The Race Inside The Race: Stage 2
You’d be forgiven for thinking “California Hilly Route” was something gentle. It was a soul-destroying 320m ascent into the depths of hell.
I went into last night’s race with a much healthier mix of fear and despair. The legs were still aching from Stage 1, not enough to seriously consider abandoning the campaign, but enough to warn me that this stage was going to be just as hard, if not harder.
You’d be forgiven for reading the name “California Hilly Route” and picturing something gentle. A meander. A pleasant undulation through wine country. That is not what this was. In reality, it was a soul-destroying 320m ascent into the depths of hell, the gradient flashing red in my head, if not literally on my screen, as it routinely touched 10%. One could be forgiven for seeing that number and turning around immediately, leaving this whole madness behind. I did not. I continued on. This will be a running theme.
The climb
Thirty-three minutes later, I made it to the top of the Country Climb, but not before donating several places to riders who were, let’s be honest, simply more capable and more courageous than me. Tomi Lepisto and I traded blows for the 84th spot for several kilometres before the road tipped up; I did briefly pass Simon Llewellyn at the 36.8km mark, which felt like a real achievement right up until he took the spot back a few hundred metres later. Then Michael Banke Andersen sailed through, followed shortly by his teammate Bjorn. That’s three places gone inside the first kilometre of climbing, with over 5km still left, and every one of them hurt the overall result. Christian Tovar was next to go by, though not before an entire wave of Cat 4s came screaming past me, which did wonders for my confidence and rather less for my ego, since for a moment I was fairly convinced I’d started pedalling backwards. Robert Cronje and Pawel Twardy claimed two more scalps as we hit the 40km mark.
I managed to cap the bleeding at seven lost places, mostly by keeping a nervous eye on Oscar H, Gareth Skwarczek and Tim Sharp, all three of whom were breathing down my neck as the final ramp to the summit kicked up to 12%. And yes, I haven’t forgotten Simon. He will become relevant later. This so-called “Country Climb” felt like false advertising on a criminal scale.
The descent, and the return of Simon
I finally crested the top and allowed myself the small mercy of free-wheeling down, scraping together whatever strength, energy and dignity I could find lying around. I think I lost an eyeball on the way up, because I was having a hard time seeing straight. Eight kilometres to go, surely the worst was over?.
Or was it?
Simon, by the summit, had opened up a lead of 3.5 minutes on me. So imagine my surprise on discovering that lead had quietly decayed to just under a minute, not that I’d noticed at the time. I was simply grateful to not be turning the pedals quite so hard anymore, while also knowing the gap was suddenly small enough to make the finish matter.
The descent was over far too quickly, and within minutes I was at the bottom, and so, infuriatingly, was Simon. That 55-second gap was now down to 10, which meant the next move could decide whether I recovered a place or lost the chance altogether. Two kilometres left. Could I claw back one place? I decided to find out.
As the road flattened, I put the power down, painfully dragging my watts past the 200 mark. I caught him with 1.6km to go, and rather than sitting up, I kept the power on and rode straight past, hoping he wouldn’t try to latch onto my wheel.
Of course, that is exactly what he bloody well did. Sat right in my draft, as if he’d known all along I was already at my limit.
The tunnel, the standoff, and the finish
By the time we hit the rainbow tunnel, Simon was glued to my back wheel, and a change of plan was very much required. I was not going to sit on the front and hand him a free lead-out to the line. With 1km to go, I eased off and let him drift past to the front. Game on, a proper game of cat and mouse, with the place now hanging on this next move.
By 600m, he was still leading, and I was quietly working out when to launch my sprint. Sprint. A generous word for what was about to be little more than a sustained, slightly desperate effort.
At 300m the road kicked left, and the finish line came into view. Go now, or hold a beat longer? The sprinter in me (or what was left of him) said go, so as the road straightened I got out of the saddle and put everything I had into the pedals.
I would love to tell you I demolished Simon with a blinding turn of speed. I would love to tell you that after 53km of racing he simply had no answer as I stormed across the line. I would love to tell you anything of these things.
Heartbreakingly, none of it was true. I did kick first, and I will proudly report I drove an anaemic 500-odd watts into the pedals for my trouble. That was, unfortunately, the full extent of my heroics, because Simon then unleashed a 12 w/kg beast of a sprint and gave me an unambiguous lesson in how it’s actually done. Fair play, Simon. Genuinely well played.
The numbers
So that was Stage 2. I came into the climb sitting 84th and finished the stage 90th, which made the losses feel very real. Climbing, I think we can safely say, is not my strong suit. Though racing on MyWhoosh has made it increasingly clear that I don’t really have a strong suit at all (thanks for that clarity, Simon) beyond a fairly unwavering determination to simply finish this series, whatever it costs me.
Will I be lining up for Stage 3 tonight? Yes. Do I now have a new mortal enemy? Also yes 😉. We’ve got two climbs to deal with this time, and combined they still have less elevation than that one country climb managed on its own, which doesn't make me feel any better about it.
Wish me luck. Or better legs. I’ll take anything I can get.