Yes indeed, no graphs - and no exaggeration. The sordid details are below...
Today was easily the hottest race of the year, as we rolled out under a cloud of humidity infused 100 degree warmth. Our race was to be three laps of a hilly 16.8 mile loop.
Attack. Attack. Attack. Attack. Attack. Followed by another attack if need be. I'm close enough to my goals for the season, with a lot of racing ahead - so I treated this as a C race. I did two hours of sprints yesterday, and went out today ready to declare Jihad on the course. If anyone wanted to come with me, more the merrier.
I sat in for most of the first lap, before launching an attack up the steepest part of the course at around 15 miles. By the time I'd crested the hill, I had a ~30 second/500 meter gap on the field, and put my head down and went into TT mode. They weren't catching up. Nobody was trying to bridge. F**k.
I kept going. A few miles later I was reeled back in. Ah well. I recovered for a few miles. I went again, and stayed away for a few minutes. The field caught up. I went again, and again, and again. Each time I gained separation, and managed to stay up the road for at least a few minutes. Each time I was shut down by the CAT-4 bridge attempt (aka - get on the front, speed up slowly and tow the peloton up).
I was burning matches like it was going out of style, and - oh - did I mention it was nearly 100* outside, and I was trying to focus my attacks on uphills? Whee! I thought for a minute I was going to get away with my wanton display of hijinkery - until at the crest of the second to last climb with 4 miles to go the heat and effort caught up with me.
I locked up. I couldn't move my legs. The cramp shot through my right quad, and with a scream I stopped pedaling. It was everything I could do not to fall over. I managed to tweak my leg just enough to unclip, but was stuck, slumped over my bike in the middle of the road. The wheel truck driver had to pick me up, and move me over to the lawn of the house by the side of the road.
Which is where the molestation comes in.
The race takes place in rural Harnett County, NC. Which, for the uninitiated, really is rural. Think Banjos. As I'm lying on the grass, twitching, an old woman comes out of the house along the course. She proceeds to begin rubbing my inner thigh, as I'd said my leg was cramping. I think perhaps the display of sweaty men in tight clothes was too much for her 80 year old libido. As my world was restricted to thoughts of pain and heat, I wasn't able to offer too much resistance to her wandering hands. Fortunately the wheel truck driver was able to offer some distraction, and save me from further fondling at the hands of Grandma.
Yes indeed kids, don't bonk in the boondocks. You might end up with more than you bargained for...
After being rescued from Grandma Wandering Paws, I rode out the last 4 miles in the wheel truck, threw my stuff in the car, and drowned my suffering in some great local microbrew.
So I DNF'ed. I often joke about "off the front, or out the back" -I rolled the dice, and had a way better time than I would have sitting in for the sprint. Last week I was off the front, this week I was off the back.
Perhaps it's time for another