My Yearly Pilgrimage to the High Mountains.

You may remember a short, heart-felt, and incredibly well written post I wrote about one of my bicycles. In it I chronicled its journey to continue its tireless service as a trusted Rosenholtz war-horse under my (HUJJE) little brother, Josh. Last week, I made my now yearly trip out to Colorado under the guise that I would log tremendous miles up long, torturous mountains... some of them along side a wobbly, newborn-deerlike BRO on his hand-me-down racer. While that absolutely happened, it is far more accurate to say that I spent a majority of my time pretending I was in college again, and partaking in activities that would make my coach fuming angry (sorry coach).

It began, as these stories usually do, with a fun set of circumstances. Having been hit by a car the preceding Wednesday, and winning a bicycle race earlier in the day, I packed late into the night, then boarded a plane not three hours after I had finally fallen asleep. That, and the loss of two desperately needed hours were the makings of a VERY long day.

Josh is a DJ. You can see him here, Dj-ing (click on the photo to listen with your ear machines). He had a show the night I flew in. If you are doing the math in your head, you will come to the realization, as I did, that there was a very real possibility that I will be awake for longer than humans should be. Something like 90 hours. Give or take.

The long and the short of it is this: Josh, and his partner in crime, Josh (I know), killed their set, and transitioned, seamlessly, into a night of full blown debauchery, which included the absolutely warranted theft of the headlining act's beer, a brief 1 mile (drunken) sprint home (I hate running, let alone that kind of running), and many other unmentionable adventures.

Thank god for recovery days.

The following day, I went on my first real ride with he, and his compatriots. There is a somewhat strange, entirely great, bunch of friends (read: bros) of his that have, somehow, found their way into cycling. I attribute Josh's new found interest in the sport almost entirely to them, and very little to do with the fact that his older brother spends most of his time slouched over a bike.    

But I'm not jealous. Whatever.  *sniff.*

  I've been excited to ride with them, and him, for a while now. I felt a little like I was some sort of celebrity; talked about and idolized for his (100% incorrect) blinding speed, and natural ability. I met one of the "team members" (stay tuned for more on that), and was greeted with: "OH SHIT! You're Josh's brother!?" My head grew three sizes that day. I had a great time, despite the hangover and increasing sleep debt.

The next few days were a bit of business as usual. Back to training, intervals, and proper fuel and recovery, albeit with one small exception:

Altitude is hard.

I would manage efforts as well as I could, but it took 4-5 times longer for me to recover from any effort (that's a bit of foreshadowing). Still. I felt like every time I pushed myself in to eye crossing oxygen debt, I was digging out more "fast" than I would be at home. It doesn't mean I liked it.

Later in the week I was forced to make some choices, which were difficult for about a split second. It was either stick to the game plan, and do a regimented 4 hour day of climbing intervals, or go for a bike ride with my Bro and his BROS.

In the end, it was not a hard choice. 

This photo was taken on the way up to the famous red rocks amphitheater. I'm going to say this with full knowledge of how wildly immodest it sounds, but I think it's true: I think I was sort-of able to document an important day here. A day I've had a few times. A day, I'm sure we've all had. Josh did a BIG ride. He climbed higher and farther than he'd ever climbed. He pushed through a barrier that many of us have long since left behind. One that I had totally forgotten about. That big first day where you go: Wow, I just did that. That day you push the goal-line further back. The ride that becomes the yardstick by which you compare every ride you will ever do... until you do a bigger one.

Ask me if I regret not doing intervals on Wednesday. 

Lookout.

The rest of the week was pretty similar. My singular focus during the day, sort-of became his too: "When are we gonna ride?" I took him up Lookout Mountain. We went out to Morrison, and narrowly avoided being eaten by a tornado.  

Chatfield.

Josh has always been a little better at going with the flow than I am. When it comes to structure, especially training, I tend to hyper focus, and lose sight of what is better for me as a human rather than just a bike racer. With that in mind, this year's journey to Colorado might not have been as "Epic" as I thought it would be... but it was certainly more epic in a better, truer sense of the word.  

Stafford Springs aka, the real hipster NASCAR

I’ve wanted to race this crit from the moment I heard about it: A zero corner, super fast, wide-open oval, which, on the day, featured a blistering tailwind finish. If you were to suggest that there are other races with better circumstances for me to win, I would call you a liar.

Sam Dent.

I felt a little lousy at the onset, not because of my standard list of complaints and excuses, but because a car hit me on Wednesday. Badly. So to say that I was in peak physical condition coming into this race (one that I had been looking forward to since Krulewitz convinced the race organizer to allow the semi-pros come and play) would be a wild and dangerous overstatement.

Regardless, I was keen on getting the job done, especially after watching one of our new recruits, Jake, take the 3/4 race handily despite a feverish chase mounted by, you guessed it, his own teammate Kyle Butler… GLV STRIKES AGAIN.

Here is what happened in the 2/3: Chris Bailey, who was dragged kicking and screaming to the race, IMMEDEATELY attacked, and strung out the field. The pace stayed very, very high for the first few laps in response to his enthusiasm. It turns out his plan to instantaneously soften the field was a good one as, 5 laps in, someone allowed a very large to gap open, and 7 of us scurried off the front. We toiled for a bit, but began eeking out a discernable lead. We even kept the pressure high enough to drop a few of the would-be heroes back to the pack… a situation I am all too familiar with.

Once we were half a lap ahead, I wanted to make sure we rejoined the field, because, obviously, that’s where my friends were. Every pull I took was deliberate, and long. I did my best to turn the screws to the other guys, which is usually the exact opposite of what is happening when I am (accidentally) in a breakaway. I could tell a few of our compatriots were on the rivet, especially one dude… who kept shirking his pulls and let us just drag him around. When he did find his way to the front, he’d take a mini pull, and retreat to the back. I gave him an earful, and then pulled through as hard as I possibly could to try and pop him off… I am not that strong however, and he was able to leach his way back into the pack with us.

As we approached the group, I saw Jake looking over his shoulder for me, and once he had me in tow, he crushed it, and dragged us straight through the group like a boss. I knew it was one of my break-mate’s intentions to go straight out of the group again. I… didn’t want to do that.  I had four dudes ready to help me win this thing right here, and that’s where I wanted to stay.

Once we regained contact, the field was antsy for the first 3-4 laps. Guys would try to escape, and I would respond to every move that contained someone from the original break. Finally, GLV found its way to the front, and that is where we stayed. AJ, Chris, and Kyle started hammering out a 25mph pace, and all the attacks began to fade, and eventually stop altogether. With 15 to go we had the race smothered. Huge monster pulls down a very windy backstretch kept everyone pinned down behind us. I was secretly brimming with pride. My boys were burying themselves for me… and I had plenty left in the tank for the one thing I do well.

With 5 to go, Jake and AJ took the reigns when it started to get nervous. They kept the pace nice and quick, and kept me out of danger. AJ absolutely emptied the tanks and led the entire final 2 laps on his own. As we came around the sweeping bend for the final time, I was third wheel behind AJ, and Graham(?), who was also in the break. I was planning on waiting till Graham made his move, but as we exited to corner, I decided to just open it up. I haven't seen any pictures, but from what I've heard, and how I felt coming by first and second wheel, it was a convincing.

I kind of feel like I got to win twice on Sunday. I've been in the pack when the break laps the field, and then wins the field sprint. I couldn't fathom how they had the energy to do it. I'm not gonna say that this race was particularly hard, but I am supremely satisfied to tick that little box on my cycling bucket-list. It was, without question, a result of the ferocious effort our little team displayed.

So thanks, boys.

"DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU JUST HIT ME?!" I yell into the shut window of a late model Toyota.
I am dumbfounded as the girl/woman looks up from applying her make-up, the entire contents of her bag strewn out on her lap, and glances at me with empty, careless eyes.

"wha?" She responds, with just about the amount of drunken lack of situational awareness I was expecting from this baffling idiot... as if I willed her to say it.

"YOU JUST HIT ME... WITH YOUR CAR".

Today, I found out that rage watts are a real thing. When you are angry, or in this case blindingly furious, you can pedal your bike faster than you could otherwise. A lot faster it turns out.

As you may know, I ride my bike a lot. Today was no different than any other day, except for the fact that I was slotted to do sprint intervals (which are my specialty) instead of the more regular longer tempo intervals (the bane of my cycling existence). I enjoy the rides where I can work on my strengths a little bit more than the ones where I must toil and reflect on what an inadequate bike racer I am. Slightly of topic, but it goes to my mental state: happy.

About 5 minutes after my opening sprint, I am brushed back by a grey/gold Toyota shit box. The driver clips my leg with their door mirror, and continues on into the shoulder, completely and totally oblivious to my existence. It didn't hurt. If I'm totally honest it barley touched me... but the combination of actually being hit, and the car's continued trajectory struck a potent cocktail of fear and anger in my body that humans reserve for very a specific moment.

Fight or Flight.

I decide, rather quickly, that it is time for both. Gathering myself, I unload what has to be the fastest sprint ever recorded by man, and settle in to an eye-crossing chase of this Toyota fucking Camry. I knew we were nearing a busy intersection (where the fabled Wells Ave Criterium is held) and started praying for a red light.

And I got it.

"No I didn't," she blurted out. "how could I have hit you?"

Stunned, I didn't know how to respond.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?! YOU JUST HIT ME WITH YOUR FUCKING CAR"

The light turns green, and she aims to make a(nother) departure from the scene. I am having none of it. I have already removed my phone, and am infront of her car. I am dialing all of the police.

As she reverses and peels out past me, I calmly read her licence plate to the dispatcher, and tell him in which direction she was fleeing. Later, I tell him that I will not be waiting (pointlessly) for a cruiser to arrive as it will not do me any good. I want to (now, badly) finish my intervals.

This is the sad state of affairs we all too often have to deal with. Some of us are not as lucky as I was today. Some of us are even less lucky than that. I'd love to espose more on this subject. God knows I could write a book on how many times I've come across people doing crosswords, or reading the paper, or drinking alcohol openly. Or, more worryingly, the increasing number of times I've been hit. Or how many people I know personally have been hurt. I am almost too tired of thinking about it. Even after this crazy scrape, I am no more likely to ride any differently... I think I do my best as it is. What can we do? People are idiots.

I just wish people would realize that we are not deer on the side of the road.... though, like the deer, if you hit us, we are more than likely going to die. We are your brother or sister. We are you mom or dad. We are your spouse. We are your everything. And you are going to kill us.

Pay. Fucking. Attention. While. You. Are. Driving.

Love Sam. And everyone else.

(Also, I took back two KOM's today on the all important Strava; keeper of all cycling. Further evidence of the level of adrenaline that was delivered.)

One of these things just doesn't belong.

Timely race reports are not my thing. In some ways I think it's better that I don't immediately recall the race in writing because it would probably read something like: "OMG AND THEN I ATTACKED AND IT WAS THE BEST THING EVAR BLAHHHHH!!!!" Though, to be honest, this is one race report that will most likely end up sounding like that regardless of how much time I give myself to calm down.

photo by Ernest!

Having just witnessed a wonderful Wells Ave, animated by a lovable cast of characters, I was a little unsure of my decision to skip it and drive nearly two hours north to the University of New Hampshire for a one hour crit. My guilt was immediately bolstered the second I stepped out of the car into the sustained 20mph (read: 130MPH) winds. I was cold too.

8 of us, Dave (who had just raced wells), J.JO (who had just raced every collegiate race ever), Steve, Hopengarten, Andrew, AJ, Mark and myself, set out on a warm up ride. Very pro. We talked tactics, and decided it would be our best bet to get Andrew or AJ in the move, and leave me to clean up the field sprint, as is usually our plan for every race.

Smash cut to the start. It was undramatic, except for the almost comical headwind down the finishing straight, and matching tailwind down the back stretch. I maintained my position at the front of the field, ready to settle in and run tempo/ interference for whatever break we could find ourselves in, when, on lap three, Peter Bell initiated the first attack of the day. Before I really understood what was happening, I jumped clear after him with Alex Cox in tow.  Peter took the first (of many) devastating pulls up the one and only "climb" and down the entire back stretch. I came around him at turn 3 and pulled through turn 4, into the hurricane tunnel of death that was the finishing stretch. I lasted as long as I could before I called Alex through. As we reached the back stretch alone for the second time, we were clear. (I know right??)

photo by Ernest!

... Except for Andrew Krulewitz, who was feverishly trying to bridge behind us. He made it, somehow, but was too gassed from the effort to recover. I was initially concerned that if had been able to make contact and stay in the break, that Metlife and CCB would chase us down... but in reality, no one takes us seriously enough to consider even two of us a legitimate threat.

And that was that. The three of us were away. Pete would drill 2-3 seconds into the field down the back stretch, and Alex and I would do our best to maintain momentum in the wind tunnel. It was hard work, but unlike the last time I was in a break with Pete at Charge Pond, I didn't feel like my legs were made of wood. I actually felt good. Great even.

When they called for the Ryan Kelly (of the internet) prime around lap 25, Pete took his pull, and mine down the finishing stretch, and I gladly let him. When he pulled off, I took the opportunity to change my position in the rotation, cutting Alex's pull short, and  I took over smashing down the backstretch with the wind at my back, and let the other two slug it out on the other side. It was my one and only tactical move of the race, other than: pedal pedal pedal turn pedal pedal cry pedal.....

We started lapping big groups of dropped riders, and had our eyes on the field with around five to go. I had never been in a real, big boy break before... nor had I ever lapped the field. I felt like a god damn super hero. I started to ease off the gas slightly during my pulls. I wanted to have a three up sprint for glory more than anything else in the whole world. Pete must have heard me licking my lips, and attacked with 2 to go, bridging to the field. I waited till I was out of the wind and did the same. In retrospect, had he attacked a little earlier, I think I would have been done for... but as we had the field in sight, I was able to get across alone.

I chased into the bell lap, and finally made contact on the back stretch. Steve Hopengarten  (also of the internet) was making his way out of the wrong end of the field when I stormed up on him and I started screaming like a crazy person "GO HOP. GO. MOVE ME UP." Without hesitation he stood and delivered. He pulled me up five or six wheels into the thick of the pack before the final corner. I dove in and emptied the tanks.

photo: velocity results.

I saw Pete about 10 wheels ahead of me, and eased off a little to respond to his sprint...

But it never came.

He started to raise his arms a bit before the line, and I... didn't. I looked back having crossed the line first to see a look of amused disbelief on Peters face. I almost felt like I had done something wrong by stealing it away from him.

Almost.


The win feels amazing. Besides feeling like I have an enormous weight lifted off my chest, the way I raced my bicycle on Sunday made me intensely happy. I can probably say that I would have been just as satisfied rolling in second that day.

Probably. 


The fact that I did it in a break, and that I did it with my friend Pete made it even more special. It wasn't the prettiest finish... but I'll take it. 


A more critical eye would mention that the three biggest teams were represented in the first attack of the day, and that it had more to do with them shutting the door on every countermove than us being the human locomotives I like to pretend we were. 


Still. Big day. 

My Chariots Of Fire.

The correct number of bikes to own is N+1, where N is the number of bikes you already own, and 1 is actually 3. I've owned many bikes in my time in cycling. If I had the option, I would have kept each and every one of them. Unfortunately, money and physical space are limitations that plague even the most persistent lunatic cyclist. Each bike, as you probably know, has a story. It's own journey that has, for whatever length of time, intertwined itself with yours. 

I have a tendency to anthropomorphize inanimate objects.

I have an especially hard time with bicycles. 

So, with that in mind, I would like to take some time to tell you the tale of some my bikes. Each one has a storied history, which I think will add much needed depth and background to anything you are going to read on this site.  So, without further adieu, I present you with part one in a potentially endless series:

The Orbea.  

The Battle-Axe

Three weeks after moving to Cambridge for school, my first race bike, a bright yellow Univega, was stolen from Porter Square. The cut U-lock, still hanging impotently on the parking meter, seemed to snicker at me: "Welcome to Boston. Good Luck." It was as if they had stolen my teddy bear. It was my ticket to exploring the my new city, unencumbered by its hilarious excuse for public transportation. And it was gone. Forever.

Two weeks of suffering the Red Line later, I had replaced it with this. A used, aluminium Orbea Starship. It was a vast improvement over my Univega to be honest, and I was smitten, but it would have the impossible job of filling a void left by my first real bicycle. It was a monumental task. In the six years I've owned it, however, it has evolved into something undeniably important.

I've raced it.  I've crashed it (Twice).  I've rebuilt it (three times). 

It has been adorned with full grouppos from all 3 of the major component manufacturers, and in its current configuration, it weighs north of 25lbs. It has served, tirelessly, as my winter war hammer. Swinging the heavy bat this entire offseason makes me feel like I am stepping on bombs when I climb aboard my little plastic race bike.

If you asked me which is my favorite bike, I'd have to think about it, but I'd probably tell you it was this one. Which makes its impending journey a bit more special.

In two weeks, it will become my little brother's first road bike. His first real bike now that I think about it. The idea that I am in a position to (finally) share a little slice of cycling with him, and with this specific bike, is incredibly special to me.

Look at the size of that cassette!!!

He's not quite as sentimental as I am. I'm sure he wont name it... or wash it for that matter. But, if it's able stir his soul even a tenth as it does mine, he'll be able to appreciate what a special little machine this is, and what a gift this gift is to me.

I've bought it, and him, and entire new drivetrain, and will garnish it with ultralight wheels and every spare bit of carbon I can bare to part with. I will get it back down to fighting weight, return it to it's former glory, and give this, Il dono della corsa, to someone who means the world to me.

I'll be desperately sad to see it go, but I'm thrilled to know where it's going.  

Charge Pond.

Charge Pond is a body of water buried deep in the bowels of Myles Standish State State Park. It is traced by a small ribbon of tarmac. Tales are told of a Field Of Dreams-type scenario where dozens of skinny men on plastic bicycles converge, seemingly by instinct, on what has to be the most out-of-the-way-middle-of-nowhere-desolate criterium in existence.

I arrived, having taken a bit of a hurried, unwanted tour of most of the park. I quickly reg'd, dressed, and hopped on the bike with my teammate, Sean Casey. There is a funny thing that happens when you swing your leg over your bike moments before a race. Sometimes your legs say: "EFFFF YEAH BABY! LET'S DO THIS!" Other times your leg's say: "Ruh Roh..." Today, was the latter. The first few pedal strokes felt like I was riding in sand, and it didn't get any better. Usually I give myself a solid 30 minutes before I make any final decisions about how I'm actually feeling, but I didn't have that luxury today. We joked about how poorly we both felt, and how the strategy would be to sit in and play it by ear...

We lined up just after Ned Connelly stomped out a win in the B race, and were off sooner than I was able to process. Worse than that, it was IMMEDIATELY animated by a few jokers, including a traitorous brute by the name of Pete Bowring (we miss you Pete).

Lap one: Early attacks flurry off the front, and string out the field.

Lap two: More of the same. At some point the field reels in a break, and as they are coming back though the bunch, someone swerves and tensions begin to run high.

General antagonist and Metlife top dog Peter Bell, decides he's seen enough, and jumps clear of the field. Considering how fantastic my aforementioned sensations are, naturally, I chase him down.

Lap. Two. Great job Sam.

I'm not exactly sure what happened, but we suddenly had ourselves a solid little gap. We kept trading pulls, and I did my best not to look over my shoulder. My legs were already seizing, and I was wondering why the field was refusing to give me sweet relief and reel us in. We were alone for about a lap before Bowring, Pete's teammate Ben, and a Keough (of the famous Keoughs...) made the jump across. It was now five of us. I settled into the pain cave a little bit, as Bell took horrendous monster pulls, during which I would curse at him under my breath, and wish for his rear tire to go flat so that I could retreat to the field.  He was doing the lionshare of the work to be sure, and I wasn't about to change it.

The laps started to tick by. Eventually, Ben had to pull the ripcord and go back to the bunch, leaving the four of us to toil in the wind. I was going cross-eyed, but I was bolstered by the fact that we were well clear, and all I had to do was outkick these fools at the end. Yes. At the time, that was still a consideration.

Landen, yet another Metlife teammate, flatted almost immediately, but remained in high enough spirits to cheer (jeer) us on, yelling gems like: "WHY IS ROSENHOLTZ STILL IN THE BREAK?!"

Thanks Lando.

Around five to go, Mark (The Shaaahk) McCormack, bridged to our happy little group, and that's about where it all started to unravel for me. I looked at the (nerd) data from the race, and our laptimes dropped by about 15-20 seconds when he joined us. I was already pretty close to thrashed, so this increase in speed was to be my death-nail.

I have immense respect for that dude, so every time I got to the front, I drilled it a little bit harder before I pulled off. I had no intention of sitting in. Unfortunately, it turned out to be my undoing.

I started to dangle with three to go... keeping them in sight for the better part of the lap.
With two to go... they were out of sight, and I was soloing, feverishly, holding off the thundering group behind me. Dreams of solo glory danced in my brain... even if it was for 6th, I was in the break! That would have been a great day for me.

Cruelly, I was caught at the last corner.

After I had collected my accidental midway prime winnings, P. Bell, Ben, Sean and I headed out for a bit of a cool down ride.

Despite their labyrinthian qualities, the roads at Myles Standish are ones that come to mind when you recall your favorite rides. Winding, rolling, sometimes beautifully paved, with nothing but trees and the occasional puppy riddled family.

Lovely.

Yes, today could have gone better. I could have sat on for a lap and limped home in the group. I probably should have done. I can't help but think... what's gonna happen when I feel good at the start of the race? What lunacy will unfold?

The fact of the matter is, it was, yet again, a tremendous day on my bicycle, with some great friends. You can't really ask for anything better than that.

I'm feeling good sports fans. Till next time.

We're getting there.

It's been almost a full year since I've written a blog entry. There are many excuses that I've come up with pertaining to the reason, though, none are particularly convincing. The plain hard truth is, I fell a little out of love with cycling last year. I had a bad start to my season with two dumb crashes and a broken wrist. My fitness and, I think, mindspace suffered as a result. I was struggling, and I wasn't having fun. You tend to avoid spending time thinking, let alone writing about something like that.

Some call it burn out.
I would be one of those people.

It wasn't an entirely unsuccessful season by any stretch. I had a bunch of top tens in big-boy-pro-races. I think in comparison to the preceding season, any amount of success I achieved would have paled in comparison. I told myself this numerous times, but I don't think I ever believed it.

Obviously, a lot has happened in my little bubble of cycling since the last time I felt like being outwardly introspective in blog form. So I'm going to bring you up to speed.

-The 2011 season ended, ceremoniously, with The Mayors Cup.
-I took 2 weeks off the bike.
-I started riding again. In November.
-I waited for the snow that never came, with the rest of you.
-My best friend moved across the country.
-I took my now annual pilgrimage to Florida to get some serious       miles in.
-I got rained on for 2 straight weeks, despite how that photo looks.
-I came home and kept riding.
-Some other trivial things happened.

There. You are now caught up.

Somewhere along the road, I started to feel stronger. I couldn't really place a time exactly, but I started to feel like I used to. Almost two years ago.

Then, Bethel. 

Something that probably deserves it's own post, but in an effort to not overwhelm, I'll try and give a cursory overview of the first race of the year.

If you were to ask me the big question of where it all started, I would probably tell you: "Bethel." The Bethel Spring Series is a hallowed set of races. It is probably the most serious you are allowed to take a training race. Teams arrive 10 deep, in new kit, glistening in embro, eager to notch their first results of the season. This is true for everyone, regardless of what they say about how it's "just to get some training in" or how "poor their fitness is in the early season." Men come to The Bethel Spring Series to win The Bethel Spring Series. And that's and end of it.

I know this, because I had donned the yellow leaders jersey once before. Yes, it was as a CAT 5, but completely irrelevant. Shut up.

I'll cut right to the quick. I was having a tough race. I felt uncomfortable, and tired, and like my legs were made of stone. Twice I almost touched wheels, reminiscent of the early days on that oval. I had already lost the race mentally, as I tend to. It's a bad habit.

This concession eventually lead to my liberation, however. With two to go I was too far back. With one to go I was farther back than I would have preferred. This meant that I spent some unnecessary time in the wind when, generally, you shouldn't... more items I kept slotting away in my self-defeat-piggybank. I ended up in third wheel for the group sprint, and was forced into a very, very early attempt (final deposit).

Then, I uncorked a sprint. A sprint I had already deemed ineffective and poorly timed, and doomed from the start.

I was too busy being nervous about my mistakes to realize I had put 4 bike lengths between me and the field. Once I crossed the line I looked back and started to breathe again.

This one win has had a profound effect on me. In my first successful attempt, my confidence came flooding back, and I can't, for the life of me, remember why I was doubting myself.  

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have wheels. Like I want to line up, elbows out, and demonstrate what I can do. I have something to prove. It's a great feeling.

So yeah. More to come I guess. 2012. The end of the world.