VERY FUNNY Race Report: Mark Dames-45+ Cat 5

Race Report: Copper Town 7-31-2010
Mens : 45+ Cat 5
Filed by: Mark D.


The morning of July 31st started for me in the deepest woods of Arnold, California, where I had been in training retreat for the past week. I was swimming, biking and running at 4500 feet, amidst the fresh air, pine trees and splendor of the mountains. The preparation had included several bike rides with several thousand feet of climbing and several runs up and down the hills of Blue Lake Springs. I figured my altitude embellished red blood cell count was now rivaling any EPO enhanced TDF contestant. I had allowed myself a generous two day taper, going into Saturday morning. I was ready for this pivotal moment in my racing career. 5:00 am my alarm went off and I suited up in the CT gear, had breakfast, loaded a cup of coffee, and set off down the hill to Copperopolis.

If Arnold is, as my wife describes “Heaven on earth”, the race site of Copperopolis could best be described as Dante’s Inferno. 3000’ lower, in the rolling foot hills of the Central Valley, its featureless landscape is vacant of any shade, and the subject of regular 100+ degree heat during the Summer. The actual town, a backwater stop off Highway 4, looks to be a hodgepodge of tattered structures whose purpose seemed to have passed somewhere in the early part of the prior century. I had driven by this town many times before, but never dared to stop. It seemed the type of place where vultures might circle in anticipation of any living thing which might attempt to cross the desolate landscape. As I approach, I am mindful that the CHP has a station here, and regularly crawl the adjacent highway in search of inattentive speeders. I slow for Copperopolis, but continue on the highway for about a mile to what my youngest daughter refers to as “Mickey’s Toon Town”, a reference to the Disneyland theme area. “Copper Town”, as it was named by it’s developer, is a surreal apparition, rising off the highway, like a Hollywood Western set, about a mile from the original town of Copperopolis. A replica of a Western main street, with a city hall like structure, quaint storefronts, city square, and meandering side walks, it appears brand new and sporting freshly painted exteriors. Built by the Dole Corporation to augment their golf resort and residential development 4 miles away, Copper Town, stands almost completely vacant, as if waiting for a play or movie filming to start. Fully, four-fifths of the shops are empty. If Copper Town has one significant attribute, it’s free and bountiful parking. All around the “town” are vacant parking lots waiting for tourists who never arrive. I select a spot, park, and make my way to a cabana in the picturesque town square where race registration is set up. They ask for my license. Ha! I’m prepared for this. I’ve got one. I hand it over with casual confidence. I’m part of the “in” crowd, I’ve got a team, I belong, I’m here to take home some prize money, where do I sign for it? They give me a number and tell me it goes on my right, backside, but sideways. I have no idea what they are talking about. I ask them to explain. (They don’t have electronic timing chips, there’s a video camera at the finish line to record finishing places) My cover is blown. This is my first bike race.

The day before I had driven down with my oldest daughter to reconnoiter the route. She blocked behind in the car while I road the 5.5 mile loop on my bike. I recorded about 18.5 mph in 19 minutes to complete it. I wasn’t trying to go really fast, but I was attempting a brisk pace. Andrew had advised to expect 22-23 mph average speed. This concerns me as I perceive a fair headwind on the way out, and an extra 4 mph in pace would have cost me a lot. I estimate I have to last four laps to complete the one hour race.

Race morning I am confident and feeling good. My bike is stripped per Andrew’s advice, sans aero bars, tool kit, and extra water. He asked me if I was kidding when I asked him about any proscriptions against aero equipment. His admonition that they’re banned brought a similar “Is he kidding?” query from my wife. Cultures collide. I am a triathloner, where drafting is banned and draws four minute time penalties from the race referees, where it is man and aero machine in the race of truth against the clock. This is new territory for me. Some sort of Neanderthal purism, that frowns, nay banishes aero technology. I wonder how serious can they be. I’ve forgotten getting blown off the back of the Spectrum ride at the first ascent some months ago. I am Samson, ready to enter the Lions’ den.

John P. arrives and parks. I recognize the Leopard bike on top of his car before I recognize him. There is a stern countenance about the fellow which suggests he is deep in thought, or committed to the task at hand to the exclusion of other worldly influence. He emerges from his vehicle and takes off for race registration. Andrew, Mark and Christian arrive. Each has a similar grim determination that seems to smolder beneath an apparent unconcerned façade. We go out for a warm up ride. Andrew counsels to “be near the front on the turn arounds”, “don’t lead the pack, let someone else do the work” , “don’t chase down breaks”, “get third wheel for the best draft”, “keep the heart rate low” , “conserve for the final sprint.” He’s broken this down into a game plan formula. Probably an adaption of his old Marine Corps play book. These are serious guys.

I believe I’m going to get dropped on the first lap.

Race start comes. It all seems surprisingly informal. No loudspeaker, no national anthem, a single guy with a couple of words about “British style” riding (the opposite side of the road) and a whistle. It blows and we’re off. The initial couple of turns in town take us out to Little John Road, a new wide stretch of road with a center divider that’s been built to access the golf resort of Saddle Creek four miles away. It hasn’t begun to show the degradation of 100 degree heat and blistered asphalt. It’s smooth with gentle rolling hills. I take the 3rd wheel thing seriously and sprint after the second turn in town to get it. To my surprise it’s uncontested. We hit the main road and the pace gradually increases to 18, 19, 20 mph. Number 1 starts to lift the pace, 21, 22 mph. He holds the pace, I hold #3. This is easy in the draft, I’m not seeing how this is racing. Our pack leader looks intent on setting the pace. I’m enjoying the benefits. After several minutes number 1 breaks right to stop pace making and number two immediately drops back in response. I’m suddenly in my first bike race and in the lead! Well then. I can lead this pack. I drop down and hang my forearms off the front to get aero and start to pump. We’re going 23, 24 mph. I’m a minute into this and remember Andrew’s admonition “stay third”. I’m working too hard. I hear Phil and Paul in the back of my head talking about the “tremendous amount of work being done at the front of the pelaton”. I complete the thought, “by the dummies with big egos”. I pull off to the right and yield the lead. I get along side teammate Mark Foster. He comments about the speed (or lack thereof) and that his heart rate is only 110. I confess that I didn’t bring a heart rate monitor. He’s got some max heart rate that’s way above what I once had five years ago. He’s a contender. I try to chat him up for race strategy and sprinting experience. It’s his third race and his sprint experience is going up Old La Honda in 19 minutes. I disclose I’m a bit off that pace ( by 10 minutes ) and this is my first race. He moves up to toy with the folks at the front.

Coming back on the other side of the road is the 35+ Cat 4, pack who started 3 minutes before us. I see Andrew and John near the front of the group. Andrew is 2nd or 3rd. John lurks close by. I wonder what they’ve got planned. They fly by.

We get to the turn around. This is mission critical per Andrew. Be in the front going in or get relegated to the accordion effect and have to catch up. I get it done reasonably efficiently and don’t have to accelerate very hard to stay with the front. A couple of miles more and we’re back in town snaking our way around the town square. There are spectators sitting along the square on benches observing the race. Tourists in the vacant town built for them to come. Non-racers. The emptiness of these lives shocks me.

(OK, OK, I plagiarized that last part from Tim Krabbe)

Back to the race. I complete lap one. I haven’t been dropped. The pace is actually easy. Lap two is much the same. An easy pack ride. Is this just about guys with big thighs trying to snap the cranks off in the last 200 yards? I think about trying to go off the front, but the third wheel admonition keeps coming back to me. The situation changes on lap three. Folks are starting to move forward. Foster is being a complete insubordinate and is leading the pack for significant periods. He’s surging up hills then backing off on the downhill, testing the group. I find this difficult to keep pace with. I’d much rather surge downhill, or on the flats. A slight hill takes us past the finish line where they are ringing a cow bell to signal the final lap. We sweep through the town square at the end of lap three and I have to get out of the saddle to maintain contact with the group as we settle in for the fourth and final lap. We’re heading out on the last lap at a higher pace. I try to key on two guys from my age group who are wearing the same team jersey. One small guy leads and a huge guy trails him. I follow the big fellow. He has the look of a Thor Hushovd who may attack in the final sprint. I envision a huge vacuum behind this chap, sucking me forward. Riders are jockeying for position who hadn’t before as we approach the turn around. I’m no longer in third position and have slipped back in the pack as we go through the turn around. Somewhere there must be polka music playing. As we emerge from the turn I’m doing that accordion thing and sprinting to catch up (a violation of Captain’s position rule for turn arounds ). This gets my heart rate up which I try but fail to get back down after catching the group. The herd is accelerating for the barn. I struggle to stay with them. I’m looking for Thor, but he’s gone up the pack. Trying to approach the front now involves moving around and out of the draft, a seemingly diminishing return exercise. Next hill and the group really surges, I’m off the back now , and it’s a sprint to the finish, down a slight hill and up the final hill to the line. The elastic hasn’t snapped but it’s stretched to the limit. I have incrementally gone redline over the course of the final mile. Not hammering into it like stabbing the accelerator to the floorboard, but a slow drawn out climb into oxygen debt that has my lungs burning and legs looking for more power. I’m 50 yards back before I realize what’s happened. The dashboard light for lactate acid threshold is blinking wildly. I get aero and spin for dear life trying to catch the group. The VO2 max light goes off, the computer is warning, “shut down imminent!” I keep it floored. I haul in one straggler and pass him but he catches my draft. Where’s the race ref when you need him? I close to within twenty yards of the pack but can’t get any closer. I completely miss the show of Mark F. at the front puttin’ the hurt on the rest of the pelaton. Draft boy speeds past me. We cross the finish line and I’m too spent to think to glance back and see if anyone else is behind me. I suspect I’m the Lantern Rouge of the pack.

Mark Foster takes first. Congratulations to him for a great race.
My fifth place (out of five 45+ ‘ers) is good enough for a t-shirt.
Hey, I showed up !

All in all, a good time, on a nice course. And we finished before the temp’s hit 90.
Next time I’d pay more attention to maintaining forward turn around position especially on the final turn.
I’d also practice more hill sprints.
Congratulations to everyone competing this weekend, and especially John & Mark F for their top finishes and Andrew for placing in two races.
Heroic deeds indeed.