USBOF Legends Gran Fondo

Megan (shadesadventures) and I were having a wonderful walk in downtown Davis when I asked to go to the Cycling Hall of Fame to pick up a souvenir water bottle.  (My previous one had chattered out of its cage on a particularly rough patch in Riverside and was then unceremoniously run over by a truck).  After I bought the bottle, Megan noticed stacks of ice chests and water coolers occupying the hall and asked, “are you preparing for a ride or something?”

“You haven’t heard?”  The short, dark-haired employee handed Megan a flier.  The LEGENDS GRAN FONDO was to take place the next day.  For your registration fee you had the opportunity to ride with some of the hall’s inductees for a few hours and got a nifty t-shirt to boot.  Jacquie Phelan was going to be there.  So was Mike McCarthy, Nelson Vails, Ruthie Mathhes, and Greg LeMond.

Greg LeMond!

Greg!

LeMond!

“GREG LEMOND IS GOING TO BE THERE?!” I almost spat at the employee.  Although I’ve only been on my Cannondale for a couple years, I used to ride a steel Schwinn through the Vacaville fields and pretend I was Greg LeMond; the first American to win the Tour de France; the original Comeback King.

“Yeah!” She tried to match my enthusiasm, “We’ve got his flight confirmed, he WILL be there.”

I took the flier and walked out of the hall and headed to a pizza joint for lunch.  On the way I berated my girlfriend with the importance of LeMond to my world, the world of cycling, and the world at large.  Megan, being a scholar of human development and a frequent observer of child behavior, could sense I was about to wet my pants and said, “you should go ride tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but…” I proceeded to list a dozen things that precluded this pipe dream.  I had only brought my commuter bike, I didn’t have a kit or shoes, I wasn’t prepared for a ride, blah blah blah blah.

“You seem really excited though,” she said, “How often do you get to ride with your heroes?”

She was right.  Greg LeMond is a legend, and in less than 24 hours I could be riding alongside him.  All that stood in the way were some minute details.  Megan and I made a plan: on the walk home we would stop into some of Davis’s billion bike shops and find the cheapest clothes and some other supplies for the ride.  Once back at the apartment I would take the fenders and rack off my bike to prepare it for the ride.  I could swing the entrance fee if I got the lowest package, and Megan offered to help out and call it my “birthday present”.  I would register online to ensure I got a spot within the 1000 cyclist limit.  The plan moved ahead swimmingly, and at 5:30 the next morning I woke up so I could get ready to ride with GREG LEMOND in Davis, California.

I was one of the first people to show up.  The event staff were still setting up tables when I rolled in and collected my bib and t-shirt.  The wind was brutal, and it chilled me through my thin lycra as I stood around the start line waiting for other riders to show up.  1000 people is a lot for a tiny town park, and I expected to be elbowing the throats of fifty-year-old Freds to get a glimpse at a childhood hero.

About 300 people showed up to ride.  They lined us up well behind the start gate so that they could announce the Hall of Fame riders who would be gracing us with their pedal strokes.  Ruthie Matthes, Nelson Vails, Mick McCarthy, the Stetina Brothers, George Mount, and the eccentric Jacquie Phelan all rolled to the front of the pack.

LeMond was a no-show.  No mention was made to his whereabouts.

Aside: A Gran Fondo is a funny kind of bike ride.  It is a race, but it isn’t as well. Our bikes were outfitted with electronic trackers to capture our start and finish times, but the times don’t mean anything.  If you feel like spinning at a nice meandering pace for several hours, stopping every 15-20 miles for a snack, by all means, go ahead.  If, on the other hand, you feel like stomping on the pedals to cut through 30 mph winds while your tattered heart and throbbing legs scream for mercy; well, you can do that too.

The ride started well enough, and I stayed mid-pack while everyone rolled though the quiet streets of Davis.  People chatted with each other about jobs and kids and about new components, but inevitably their conversations bent towards the wind.  We had gone less than two miles and people were already talking about dropping out because of the gusts that sideswiped us along the roads.  The peloton had stretched out so much that smaller groups were forming to shelter the cyclists from the vicious breeze.

Forget this noise, I though, I’m gone.

As soon as we hit the country roads that I grew up on, I started increasing my cadence and dropping the lesser of our species.  I hopped from group to group, sometimes alone, sometimes with a couple of like minded and able individuals.  The wind was rough, but I wanted to race!  If I placed within the top half of my group I would consider this ride a success, LeMond or no.

Several times we caught a tailwind that felt like heaven, and I spun out of my gears (my commuter bike only has a 46-tooth big ring for all you bike geeks out there).  People on fancy carbon-fiber race machines passed my 1989 Miyata Alumicross, but I spun til my legs were cartoonishly blurry.  We would turn a corner and the wind would knock us across the road.  I hunched myself over my bars and cranked hard, and I usually caught up with those fancy machines.

The greatest feeling was riding near Putah Creek and Lake Solano.  Groups of identical racing-kitted cyclists struggled to push their Cervelos up the grades as I whizzed past, my aluminum chattering on broken asphalt.

I stopped at all the rest stations to get cookies and bananas and water.  I didn’t doddle, but I didn’t rush either.  I was having a rough day in the saddle and my anger-fueled speed bursts had me almost in the red at a couple spots.  Top half, I thought, that’s all I want.

I finished in back Davis after 63 miles, and took another bottle of water before riding back to Megan’s. It was a nice ride, and I had gotten to pace along with Ruthie Matthes and Nelson Vails, who were both incredibly nice and encouraging people.  I showered and put on real clothes, and my very loving girlfriend suggested lunch at a diner so that I could substantially replenish my calories.  We met up with my brothers Drew and Dave, and Dave’s family.  I ordered the biggest taco salad that I had ever experienced and finished about 80% of it.  It was a great lunch to top off a good ride.

The real joy of the ride would come later.  I checked the results out of curiosity that night.  About 80 people rode the 63 mile course with me, so if I placed higher than 40, I would feel accomplished.  I honestly did not think I would do even THAT well so I scanned near the 50’s for my name.  Nothing.  So I moved to the 40’s.  Nothing.

I must have done overly terrible, I thought.

I punched my bib number into the search function.  I cringed and hit ENTER, waiting for my name to pop up as dead last (or near to it).

11th place.  Out of 80 riders, I place 11th overall, and 10th among men.  I was a top ten finisher in an semi-athletic semi-competition.  I was totally floored.  I have never done this well at something that did not involve integral mathematics or tying knots.  I finished in the top ten, and next year, on my Cannondale, with my legs lean and mean, I’m going to beat that.

You can show up if you want Greg.

(Update: due to wind, some individuals that were slated for the 90 mile ride instead did the 63 mile and my standing dropped once the full results were tallied.  I placed 15th among men and 19th overall)

2 weeks ago  /  3 notes