Giving it some stick off the front of the bunch
I made my second road race outing – yes ever – on the Australia Day public holiday, heading out to Eastern Creek Motorsport Centre for a Waratah Masters CC graded scratch race. 70 minutes of racing around a quite well-known and popular motor racing track? Yes please.
As you may know, I’m quite new to this whole road racing thing, and while I’ve come over from the MTB racing scene with fairly good legs and a competitive nature, I’m still not what you’d call a seasoned road racer.
And so it was with Monday’s race.
Rolling up to sign-on I was given the “never raced with this club before, eh?” once-over by a club handicapper, whose seasoned eye decided I should be bumped up from C Grade – where I raced with LACC a few days before – to B Grade. This was probably a perfectly correct assessment on his part. The group I often ride with in training were mostly scattered among B-Grade, I do quite a lot of kms per week and LACC are a pretty strong club – or so the handicapper implied. Still, it meant I was in uncharted territory. Again.
So, on with a B-Grade number it was and off to the starting line, after a cursory warm-up lap so I’d know what to expect. The distance: 70 minutes plus a lap, with a prime at roughly halfway. The 4km track was more hilly than I’d expected, with two rolling climbs in the back half of the circuit leading to a fast downhill hairpin, which in turn gave way to a last climb into the final corner and the downhill start/finish straight. No sharp bends – as you’d expect for a motorsport circuit – so I anticipated a very fast pace and little in the way of trouble or danger.
It was a big field compared to my previous outing. just under fifty riders lined up in B Grade, and I decided that I should probably try to hold station near the head of the pack, stay as sheltered as I could, keep out of trouble and ensure I was OK to hold the pace before doing anything aggressive – if indeed I could do anything aggressive.
However, partway through lap one and in HR zone 4, the red mist descended, and I found myself mixed in with the pointy end of the field, pushing the pace and making occasional forays out in the wind. A few breakaway attempts got chased down, a few little probing attacks were made to test each other out. At one point a rider called that our small group of four had a gap, but as usual the organisation was lacking and we were pulled back. For my part, I was hovering around my threshold, trying desperately not to overwork myself, and looking forward to the prime sprint.
When the whistle sounded, the jockeying started. Coming up into turn two, I was at second wheel, the man on front was shouting for help – and the riders behind were shouting that there was a break up the road.
What? When?
I looked around to see if I could figure out who’d broken away, and indeed, how far up the road they were. It seemed one enterprising soloist had managed to get away, possibly in the confusion as we passed D grade a few laps earlier. If this was true, the prime sprint would be pointless, but I wasn’t sure whether we actually had someone up the road or not, and indeed whether we’d be able to pull him back if we did.
So I took a turn on the front and redlined myself trying to pull the group along. The pace was hectic and riders were attacking in flurries trying to get the best position out of the last corner. And there I was, too smashed to do much about it. I gave it the best kicking I could anyway, and came through the prime in a good-but-useless top-ten kind of position, which at least meant I’d be near the front again starting the second half.
What followed was yet more of the same, with the added difference that I was definitely feeling it in my legs and occasionally falling back. In fact, after a reckless attempt to push the pace in the back-circuit climbs I found myself eaten by the peloton and almost shelled off the tail of the bunch. On the upside, we caught our breakaway rider and I managed to re-establish myself near – but not actually at – the front of the group again.
65 minutes in and I was begging for the bell. The average speed was pegged at 39km/h and my heartrate was pegged right in the middle of zone 4. But the bell didn’t come and another lap followed. A couple of my clubmates were nearby, and even going off the front for spells. The organisation wasn’t quite there but wheels were offered and big efforts made. Coming down the straight into what would be the bell lap, I had to make a foray up the left hand side to try and re-establish myself. A small group was making a break for it, shouts went out to pull them back, and the hammer went down.
Unfortunately for me, having come up the left into a left-hander meant that it was all too easy to get boxed in, and indeed I found most of the pack getting round on my right, leaving me nowhere to go but backwards. As the left-handers gave way to right-hand turns I had to stick my face into the wind to get up from the tail end to the top half again. Left again before the downhill hairpin and I was yelling for space and giving it all I could in the hopes of a respite down the hill. A couple more places gained into the bend, suffer hard up to the last corner and hope for enough space to move but also enough fast wheels to get a good draught in the approach. I was looking around, desperate to find anyone I could get a lead from but only seeing blurs.
Through the melée I could see riders snapping left and right to try and shed followers. I got out of the saddle and opened up, but there was no hope of catching the leaders. Indeed I could barely see the finish line at all and ended up going over in the bunch, maybe halfway down the field. I had no idea who’d finished where, but as I coasted in I spotted some clubmates and rolled back to sign on area in company.
I was completely smashed, but quite happy. I felt like I’d ridden pretty strongly, and a few mates gave me the nod for spending so much time up front. Even happier, clubmate and occasional Strava rival John Crnogorac had taken the B-Grade win and several other clubbies had put in strong rides. I also caught up with old friend and colleague Ian Baird who’d just ridden his third race in, I think, D Grade and put in a big effort. Everyone had big grins on, even those of us who’d been comprehensively smashed.
All that remained was the ride back home, a nice social trundle with a group of eight to keep the muscles turning over. And I was irrationally pleased to note that my legs didn’t actually crack until I was back on my own, only a couple of km from home.
As usual, big thanks to the organisers and here’s to another outing. Next race, Thursday night at the Armoury with LACC.
