Flatlandia Leland Kermesse, Leland, IL, April 17, 2010

I am weak…and a quitter.

If you have been a faithful reader since last year, you’ll be familiar with this style of race. If not, and you are wondering what the heck a “kermesse” is, here is a brief recap.

In Flemish, “kermesse” means “carnival.” When towns would hold a carnival, they would hold a bike race to help earn money for the carnival owners. The course would be about 16 km, would incorporate both town and farm roads, and would always include sections of gravel and/or pave (i.e. cobblestones). And since they often take place in the spring they are usually horrifically windy.

Last year’s course was a 10 mile circuit with one mile of gravel on each lap. The Cat 4s did four laps. This year, the sadistic organizers expanded the circuit to 15 miles, with 5 miles of gravel each lap. Again, the 4s were set to do four laps. Yep, that’s right…a 100k road race for Cat 4s.

Last year’s weather featured scattered thunderstorms, 20+ mph winds, lightning, and a downpour during the last few miles of the race. This year the skies were sunny, but the weather was cool and the winds were horrific…from the north/northwest, and in the upper-20 mph range with gusts into the 30s.

Race time for the Cat 4s was 9:15, and I was at the course by 8:00. After getting my number, I sat in the car and finished getting dressed. I could tell that trouble was brewing…the wind was buffeting my car to a degree that it felt like sitting on an airplane during mild turbulence. Super.

After a decent warm-up on the trainer and a quick stop to shed a few ounces, I rolled to the line with a field of close to 100 other Cat 4s. The roll-out from the school in Leland was neutral for about a mile until we reached the Start/Finish line. Then all hell broke loose.

I did not have good position, starting about 3/4 of the way back in the field. Once the front of the field hit the start line, they flew off like a raped ape. From the get-go, I knew that I was in trouble. My legs felt like two leaden hams, and I could generate zero power. Struggling to not get knocked around too much in the gusting winds, I suffered through the whiplash accelerations and slowdowns that the back of the field always has to contend with. I hung on, hoping that the legs would come around and settle down. We turned out of the wind for a brief stretch, and the field strung out as the front started to accelerate away from us.

The rubber band snapped about two or three miles in, and I found myself spit out of the back of the field. Stragglers would come and go, but no one seemed interested in working together to make contact with the field again. I watched helplessly as the peloton moved farther and farther away from me.

Then came the gravel. Whereas the one gravel section last year was relatively packed down, it was not so with these new sections. Rough, loose gravel sucked at my wheels and threatened to take me down at any moment. A rider from Bicycle Heaven came by and motioned me on to his rear wheel. I grabbed on as best as I could. He yelled back “hey, you’re Pinchy!” I managed to get out a meek “yep.” We were joined by several other riders, including an MS Racing rider and a racer in an Illini jersey. We worked together for a while, but sometimes one of us would fall off, and we would be joined by another straggler for a while.

The gravel seemed to last forever. After a brief respite, we were met with another gravel section, this one no better than the last. I eventually lost contact with Bicycle Heaven, and found myself alone. Crawling along in the small chainring, I was seriously questioning why I bothered to even pull on the jersey this morning. A trio of xXx riders zipped by me, but I was unable to grab their wheel.

After a merciful stretch of pavement, I was met by the third and final gravel section of the circuit. I knew that I had a decision to make…within a mile I was going to hit the final turn of the lap. If I went right, I would embark on another 15 miles of solo suffering. If I went left, I would head into town and call it a day.

I honestly didn’t know which way the decision would go until the last moment, when I made the slashing motion across my throat and croaked “I’m done” to the corner marshal. Head down, I turned left. Although I felt much shame, I was not the only one. Upon returning to the parking lot of the school, I saw a lot of other riders milling about wearing 4-series numbers. The official results showed a total of 27 “DNF” riders.

In hindsight, I should have suffered through one more lap, if for nothing more than the training value. But I just could not bring myself to do it. Having had a very bad week already, I had mentally checked out of the race before it had even begun. I plan to “get back on the horse” at the Whitnall Park crit next weekend. There is still a long season ahead of me.