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.