Of course a race like the annual Mt. Hamilton Classic sticks out on the calendar. For one thing, it's only race in the district offering 20 miles of mostly unadulterated climbing right from the gun. And while it may not promise the steepest of climbs, the sustained six percent average to the 4200 ft summit sets this one apart.
Its also one of the few point to point races. At 62 miles in length, it's definitely not the longest race on the calendar, but the fact that the racer never has to see the same cow twice (unless he or she has made the masochistic decision to ride straight back to the start upon finishing) is something to behold.
The ref set the category 2 field loose at exactly 8:10 AM to climb up towards increasingly clearing skies. The high temp for the day was anticipated to reach the mid sixties. Nothing left to do but breathe deep, hold on loosely, and hope for good legs when the time to call on them would arise. Metromint was well represented by Elliot, Ethan, Travis, and your narrator. This would unfortunately mark only the second time this season racing with more than two other teammates. Needless to say, we were in good spirits, with a healthy dose of anxiety: what will happen after we hit that second valley?
Here's what happened, to the best of my recollection: I was cautiously riding about 7 wheels from the front when a theretofore unknown Stanford rider made his way clumsily up the field past me on the right. Steven O'Mara of Team Mikes Bikes was apparently marking this move and moved up along the left. The pace quickened and we stretched out. Two went off, three, four, five, I knew I couldn't keep the current pace and thankfully neither could a couple of riders in front of me. A group of about six of us were now detached from the leaders and out of sight of the main field. We carried on at a slightly more reasonable pace.
As we passed the KOM the ref called out a gap of one minute forty seconds-manageable, and thankfully so. Last year, I was way off the pace at the top and was forced to rail the descent down the backside in order to cut the deficit. This time it was smooth and, after picking my way past a few poor descenders, fast enough. A young rider from Whole Athlete was picking exceptionally good lines all the way down to Isabel Creek, and I was more than happy to follow his lead. By the bottom, we had caught two riders. That left only three up ahead.
This year's race was significantly windier than last. With the wind blowing largely out the northeast, it was slow going through the next thirty rolling miles. This provided for making thorough observations of my breakaway companions. There were about three youngsters who kept making valiant surges and getting upset at the rest who would give chase but refrain from pulling through. We caught two more riders before mile 31. This was when rumors of the lone rider off the front made their way through the break. He's won like, every collegiate race he's entered. He's an ex-mountain biker from Hawaii, He's like eight feet tall and was born in a volcano.
The Moto ref confirmed our fears, he had built a gap of 2:30, then 3:40, then a ridiculous 5:20. At that point, as much as I hated to do it, I, and everyone else was racing for second. Still, I liked my odds. Last year I was able to get the drop on a group of eight or so on the final descent to snatch a precious 16th place. I hoped to do so this year, but the headwind and the prospect of a podium would certainly make it more difficult. I quickly formulated a plan. When we hit Mines Rd, and the terrain flattened out a bit, I implemented Phase One: I jumped off the front and opened a quick gap of about 50 meters. I held this for a time, and waited. Sure enough the energetic youngster from Whole Athlete came screaming up shouting, "Let's go!" with all the bravado of a rookie cop on his first big bust. I rode up to him and calmed him down, let him know that I liked his style and wanted him to go with me on the final descent. Sure it wasn't an elaborate plan--only two phases; Tell the kid about it with a rough estimate of when the descent would come, and do it. I liked it and so did he. We then fell surreptitiously back into the field and rolled along the beautiful, winding, mostly downhill Mines Rd.
An Echelon rider got to the front and set a solid tempo for the last ten miles. When I was certain we had arrived at the final descent, I drilled it, dropped into a tuck and came around the first sweeping left, then the right, spun out the fifty-three eleven, then left again. I had a second to look back, and I didn't like what I saw. The rider from Whole Athlete was there alright- glued to my wheel, along with about five or six of our breakmates--Time to improvise. I remembered the finishing straight being longer- more like 3k. When I saw the 1K marker I knew this was going to be a knife fight. I fell back one wheel, sat on it and urged the rider to go harder. I think my little attack on the descent did manage to break off a few of the more timid descenders, which left about seven of us in the final sprint.
With about seven hundred meters to go the move came up the right lead by Team Echelon. I ditched the wheel I was sitting on and went with it-- All in. That's when I felt the contact on my rear wheel. Then the friction. I hated the friction. So I pedaled harder. More friction, followed by a popping sound, then a crack, and finally a scream. I had freed my wheel. I waited an eternity for the sickening sound of bike and body hitting the asphalt but thankfully, it never came. What did fill the void however, was a motorscooter like noise from my rear wheel. No, I was not an exposed mechanical doper, it was my derailleur, bent in about thirty degrees and caressing my spokes. I could pedal but the friction was bad- not as bad as the sound, but bad. I sprinted on, passing one rider, then decided to gamble and shifted down. the derailleur moved! God smiles on Italian components. The friction eased, as did the sound, could I get away with one more shift? Better not risk it. I kept mashing the gear, passing one more rider before the line. But I couldn't catch the first out of our field. Oh well. Third place was still a big improvement from last year.
p.s.
The Rider from Whole Athlete, Nick Newcomb, was a class act and bore me no malice. I owe him one for sure.
