feel a part of the squad. And perhaps that's partly because I'm (nominally) a part of Team Splat! - at least, I wear the jersey. But I don't train with them. I don't get racing tips from them. Apart from the SSS rounds, when I normally sit with them (because I've been friends with them a while, they got me started and because I've usually got my daughter) I barely see them. I don't come down and race with them on Saturdays at Blackburn. So I'm kind of part of both teams/squads/groups/whatever, but not properly part of either.

Secondly, it's time to change my focus around again. For a period I was getting stronger, then I was losing weight, then I was getting stronger again. It's time to focus again on losing weight and just slowly increasing strength. In the gym, I'm as strong as (or stronger than) Neil. On the bike, I'm much slower. And I'm roughly 15-17kg heavier. Now, it's not exactly a direct correspondence, certainly, and you could argue that he's relatively stronger (because he's lighter, and a bit taller) but I'm not proposing a scientific study. Simply noting that the gains to be made, at least on the bike, by getting stronger at this point are vanishingly small compared to the gains to be made by losing weight, even if I happen to get a bit weaker (though I don't intend for that to happen.)

In summary, for those of you who have skipped down from the top: I very slowly sucked big fat donkey balls.