As a newbie to the world of road cycling, I was slightly nervous before the race (okay, a lot nervous for the entire week leading up to the race). Feelings of nausea aside, when the horn went off and I was surrounded by a sea of people, my fear turned to excitement as I realized there was nowhere else to go but forward.
The first hill was, well, interesting (it is perhaps worth noting here that I actually typed 'hell' in my attempt to write 'hill'). After weeks of training on Horseshoe Valley Road, my neighbourhood hill, I wasn't feeling too bad about my climbing ability. Aaaand if the backside of Horseshoe Valley was 3 times as long, I would have been prepared. The bright side? The hill climb starts about 5 km into the race when the legs are still fresh.
The next third or so of the ride went well -- legs felt good, hills weren't too bad, and I didn't get passed by any seventy-year-olds (so that last one is a lie, but buddy was bookin' it). At one point, a bunch of our team members caught up to each other and we formed a nice little paceline. My regular weekly rides consisted of riding with only one other person, so I was not used to the dynamics of riding in a large group. However, the experienced riders were extremely helpful, supportive, and (hopefully) didn't mind my cheating, drafting ways.
When the King of the Mountain hill came up, I was on my own. Slow and steady may not have won this particular race, but it made me reach the top without having too much hatred for hills. It wasn't until kilometer 62 that I was wishing for a motorized bicycle (or at least a couple more gears). After about a 15 km gradual uphill, and a few words of encouragement from some teammates, we had finally reached the top and were ready for the descent. I have never pedaled so fast in my life as I did down that final hill towards our cheer team, waiting to welcome us into leg cramp freedom.
It may not have been the best ride, or the prettiest, or the most comfortable, but it was one to remember. It will always be 'that time I raced Simon Whitfield'... and lost... by almost 2 hours...
The first hill was, well, interesting (it is perhaps worth noting here that I actually typed 'hell' in my attempt to write 'hill'). After weeks of training on Horseshoe Valley Road, my neighbourhood hill, I wasn't feeling too bad about my climbing ability. Aaaand if the backside of Horseshoe Valley was 3 times as long, I would have been prepared. The bright side? The hill climb starts about 5 km into the race when the legs are still fresh.
The next third or so of the ride went well -- legs felt good, hills weren't too bad, and I didn't get passed by any seventy-year-olds (so that last one is a lie, but buddy was bookin' it). At one point, a bunch of our team members caught up to each other and we formed a nice little paceline. My regular weekly rides consisted of riding with only one other person, so I was not used to the dynamics of riding in a large group. However, the experienced riders were extremely helpful, supportive, and (hopefully) didn't mind my cheating, drafting ways.
When the King of the Mountain hill came up, I was on my own. Slow and steady may not have won this particular race, but it made me reach the top without having too much hatred for hills. It wasn't until kilometer 62 that I was wishing for a motorized bicycle (or at least a couple more gears). After about a 15 km gradual uphill, and a few words of encouragement from some teammates, we had finally reached the top and were ready for the descent. I have never pedaled so fast in my life as I did down that final hill towards our cheer team, waiting to welcome us into leg cramp freedom.
It may not have been the best ride, or the prettiest, or the most comfortable, but it was one to remember. It will always be 'that time I raced Simon Whitfield'... and lost... by almost 2 hours...