Re-rereading Cycling in the Post Arsmtrong Era

Over the winter holidays, I've been enjoying the break from teaching while taking time to squeeze in as much cycling and multi-sport work I can.  With two century rides, one marathon, and some other outdoor stuff, I think the recreation of the break has been a success.  Given that I've enjoyed these holidays with a beautiful wife and new son, with whom to celebrate our first Christmas and New Year's as a family, I'd call the sports front a success.  But additionally, I've found some more cycling things to read about.  These include a two-volume history of the Giro d'Italia and a one-volume history of the Tour de France, both available on Amazon and both with companion audio books.  I anticipated getting the long view of the sport, and learning some of cycling's arcana.  But as I've moved deeper into the history of the Tour, I found myself - am still finding myself - developing a new perspective of the sport's rich, complicated history, one that has me re-thinking the recent attempts to paint certain eras of cycling's past with a monochrome tar brush.

I should start out by saying that during the heyday of Armstrong's domination, I was generally ignorant of the sport's minutiae, let alone the international dynamics of professional cycling.  I knew and understood the idea behind the Tour, even that it had a lengthy history.  But, like most teens who weren't avid cyclists at the turn of the century, I envisioned the Tour through the rose-hued lens of Lance's miraculous comeback.  Now, I'd missed all of Lance's victories; I think I heard about them in the week's following each one, as Armstrong's celebrity profile grew and grew.  But from 1999 to 2005, I simply had other things on my mind.

The "revelations" of 2012 - the USADA Reasoned Decision and the following Oprah interview - have changed the way cycling looks from the outside and have left me in something of a weird position as a spectator.  I came to competitive cycling in 2012, when all this stuff broke.  While much was known by the cycling enthusiasts, much was still being revealed to them and the general public regarding cycling's fraught history.  The sport's recent attempts to rehabilitate its public image, shouldered by such teams as Garmin-Cannondale and Team Sky, hadn't gained the traction they now have, such that when I first began training, I hadn't even heard of the clean movement in cycling.  Team Garmin's Blood, Sweat, and Gears was only three years old and doesn't appear to have much wide circulation outside of its cult YouTube following.  In fact, I began reading Tyler Hamilton's The Secret Race as a way of filling up the corners of desire that couldn't be satisfied by biking on the indoor trainer and watching old Belgian classics on the internet.  (Trust me when I say you have to have a special kind of perversion to enjoy pedaling indoors for hours at a time, staring hungrily at images of a bike race broadcast in a language you don't understand, in an apartment the size of a postage stamp.)  Both of these works chart the sordid history of the sport, and more or less blast its credibility to smithereens.  So I can say - for whatever it's worth - that I didn't come to cycling under the spell of a defective hero.

If anything, the Armstrong imbroglio created an intellectual ferment about the sport that I found an oddly compelling tonic to my early cycling woes.  No matter how much I fantasized about it (seriously, there were times when I thought about how cool it would be to quit grad school and try to ride professionally.  Did I also mention I'm slightly delusional?), I would never be an especially competitive cyclist.  Elitism was out of the question.  But the humble integrity of those endless hours indoors, the sense of improvement as I noted my previous overweight melt away, the fullness that physical effort supplied in the void of PhD work that was growing less meaningful by the day: these offered a foil to my nascent bicycle dreams.  My academic training gave me the chops to devour the literature of the sport, and the emerging genre of the confessional memoir became a fondness of mine.  First Hamilton's (then Armstrong's first, now recognized as heavily fictionalized), then Millar's, next Kimmage's, then Hincapie's, Cavendish's, Wiggins's, and Froome's biographies allowed me to cram several professional lifetimes into my adventure-starved brain.  In some sense, I became a student of this period while my athletic prowess developed into something resembling reasonable capability.  But at no point since I came to cycling have I had the impression that these athletes were demigods.  Sure, they're incredibly well-trained, probably well medicated.  (The memoirs all refer to professionalization tacitly to acknowledge the final assimilation into the ranks of medicinally-enhanced athleticism.)  I'm even a fan of a few: Cancellara, Voigt, Porte, to name the short list.

Yet I accept the possibility as a probability that these athletes exist on a plane where the concept of an "authentic" performance means something very different.  The fact that there's a list of banned substances that circulates every year suggests the attempt to regulate performance enhancement in professional sport.  But its very existence strikes me as a supreme irony - an irony it its tacit encouragement of substances not on the list.  Take for instance the distinctions between Clenbuterol and Albuterol.  Clenbuterol, a bronchodilator, is on this list while Albuterol, a bronchodilator, is not.  Without digging into the pharmacological niceties of these drugs, I understand that the first can function as a stimulant by affecting the central nervous system, in addition to enhancing aerobic capacity and accelerating metabolism.  By contast, Albuterol enhances only aerobic capacity.  But I fail to see the distinction in principle that necessitates one of these drugs' exclusion and the other's acceptance.  (Remember also that Alberto Contador got popped in 2010 for Clenbuterol use, but Chris Froome has a medical exemption for use of an inhaler - read: albuterol.  In essence, I see this particular case as a symptom of larger reincarnation of the 50% hematocrit rule, which was a UCI policy in the 90s and early 2000s that restricted athletes' blood hematocrit (a proportion of red blood cells to blood plasma) could not exceed 50%.  This functioned as an open-door policy for doping up to a certain point.

An "authentic" performance for a professional, then, includes the use of any performance enhancers not expressly forbidden by the rules of the sport.  But for those of us who pay for our bikes, an "authentic" performance is one that we celebrate for precisely the opposite reason: it's supported and "enhanced" by very little.  Perhaps the wallet, if you can afford a nice rig, decent coaching, training, and dietary planning.  But these are all things that fall well within the pale of being accomplished "on one's own," or - dare I say - naturally?  That is, none of the elements listed above amount to an unnatural modification of one's athletic capacity.  Sure, there will be vast disparities in training and fitness amongst recreational cyclists; and the hardware can range widely as well between even Cat 5 cyclists of comparable fitness.  But none of them introduce exogenous (that is, non-native metabolic or physiological enhancements) alterations to the human body.  Amateurs, it seems, value - hell, you could even say romanticize and be very near the mark - those athletic achievements that are mediated as little as possible.

I suppose I've taken this long digression as a way of contextualizing my views of the professional peloton.  There's a lot of rhetoric these days about how the Armstrong era has passed, and how the sport needs to emerge from his shadow.  But this strikes me as bogus scapegoating that is both insensitive to the manner in which language shapes perceptions and sloppy thinking.  The history of performance enhancement in cycling in particular is long and colorful.  Cyclists were claiming to run on dynamite as long ago as the 1924 Tour de France!  And this is common knowledge among the students of the sport.  The recent push towards clean cycling - very admirable and worthy - doesn't address the fundamental link between cycling and doping that has existed for longer than Armstrong has even been alive.  To vilify him and others of his "era" is a supremely unfair, even unsporting maneuver by the armchair quarterbacks and ethically myopic.  Sure, he had the most sophisticated doping program the world has ever seen, and he may even have been a very big asshole to a lot of people who didn't deserve it.  But the discussion that swirls around doping in the sport both creates Armstrong as a figurehead of cycling's greatest canker sore while it attempts to distance itself from the thing he has come to represent: cheating.  (And for the record, my favorite cyclists from this "era" are Frankie Andreu and Christian Van de Velde, for various reasons, but mostly because of their underdog status.  Both are confirmed, confessed dopers; the first of whom received some of Armstrong's special ire.)

I just want to take a moment to clarify a position: I am certainly not a fan of cheating.  I believe it's wrong, and I find highly compelling the argument that cheating of any kind effectively robs other clean and fair competitors of their chance to pursue victory.  But I find exactly in the opposite direction and degree the argument that pillorying Armstrong is a necessary step towards remaking the sport in a cleaner image.  Most of the conversations that develop around this issue are dramatically one-sided, lacking the proper sophistication that would lead to clear insights on how best to improve the sport's credibility and give its recent halting steps towards integrity some...well - integrity.  Stripping Armstrong of those victories won't redeem the sport or cleanse its tainted DNA.  And I believe if the sport is going to take such a drastic step as stripping titles retroactively, it should follow through and strip results from known past offenders and admitted dopers.  (I'm pretty sure Anquetil is a candidate for such retroactive consideration.)  The unpalatable nature of such consistency will readily highlight the hypocrisy of the current state of cycling's mission to redeem itself.

Prior to the USADA Reasoned Decision in 2012, the open secret of rife doping within the peloton was something that gave fans - cynics and optimists alike - a measure of credibility.  Or, I should say, knowledge of the open secret conferred on its possessors a degree of authority in that discursive space.  You might have been a strong masher who could throw down some impressive watts, but if you couldn't hold forth on the rampant disease of doping in within the sport you lacked the credentials of cycling's true dilettantani.  For the cynic, any admiration for the bunch expressed had to be tempered with qualifications like, "doped to the gills," "il est sur le jus," or the less poetic and bleakly pathetic, "but they're all cheating."  Some impulse to disavow Lance - as if to ensure that we amateurs don't fall under his shadow - now always emerges.  Without this important dope (I mean dose) of realism, in the United States anyway, you were just some partisan nationalist touting America's virtues vis-á-vis Lance's dominance of the Tour.  Plenty of people in the US took an interest in cycling, but not because of the sport's challenges, its cultural and strategic nuances, or even the basic thrill of cycling; the 21st century saw a huge upswing in cycling enthusiasm in America because it had lately come under the sway of the United States.  ('Murica!)  As evidence of this, Les Woodland cites a 52% drop in American viewership following Armstrong's first retirement following his 2005 win.*

If you were an optimist, you might tacitly concede the late corruption of the sport but daydream of the halcyon days of cycling: the '80s.  That decade saw the first US-based cycling team enter the sport's greatest race in the form of the 7-11 team, as well as the first American winner of the Tour, Greg LeMond.  But these little tidbits of knowledge have come to sound more and more like the scholastic trivia of a fundamental non-answer to the cycling commentary's current enthymeme: the sport has lost all credibility.  In any event, this very topic provided a stake for cyclists, a means of demonstrating their own right to belong to the global family of cyclists.  It gave an added dimension to the brotherhood against which amateurs could contrast themselves.  In an ironic way, pro cycling's corruption provided an analgesic to the limitless host of failings - performance and otherwise - of the amateur peloton.  Such commentator-cyclists weren't pro-caliber racers, but neither were they the dubious heroes who garnered such qualified admiration.

For whatever reason - perhaps a recent and uncharacteristic abundance of time - recently, I thought it would be interesting to go back and try to experience a fan's perspective of those now-rescinded victories as they happened, before the conversation of doping became a such a cultural imperative.  I'd never actually followed a Tour like one of the die-hard tifosi, even after my conversion to the velominati.  Shift work for most of the last three years ensured that I watched only selections of the 2013 Tour when I could; the same held true for 2014.  2015 was the first time I had a chance to watch the Tour as it unfolded, but even this was interrupted by training for the new teaching digs.

Enter YouTube!  There's a kindred spirit out there who's shared some footage of primary samples from the tainted watershed of the Tour's checkered past: the '98 and '99 Tours.  Today, it's inconceivable for any self-styled cyclist to hear of these two infamous chapters in the chronicle of our sport without a cloud of gloom descending on the conversation.  Nobody seems to want those years to exist.  But something weird happens after you watch the footage of these two Tours.  We don't usually think of '99 and Y2K as particularly "dated" periods in world history.  But in an odd way, they are - and not just the existential naivete of the pre-9/11 era.***  There are little snippets of evidence that this was a "once upon a time": saddles that look ridiculously bulky, tilted stupidly upward at the nose; thuggishly baggy clothes adorn rake-thin cyclists en route to press conferences; jerseys that flap wildly in the wind, aero advantages be damned; and a devil-may-care disregard for helmets.  It was, as anyone can now tell when watching this footage, a different time.

It's not entirely possible to escape our present knowledge of doping within the peloton.  The commentators, Liggett and Sherwin, with their iconic and informative banter, help infuse a bit of optimism into such viewing.  But even their positive spin (which, admittedly, is aimed at a general viewership and not intended for an audience deeply familiar with the subtleties of cycling) has its limitations.  There's even a bitter piece of irony in this acknowledgement of cycling's abnormality at 1:05:40 in this video of the '99 Tour de France.

In any event, I've been watching the Tours from '98 in succession as time allows.  I'm currently up to '02, in which you can see Armstrong begin to settle into his role as the patron of the peloton.  But it was during my viewing of the '99 Tour that I found the first spark of invented nostalgia for this period I missed.  I can't remember which stage it struck, but I recall very vividly watching the pedals turn under Lance's (even by my allow Madone's standards) old Trek, as he rode himself into the first of his jerseys.  Suddenly I felt a small sense of the thrill that must have ensued when Americans realized that Armstrong was winning the race.  In some part of my mind I knew that it was incredible - as in not credible, that it was founded on illicit performance enhancements - but the part of my mind that was seeing this for the first time, that husk of the naive me that remains mostly imaginative and fanciful, exulted in the sight.  Here was an American cyclist - the first in since Lemond! - to have a shot at the maillot jaune.  The first time I saw Armstrong cruising up the mountains, the naïf in me muttered, "I've gotta have that jersey!"  A quick search on ebay showed one available in my size.

Now, you should know that most cycling jerseys go for between $40 and $100.  Even a relatively mediocre World Tour Team's jersey will cost you a decent enough amount that you'll probably weigh the cost of those threads versus the need to wear it.  I'm very fond of Trek, and I haven't managed to find a Trek branded jersey for less than $60 - even from one of those cheap Chinese manufacturers.

Yet here it was!  A replica of Lance's yellow jersey going for - what?! - $9.99!  Full stop.  A replica yellow jersey going online for less than $10.  The critical and the naive parts of me had a frank conversation that lasted all of about 30 seconds:

Naïf: There's the one!  Grab it!  GRAB IT!

Critical Me: Wait a minute - this is crazy.  This guy's practically giving this rag away...It's in good shape; gently used, rainbow stripes - ah, it's a half-zip, so perhaps not too fine a replica.  But think of the implications - how far this garment must have fallen in value.

Naïf:  Who CARES!  That means we don't have to run it by the wife - it's a STEAL!  STEAL IT!  STEAL IT!

Critical Me:  This is a piece of cycling history - no, not like legitimate cycling history, like a jersey worn by the actual riders.  It's not signed or anything.  But think of what it means for the total history of the sport.

Reader, I bought the jersey and unpacked it with the same thrill as if I were a twelve year old boy opening Christmas gifts.  I don't fall in the conservative camp when it comes to wearing replica jerseys.  (See this article for the different ideas that bear on this debate.)  For my part, I'm all game for amateurs wearing replica jerseys, even championship jerseys if for no other reason than to express admiration for their preferred champions.  When I don my Radio Shack - Trek team kit, I don't delude myself into thinking I'm a rolleur like Jens Voigt or a climber like the Schlecks, but I do feel like I've expressed my admiration for a team and declared my biases for my favorite brand.  I don't wear pro team kit when I race, though.  That is, I think, a bit gaudy and as intellectually blunt as the stencil with which cycling is attempting to villainize Armstrong.

Regarding this particular jersey, I haven't had the chance to wear it out on a ride yet, but come the spring you bet I will.  The odds are that 99% of the people who see it will be those who only know Lance as the fallen hero.  Knowing my neck of the woods, I'll probably get something thrown at me on the road.  But for a training ride, it'd be a spectacular conversation piece, one that might help us all recognized the truth about Armstrong's legacy: it's really all of ours, and we have to deal with it for weal or woe.

Besides, yellow was my favorite color since before I even knew how to ride a bike.




* Woodland, Les. Tour De France, The Inside Story: Making the World's Greatest Bicycle Race. 
                    Cherokee Village: McGann, 2014. N. pag. Print.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

The season of joy is once more upon us - and everyone knows I don't mean the holiday season.  No - the best time of the year is that collection of variant weather that comprises Spring and Summer.

Why?

For reasons like this:

Banking into the major turn on the Carl Dolan course.  I threaded the needle between the "hole" and the "divot" this time.  I wouldn't be as lucky or as well-placed to choose my own line very often today.

That's right.  It's RACING SEASON!

Today some friends and I rang in the new season with our inaugural event, the Carl Dolan Memorial Spring Classic, or, as some of the Strava chatter has been calling it, "The Crash Fest."  But more on that to come.

The first proper race of the season (and only my 4th and 5th mass start events, let it be known) began with much eager anticipation.  I'd been looking forward to testing how the off season and a pretty debilitating surgery would affect my performance.  I'm glad to say, at least with respect to my previous performance metrics, that it hasn't very detrimentally.  In fact, my fitness and handling skills continue to improve - an encouraging fact, despite an eight-week hiatus.

My sabbatical from fitness was very depressing, but in the end it didn't put me too far behind.  I think it came (fortunately) at the pinnacle of the lousy weather, when few but the hardiest souls are consistent with their training in the off months.

The surgery (a ventral hernia) delayed my winter training for approximately two months and was more frustrating than it was debilitating, as I'd anticipated this year as a breakthrough of sorts.  I'd determined to become vastly more empirical about my training - which before had been uninformed by any serious understanding of physiology, nutrition, or goal-oriented training.  I'd opened up a Training Peaks account and slated a few training plans, bought a set of deep-section carbon wheels for the Time Trial, and even invested in a pricey multisport watch - the Forerunner 910t.  (I recently sold a bike and upgraded to the 920xt.  For anyone who's on the fence about saving the extra money for the older model, I say go with the 920 - unless you absolutely MUST pinch your pennies.  The investment is well worth it if you're diligent about your training.)  Lydia and I had even started training together with a circuit routine and pretty stringent core exercises.  It felt like I was in the best form of my life.  Then - WHAM!  Six-to-eight weeks of nothing.

I came back with a vengeance, though.  And fortunately my clear bill of health coincided with the launch of Zwift's Beta version.  It was still crappy weather out, so the trainer and the computer became my best friends as I gently reengaged the endurance engine while waiting for the weather to break.  I soon returned to the pool with a coworker for our bi-weekly lunch laps, and late in March I hit the road again with my first post-surgery run: a fast 10k that was only a minute off my all time best for that distance.  To top it off, I'd supplemented my down time with some reading from Joe Friel's Total Heart Rate Training, an absolute must guide to cardiovascular fitness training if you're unable to spring for a power meter.  I also have begun flirting with the idea of founding a cycling team with the stated goal of competing and growing cycling in Calvert County.  It's an interesting project, and one that I hope pans out.  As a part of this plan, I laid out some specific goals for the 2016 season, which include upgrading to Category 4 on the road and cutting specific times off my triathlon margins at specific distances.  This way, I thought, I'd at least hit the ground running with some focused training plans cribbed for the season and some measurable goals.

The result was a quick return to decent form - not, certainly, anything like what I'd achieved before the surgery.  Too much of the edge got lost, and the toll invasive surgery takes on the body's reserves as it heals itself led to a depletion of the endurance I'd achieved.  But it was decent enough.  First "ride" back after the surgery was a 30 mile trainer session.  My first swim back in the pool was rougher, but I was similarly quick to return to form.  (Also, perhaps, a result of some focused reading during my enforced rest period - a book called Swim Smooth - not a very fun read, but it gives some good pointers and images about form and technique.  Using these methods I've already shaved a minute off my "easy" pace for the 1,000 yards.)

So that's it in a nutshell to bring us up to today.  I had some vague notion of trying to save myself for this race, but my training plan called for an interval run during the week, and I was very unfortunate not to work it into the plan before Saturday morning.  For anyone who's interested to know, Zone 5 repeats on hills is definitely not a strategy I'd recommend for resting to prepare for a bike race.  But the long term goal is Ironman, so I'm not bothered by the short-term inconvenience of poor placing on the road.  If absolutely nothing else, today was great training!  You simply can't beat the value of training during an actual competition: the nerves are high, adrenaline is pumping, and everybody wants that moment in the sun - even if the price is the sweat pouring down your face as you hurtle dangerously close to the curb.  (I'm not kidding, six or seven guys who likely don't know how to corner at speed effectively short-circuited 3/4 of the peloton several times today because they wanted to make up a spot or two before they got dropped again on the hill!)

Plenty of people had their moment in the spotlight.  And unfortunately it wasn't all that glorious.  Robbie and I raced today with some ideas for a loose strategy.  But - again, unfortunately - those plan are always subject to the intensely unstable conditions of a Category 5 road race.  Basically, we had a general plan that went to shit and we both were left to make due as best we could.

Robbie seemed to have the luck today, but he couldn't have performed so well without some solid miles under his belt.  He pulled a few tricks that had me grinning in the middle of the bunch - including a late surge up the last hill for a decent finish in the top half of the first race, as well as a long solo pull off the front during the second race, when we were both much depleted.

But let me try to narrate things a bit more chronologically.

Our first race was slated to go off at 845 and was entirely Cat 5.  They gave us a quick preview lap and then sent us away at around 850.  We took the first lap pretty smoothly, although it felt fast and nervous.  I expect that's because for many of us it was the first race of the season and we hadn't many group rides to offset the attempts to maintain fitness indoors.  Translation: Cat 5s can pedal their asses off but can't handle for anything - especially early in the season.  Things started to heat up around the midway point, around mile 9 of the 18 mile course (4 laps into a 9 lap loop).  But it wasn't anything too major - just a perceptible increase in speed on the backstretch.  I knew things weren't looking promising when we started to approach the corner in the backfield (pictured above) at speed and then slowed dramatically into the corner.

The classic accordion effect was in force:  too many twitchy riders with too little experience at speed bottlenecking into too little space on the corner led to the inevitable collapse and extension of the line.  If you were gritty enough to pull through on the back straight heading into the corner, you could take your own line at speed, gap the field, and be in a good position to set up your sprint for the line after the hill - assuming you still had the gas to go for a sprint after the hill.  Too frequently on the finishing stretch, which rises considerably in the last kilometer, the reverse of the accordion was true. As the leaders would slow, the long, snaking line of the peloton would collapse and nearly collide with its own head.  It meant a line like this

would collapse into a bunch like this.

The resultant bleeding off of speed would produce some slow going up the hill unless you dropped a few gears and spun on a faster person's wheel.  And it was definitely ill advised to be on the front as you reached the 500 meter mark.  The hill itself doesn't level off until rather after 200 meters, so if you're on the front before then you're hauling other people who'll scoot past you when it evens out.  I would like to say I was clever enough to avoid this tactical faux pas, but the truth was that I had to spin like a villain to hold a few back wheels, and springing around for better placing was out of the question in most cases.  I did it a few times, but that was only a viable plan when I didn't have to drop the hammer after the major turn, ramping it up to 175+ bpm just to get into a decent spot on the climb.  Most of the time, I made it to the climb in the group and didn't have to worry about getting spat out the back, but only if I was diligent about setting up for the corner well in advance.

And that raises an important question about bike racing as a general thing and Cat 5 racing in particular.  Generally, you'd like the strongest and most skilled guys to win.  Even at the professional level, I don't think this is the case.  The Road is the great equalizer, and she doesn't care about your fitness or your $9,000 carbon fiber machine or the new aero kit you splurged for.  So much can happen that's far beyond a rider's control: flats, unscheduled breakaways, crashes.  To a large extent it's a matter of due preparation both prior to and during the race.  You have to create the conditions for Fate to smile on you, and you have to be ready to pounce when she does.

But this poetical axiom is complicated and confused in amateur racing, and especially in any race featuring Category 5 riders.  Complicated by the unreliability of your fellow riders - after all, how often do you ride with these fellows?  How much experience do you know they have?  In most cases, not much.) Confused by your own inexperience reading the race and others' abortive tactics - most of the time there's no real strategy in effect; riders come, pedal their buttocks off, and wind up blasting into and through one another - often literally - and the dream of winning is often little more than a vague hope.

Now, I certainly don't want to devalue anybody's achievements in the sport, especially other amateurs, for whom racing is a rarity rather than a vocation.  (We look forward to it like a holiday season, remember.)  But actual winning in these conditions is as often just as much a function of other people's errors as it is your own skill.  You can be placed perfectly in the group in 4th or 5th place - and if you have an ally ahead who knows you're there, you can be especially secure in the leadout.  But then, some knucklehead - with total disregard to the laws of physics, an utter disregard for the dictates of safety, and a supreme unconcern for anything resembling etiquette of the road - will zoom up the inside at speed, cut the corner too close, and slew toward the outside.  The result is a wholesale dumping of speed by anyone who was unfortunate enough to be setting up a skillful maneuver at pace.  Visually from within the bunch, this resembles a giant, invisible hand casually brushing sand away:

Recovering after the apex of the corner.  Note how the group is sprawled all over the road from left to right.  In a well-executed corner taken at speed, riders bring themselves through the apex of the turn while banking smoothly and maintaining a stable line.  Here, there's not a line per se, just a gaggle of riders trying to recover lost speed as they splay over the road.

riders spread along the outer reaches of the forsaken trajectory like so many motes of dust.  Then we have to sprint to catch onto the lead group, which without malice has taken advantage of our un-friend's tactical naiveté.

But that's bike racing.  Such are the vicissitudes of the sport that it could happen at any level, really.  In fact, something similar happened during the Cat 3-4 race immediately preceding the Cat 4-5 race.  So it's not a foregone conclusion that riders will be safer in the higher categories simply because there're higher categories.  The circumstances of the crash were unclear, but it seemed that contact occurred between several riders going hard to overtake the leaders during the final straight up the hill - that section where the field telescopes together again after reaching speeds of 40+ mph.  Apparently, one poor soul had a protruding collarbone.  Now I don't know if this was the case, but he definitely had to be taken away by ambulance.  And what sucks is that he wouldn't be the last.

As for our own, purely Cat 5 race, we closed things out - thankfully - without incident.  Here's a clip of the closing run as I approach the hill:

You can see Robbie in the florescent yellow sleeves gunning it up the hill.  I thought I might join him, but I hesitated for that split second which can cost the race.  I'd had to pull hard to close a gap that formed as we began the last lap.  The unfortunate collapse and extension of the peloton during the heavy corner led to my exclusion from the select group who controlled the front leading into the last lap.

It went down like this:  Approaching the big corner, we accordion-ed out, and I had to push a massive gear to regain the main bunch.  I managed to do so just as it broached the hill at about the 1k mark from the line.  But whereas before the line collapsed, this time it stayed fairly open.  Lines were moving up and down the sides until about the final lap, where it appeared things calmed down.  Actually what happened was that some of the front guys lost steam, slowed at or about the line, allowing a bunch of people to move up on the outside.  By this point, I'd tied my boat to the inside line and got hemmed in behind a few people who were heaving pretty heavily.  When a sliver of space opened up moving into the backfield, I took it.  But at cost: my recovery was limited during this cat and mouse segment, and I reached the last long pull still in high Zone 4.  In the video, I can see where the decoupling from the lead group started: there was a moment where the pace appeared to subside at the line.  I relented for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to lose valuable momentum.  By the time I noted the shift in dynamics, a fellow moved in on my left and closed that avenue to me.

I paid for it in the final standings, coming home 32nd out of 58.  But for the first race of the season, I wasn't displeased at all!

Here's a copy of the race footage for the Cat 5 race.

I think the major lesson to be learned here, at least for me from the video, is that I wasn't as comfortable close on the wheels as I need to be in order to save energy.  I think for most of the race I was working with at least half a length of space between my front wheel and whomever I was attempting to draft.  This leads to increased workload and added chances of missing the crucial moment of acceleration.  But really, that's what the video's for: helping with some objective, empirical feedback for analysis.  We'll see if I can't make it into better performance the next go round.

As for the Cat 4/5 race, it would prove a dismal affair by comparison.  Things like this near miss:

And this crash on the first lap:

Made for a palpably nervous race.  It was almost a foregone conclusion, I felt, as they staged us at the start line only to wait for approximately 15 minutes while they cleared the course of a serious crash in the 4/3 race.  In addition to being poor physical preparation (after about 5 minutes, any of the benefits of a diligent warmup dissipate as the body seeks recovery heart rate), it gave us all time to speculate on the crash without any serious information.

I'm sure the race officials meant well, but when they started the race with a "We don't mean to lecture anybody, but this is how it happened" speech I think they unwittingly helped us imprint crashing as a conceptual certainty.  You could feel the nervousness on the first lap and throughout the whole race.

Somebody went down without any apparent cause on the very first lap in the big corner.  (The picture above with the red arrow, pointing to the hapless soul standing in the hottest zone of the race!)  A little later on, another guy went down on the left on the outside of the big corner.

At first I thought this guy was forced outside by the inexorable mass of the twitchy peloton taking the corner too wide, but I don't think that's conclusive from the video.  It seems just as likely that he got too anxious about rejoining the line as he geared up and simply wrenched his front wheel out from under himself.  He'd come out of the turn and wasn't banking like I first thought.

The race concluded with this catastrophe, and seriously diminished the satisfaction of the day:

If you look closely you can see one of the participants in the crash in mid-flight as he tosses his fiber all over the road.

Up close it looked more painful:

As I passed, guys were moaning and cursing their luck.  Only one of the crew here got up as I passed.  But what was especially curious was this guy, who I guess decided to express his solidarity with the fallen brethren and introduce himself to the asphalt about twenty yards up the road.

In reality, he probably heard the terrible sound of crashing - like giant soda cans chalking against the pavement - turned his head to see the disaster, and created his own one-man show.

So it was an unhappy race for most of us, who sensed - perhaps intuitively - that the ride would be dangerous from the gun.  But in hindsight, there were a few near misses - including some which I haven't shown - that helped me lose "The Edge" as Cougar called it in Top Gun.  But lost isn't accurate.  I discarded the edge, and happily so in this instance, since the goal was just to finish and keep to my plans for upgrading to Cat 4.


Crashes notwithstanding, I think the same overall critique of my first race applies to the second race: I left too much room open on the wheels and couldn't react in time when the important moves ensued.  For instance, in this shot, Robbie and this speed demon aced past me and Big Mac to salvage their placing in the final stretch.

But I hesitated when I saw Big Mac begin to drift over in an attempt to catch their wheel, and I derailed myself by bleeding off speed which I couldn't recover in order to catch the back of the pack.

Lessons learned, I suppose.

Until next time, here's the whole Cat 4/5 race for any who's interested.  Enjoy!

Two Years of Druid Hill, Part II: Expanding the Circle

   The second year of Druid Hill, I wasn't what you'd call an old hand, but I certainly wasn't green.  Or at least, I wasn't as green as I was only a year before.  By that time, I'd competed in two Olympic distance triathlons and had accomplished a fair bit of training to make those events manageable.  But even so, I still wasn't a contender for the overall in my own mind.  I didn't approach the event as a competitive thing.  (In fact, I don't think I acquired the desire to contend until after Savageman later in the season.)  The main difference - apart from a spiffy new bike, an exorbitantly overpriced set of Zipps, and familiarity with the course - was that I was attending with a posse!

  That's right - the triathlon devotee had successfully converted three of his family to one-time triathletes!  I say one-time because, to date, each of the three initiates has only competed in one event.  But the story of their results is hilarious - to me, anyway.

  Now, at the time Druid Hill took place in 2014, I'd just left my job as a CO and its attendant shift work.  In fact, I was working midnights the Thursday before, which saw me in the jail's control room the night of the 8th into the morning of the 9th.  I really lucked out in this, since that Thursday was the end of my set - the group of days constituting the "work week" for many law enforcement agencies.  It's standard to have a brief respite - usually two to four days - between sets, since each set alternates: early, late, midnights, and on and on and on for interminable eternity.  

   (Those days between sets are extremely important for people in rotating shift work: they give the body time to normalize or adjust to the next set.  For law enforcement shift work in general, and in our facility particularly, the midnights are very difficult and unhealthy.  The body naturally develops its circadian rhythm, the pattern of physiological effects recurring on a 24-hour clock: sleep, metabolic processes, regeneration - these are all intimately linked to the process of exertion and recovery that happen over consistent periods.  Interruption of the body's circadian rhythm can complicate recovery times, lead to artificially-induced hormonal imbalances, and chronic adrenal fatigue.  Such working conditions often lead to depression, metabolic disorder, obesity, and severely-compromised personal and family relationships.)  

   In this case, I was scheduled to come off my set, and off the uniformed job, that Friday morning.  I would then have Friday to recover, Saturday to prepare, Sunday to compete.  I'd timed it just right, so that after Druid Hill I'd be spending a week off with Lydia to vacation in Wildwood, NJ, after which I'd compete in the General Smallwood triathlon before returning to jail as a civilian office aide.  So after staying up most of the day Friday in an attempt to "reset," I woke Saturday and packed for the week with Lydia, whose attention was mostly directed at the upcoming week.  To be fair, she had coordinated this entire trip between three different branches of her family tree and was probably mentally fatigued before the vacation even began.  In this sense, she probably really needed some time off!  But she was a good sport about it, although I expect she signed on mostly to indulge me.  I guess I was projecting the importance of a fit, active lifestyle early in our relationship and she wanted to conform to it - if only to show that she appreciated my hobbies.

   For my part, I felt like I was indulging the novices, since in addition to Lydia, my cousins Paul and Barry would both be participating this year.  But the strain had started to show by time we convened at our staging area Saturday night.  We'd arranged to stay with my brother, Christopher, in Columbia.  Within easy driving distance of the race, we could spend the night discussing race tactics, as if any of us had done more than a handful of these things before.  After picking up our race packets, we hit the course on two wheels to reconnoiter: two quick laps where I pointed out a good line through a turn, where to begin slowing on the long, fast descent, the mount/dismount line.  Afterwards, we rushed home to Chris's place.

Now, Lydia'd had a long day, and wrapped up in our enthusiasm, none of us noticed that our eagerness was becoming loud and oppressive.  We were jovial about monopolizing Chris's kitchen, and he didn't seem to mind half-assembled bikes and spandex athletic wear littering the house as we waxed esoteric on the finer points of stride efficiency.  He was a champ about the fact that a makeshift bike shop had appeared in his newly-tiled dining room (imported Italian tiles, mind you!), and he stayed up late into the night with us as we prepped our race kit, finalized transition bags, and otherwise just tinkered about the bikes, looking for excuses to sound off about how much we knew (from the internet).  I think we debated sports nutrition (as if any of us except Chris, the sole non-competitor, had a clue) before making a last-minute supply run.  In our great foresight, none of us had planned for breakfast Sunday morning.  At this point, I began to wonder if Lydia was feeling alright: she'd grown quiet and withdrawn from the conversation by time we got back to the house.

   I swear, we must have cited half the internet in our eagerness to share our (predominantly reading) expertise: strategies to pace the swim, techniques to streamline transition, and when to drop the hammer on the run.  "It's a pool swim, so you'll gain time with the flip turn."  "Yeah, I'm leaving my shoes clipped in the pedals - speed things up out of T1."  "You'll want to be well into your kick by time you see the finishing chute, 'cause the end comes up so suddenly once you make the turn in."  

  At some point during the pre-race conclave, Lydia disappeared.  I took that as my signal to retire for the night as well, and I found her in our designated room.  We made up the bed for the night and set our alarms, and I resolved to try and include her more - which was a dumb thing to do and showed that I obviously hadn't listened when she told me that we were all being too loud.  What she was saying had nothing to do with volume, though: we'd become so enwrapped in our plans for the event that we hadn't even given her much stake in the conversation OR acknowledged the work she'd done for what was for her, the main event: her long-anticipated vacation.

   For those of you aspiring or current triathletes who may be reading this, if you haven't learned this trick already, learn it now: NEVER under ANY circumstances FORCE or even STRONGLY URGE your girlfriend (who will later become your fiancée) to participate in a first triathlon - even if it's "just a sprint" - after she's coordinated a weeklong vacation with her uptight relatives, without first offering to help with the planning and at least actually helping with some of the planning.  Just don't do it.

   After a short night of fitful sleep, we got up at five Sunday morning.  Descending on the kitchen, we cracked open the eggs and bacon and avocado we'd bought the night before, whipped up a decent spread, and bolted it down.  We were getting the jitters as we loaded up the bikes and bade Chris and his war-torn kitchen farewell.  On I-95 northbound, I noticed that Lydia was still quiet from the night before.  I attempted to reconnoitre.

   "Babe, you feeling alright?"  I asked.

   No response.

  "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"  I offered.

   "I'm just not as excited about this as you are." She said.  Or at least, I think that's what she said.     

   What I heard was this:

  "This is a big old bunch of stupid crap."  

   What I should have heard was this:

   "This is a big old bunch of stupid crap that I don't want to do with you and your loud cousins on the first day of the vacation that I worked so hard for without anybody's help."

   And to make matters worse, I'd completely forgotten the fact that Lydia had just learned really to swim that summer.

   Fellow Triathlete men, if you're ever fortunate enough to find a woman who is so devoted to you that she'll climb along for a first triathlon at the end of a hectic summer just before her vacation and she just happens to have learned to swim THAT VERY SUMMER, you'll want to demonstrate a bit more sensitivity than I did.  You'll just want to do it.

   But, zoned in as I was, I told myself that I needed to stop worrying about Lydia's nerves and focus on my own race.  "Run your own race."  All the blogs and magazines said so.  Don't get inside your own head.  Don't let other people in there either.  You'd think from my level of focus that I was going for Olympic Gold!

  We arrived to the race with time to spare for the family who'd come to cheer us on.  Where last year it had been only my mom and dad as last-minute spectators, this year we'd brought a clan.  Paul's wife, Michele, and their three kids: Kayla, Brianna, and Austin; Barry's wife, Kristen, and their four kids: Callie, Meghan, Emily, and Colton; my mom and dad; aunt Jo and Uncle Bruce (Barry and Paul's parents).  And they'd gone all out, too.  They had colorful signs and posterboard calling us out by name.

   This was a special event for all of us, but it was especially resonant for Paul and Barry.  They'd recently attended a funeral for our cousin, Rusty.  Rusty was a cousin on my father's side who'd lived in Florida with his wife and young son.  He'd died very suddenly - within a week - of being diagnosed with Leukemia.  Russell was too old and too distant for me to remember - we'd only met a few times in my life - but Barry, Paul, and Rusty were close when they were younger, and in recent years they'd found the commonalities of parenthood to renew their bond.  It was a tough time for the whole family, but for Paul and Barry it was especially difficult.

   The thing was this: Rusty'd met his wife while training for Ironman Florida, which they both completed.  So we'd all be running Druid Hill this year to honor his memory.  When we saw all the family gathered on the hillside overlooking the pool, we began to realize how much the day resonated with significance.  (The kids would later all swear they saw a brilliant shooting star course across the predawn sky as they caravanned to Baltimore from Southern Maryland.)

(From the Left: Barry, Paul, Lydia, Me as we await the swim start)

   The day began with a staggered start for our crew.  Paul went off first, having estimated his time up near the competitive end of the field.  I went second, having for a second year running underestimated my time and been placed towards the dull end of the stick.  Barry, Lydia, and I saw Paul finish the swim and start the bike before I had to dive in.

   This year was considerably better for me, having some experience with the course.  The swim went by quickly, though not so fast that I emerged winded - which one cold argue means I didn't go hard enough.  I managed not to get caught out behind clutch of poor swimmers this year.  When there was congestion, I just went under or around.  But if I didn't finish the swim winded, I was certainly huffing by the time I got to transition.  After the swim, when you exit the pool you have to cross a road that cuts through the park and climb a short but sharp hill to reach the transition area.  Anybody who doesn't reach this mark within the first fifty or so people has to contend with the sodden mass of grass and mud that remains after the post-swim drippings erode any semblance of footing.  You make it to the top, but not without a-slippin' and a-slidin'!

   Transition this year started out poorly for me because I reached my bike rack only to discover my bike had been stolen!  I checked and double checked: there was the rack card announcing that I was in the correct row.  Here was my towel lying on the ground.  Here even was my transition bag, a distinctively colored Under Armour drawstring bag, with florescent ---  

   Wait a minute!  That's yellow, not green!  Where the hell is my bike?!  

   I looked around and found that I was indeed in the correct row, but I was facing the wrong way!  The culprit who'd stolen my bike (and shoes and helmet) had actually made off with his own materials while I stood there wrongfully accusing him of theft while my belongings lay right where I'd placed them - behind me.  I looked around sheepishly to discover who'd witnessed my faux pas.  Nobody?  Good!  On to the next disaster!

  I donned slammed on my helmet, slid on my sunglasses, and scanned the area for my socks.  Where the hell were my socks?  Had somebody stolen them like they'd stolen my bike?  After an eternity (which was probably closer to six seconds), I abandoned any hope of finding them and decided to go barefoot.  I flew from the transition area towards the mount line, mounted my noble (and new) steed (with the flashy carbon wheels), pedaled pro-style for a few meters before slipping my feet into my shoes like a rock star.  

   Except my left foot wouldn't go in!  What the hell was wrong!  Did someone steal my left cycling shoe and replace it with a dwarf's?!  Wait - those are my missing socks!

  Swiftly and immediately I pulled the offending articles from the shoe and tossed them to the ground, which was now whizzing by beneath me on account of my superior fitness, the new bike, and the carbon wheels.

Me, about to discover the epic musket wadding that is my sock, forgottenly tucked away within my left shoe!

  Once I found my stride, I really punched it.  In the preceding year I'd averaged approximately 18.9 mph on the bike course.  This year I averaged 20.1 mph.  And you know what?  It was worth every cent of those two grand I dropped for the wheels and sweet new bike.  The bike passed by more quickly that I'd recalled from the previous year - perhaps because my familiarity with the course, but likelier because by this point I'd done some serious speedwork and longer distance training.  There was a brief moment when I saw Lydia on the bike as she was going out and I was coming in.  Also, the groupies were all clustered near the mount/dismount line so as to shout encouragement as we passed.  

From the Left: Aunt Jo, Brianna, Triplet 1, 2, 3

   But by time I reached the run I was looking for the rest of my crew: where were Barry and Paul?  Lydia had started last, so Barry had to be between me and her, but it was highly likely that Barry'd hit the bike course while I was on the far end of it on either of the two laps.  

   Where, then, was Paul?  Being fit and athletic for most of his life, Paul was the most likely of all our crew to perform well in the event.  He had the hunger for it fresh out of the gate, while I was concerned to preach the gospel of triathlon to my family.  But when it became apparent that I couldn't have a reunion on course without seriously damaging my chances of a sub-hour finish time, I pressed on.  Paul would be at the finish by time I was there.  Who knows?  Maybe I'd even catch him on the run?  (That was definitely not the case!  But I tried it anyway!)

  I powered home in 57:27, a fair time on a moderately challenging course (given the hilly sections of the bike).  Paul had run in a strong 59:15, a great time for a novice age grouper.  He and I both hoped to break one hour, and we both did.  But that wasn't the end of our celebrations on the day.

  With our finishers' medals in hand (or round the neck), Paul and I drifted up towards the finishing chute to see who would come home first: Barry or Lydia.  I learned that Lydia was the last of our group onto the run course, but she was making good enough time to pass Barry and drive home in a very respectable 1:09:38 - pretty good for a first-time, stressed out, "just not as interested in this as you" age grouper.  In fact, in her age group, only two women would finish faster than she on the day.  In a jubilant display of enthusiasm and accomplishment, Lydia leapt clear into the air a good twenty feet before she actually crossed the finish line, and Michele - ever trusty with a camera - caught the whole thing:

Jumping for Joy: Lydia sprints to the line

   It remained only for Barry to round the bend and cross the line.  He was trucking out a decent clip for his category - the Clydesdales.  The Clydesdale category is a complimentary title bestowed upon the hefty male triathletes.  (The female equivalent is the Athena category.)  He crossed the line in 1:22:25, good enough for third place and a spot on the podium.  As I looked to see where I placed, I was happy to learn that I'd placed 5th in my age group (25-29) and 20th overall.  Then Lydia started jumping and shouting in hysterical excitement: she'd placed third in her age group as well.  Then Paul discovered that he'd landed 27th overall and 3rd in his age group.  It was a great day of racing and a fun family event.  But Michele was kind enough to observe that I had the fastest time of the group and the least to show for it.  She did console me with credit for everyone else's performance.  And I hereby claim coaching credit for the rack of podium placers we put into that race!

Lydia takes 3rd place in the Novice Women's category

Paul has his place on the podium: 3rd place in men's age group, 30-35

Barry with his trophy for 3rd place in the Clydesdales

  In all, it was a great day to swim, bike, and run.  I'd achieved a personal best on the course, while my loved ones excelled in their first attempts.  We'd had a blast while also tipping our hats to our departed blood.  It was a good day to Tri, and it was a great day to be a Bevard (or soon-to-be Bevard)!  We had a fantastic day, and I've successfully transmitted one of my greatest passions to other people.  Perhaps next year we'll hash out a team jersey or something.

  

   

Orr ES-88 Carbon Wheel System Review

My Ridley Cheetah, sporting a dashing brace of ORRs ES-88s

In years past, carbon materials have been one of the loudest distinguishing features that separate competitors and completitors in the cycling universe, the latter existing as a class of aspiring racers who wind up as cannon fodder during criteriums and road races.  At triathlons, they're the ones who struggle through transition halfway through the wave that followed them into the water, and who, if they're lucky, get to see the pros or elite amateurs screaming back into T2 while they frantically try to clip in and raise a humble tempo.  And those elites who by now are halfway through the run?  "Carbon," the age-grouper mutters to himself.  "They've got carbon..."

In my few years at the grindstone of multisport, I've never witnessed any of the the serious performers at triathlon without deep section carbon rims.  (The truly badass - or the truly wealthy - roll on rear discs.)  In recent years, though, carbon fiber materials have become more and more readily available to the age-group athlete, as different vendors attempt to tap the market keg of middling-level age-groupers looking to pick up some affordable speed.  Companies like Williams, Flo, and Oval are all in the business to address the desire for increasingly-affordable technology amongst the hobbyist triathlete.  Through such vendors, you can now obtain a pair of reliable wheels at a fraction of the cost demanded by such industry giants as Zipp and HED.  ORR Cycling is one of the newcomers who've explicitly taken aim at the gap between exorbitantly-priced equipment and opened fire.

I first learned of ORR cycling through their advertising in the SetupEvents Maryland Triathlon Series.  But while I was intrigued by the idea of affordable carbon wheels, I also assumed that "affordable" was a marketing gimmick.  I preferred at that time to focus on improvement in other, more cost-effective areas of my training.  Sure, it would be cool to have a sweet TT rig, replete with stealth-looking matte-black implications of speed and power; but I couldn't justify dropping what I was sure would be at least 2k on a set of wheels when I could much more profitably improve performance simply through consistent training - which itself was difficult.  (At that time, I was in shift work and had very little time or motivation to train after pulling, say, an unforeseen double due to last-minute staffing shortages.  The year before, I'd sprung for a set of used Zipps for the road bike, so I was familiar with the advantages of CF wheels.)  The money for a new set of wheels versus screwing my discipline to the sticking place?  The answer was obvious.  Besides,  I think secretly I feared dropping more money into a sport than I could reasonably extract from it in terms of performance.  I stuck with my alloys on the TT bike, gritted my teeth and prayed to escape crashes during crits and circuits while I rode the Zipps, and pressed on.

But having since come out of shift work, I've been able to devote significantly greater amounts of time to my training, and I'm at the point now where my performance has begun to increase to the point where I could realize a return on investment in better equipment.  I had this in mind when I attended the Savageman 70.  There, after the race, I met Jason Williamson, one of the proprietors at ORR.  I was looking enviously at the deep profile of the 88 display which they'd sent out to the race, imagining what I might be able to do with that aero configuration on my TT bike.  I felt a bit self-conscious talking to Jason, since I was holding onto a Madone with Zipp 404s.  If he noticed, Jason didn't let on, and he had enough to say about the Zipps' to make me think he'd done his homework.

I recall him blasting the dimpled surface of the Firecrests and saying that "Tony Martin couldn't feel the difference between those dimples and a smooth finish."  He was certainly confident, and something about that was winning: the conviction he had in the quality of his product, the ability to talk specs that took me outside my range of technical knowledge, and the willingness to correspond with potential customers all gave me a positive feeling that this would be the place to start when I was ready to realize a fully-conceived TT bike.  I took Jason's card but waited a few months.

In the weeks between Savageman and Christmas (the time at which I determined to buy from ORR), I'd been watching several vendors (see the links above), eBay, craigslist, and some local shops for deals, hoping the end-of-year inventory purge would work its magic.  I'd decided on a set of deep section rims to reap the benefits of the aerodynamic efficiency on longer rides, in which the marginal gains from such equipment could total, at least in theory, several minutes.  (Despite realizing perceived gains on the set of Zipps I have, I was still a skeptic.)

I decided to take the plunge and purchase a set of wheels specifically for my triathlon and TT events, but I'd found a decent clearance price on an older model from Williams Cycling, a model '13 year, 85mm rim.  The pair weighed roughly 60 grams more than the ES-88s, but it came with an 11speed compatible hub right off the shelf.  I'd checked at ORR's website, and their ES-88s came with a 10speed hub rather than the 11 I needed.  It was a Sunday afternoon; I'd just emerged from the trails on a training run with Lydia.  I emailed Jason and told him about the quandary I was in: I was looking at the ES-88s as opposed to the FX-88s (which were 20 grams heavier, came with the 11speed hub, but were $450.00 more than the ESs), but I wanted the 11speed hub.  Could he match the price on the ES-88s and supply an 11speed hub?  If so, I'd post my order right away.

Twenty minutes later - remember this is a Sunday afternoon - I had my answer.  Twenty minutes later, Jason emailed me back saying they'd swap the 10speed out for the 11speed and keep the sale price of $849.  Twenty minutes after my initial inquiry, a great customer service exchange took place.  Twenty-five minutes after my initial inquiry, I got an email saying that I could expect my wheels in roughly a week.  Interestingly enough, I just checked ORR's website, and they don't seem to have the ES-88s up any longer.  It may be that their own sale price - which is scheduled to expire on 12/31/14 - has depleted their stock.  Who knows?

But already, before those wheels even arrived, I was thrilled to have had such quick response to my questions.  It argues for the high premium the folks at ORR place on customer service and satisfaction that they're as prompt, accommodating, and thorough as they are in their business dealings.  This is the way to grow a brand.

The thrill of becoming an owner of some serious speed machinery wasn't enough to prevent me from being very suspicious.  As I mentioned in passing above, I'd never conducted legitimate tests to determine the actual benefits (beyond the perceived advantages I felt) of having the Zipps.  I resolved to conduct as close to a controlled and empirical test as I could to compare the enhancements the 88s would provide.

The greatest problems I found while attempting such a test were the unreliability of the weather in the winter months, the lack of a HR or power monitor, and even - as an unfortunate accident - the lack of such simple cycle computer functions as a speedometer.  Mine crapped out five miles into the run.  Of course, using a speedometer wouldn't have given a great comparison anyway, as I would have relied on perceived effort to maintain a set speed across the course.  As it was, I determined to use a Rate of Perceived Effort/Exertion (RPE) scaled 1-5.  This is, of course, based on entirely subjective impressions of my own sensations, and keyed to my HR zones.

I conducted the baseline test on 12/15 on the Hunting Creek Time Trial and was pleasantly surprised with the performance here alone.  I hadn't done this segment in a while, and the last time I had it was on the Madone with clip on aero bars - not the most appropriate hardware for a TT effort aimed at marginal gains.  But despite the lack of frequent effort, the course itself represents one of the best local stretches of road for a focused, replicable effort in which variables can be limited, or at least noted, discussed, and analyzed.  The Strava ride data for the baseline test is here; the data for the ES-88s is here.  The ride profiles indicate a parity between both rides and suggests the usefulness - if not scientific objectivity - of the RPE scale as a training tool and pacing guide.

I chose the Hunting Creek Time Trial as the primary test ground because of its relatively low-traffic and mostly sheltered corridor.  Thus, it would be unlikely to have major disturbances from autos and wind variations.  It was a calm day for the most part, though windy during the morning; by 4pm conditions had settled and it was about 45 degrees out - warm enough to ride without gloves at first; I threw on a long-sleeved Under Armour base layer under my 7-11 team jersey for the test and later regretted not having the gloves throughout.  I wore the aero helmet and shoe covers just to maximize comfort so I could focus on the task at hand - which was to maintain a stable effort throughout the ride.

I used the Cox Rd climb as a warmup and completed it in roughly 2.49 before settling into a smooth rhythm to arrive as fresh and recovered as possible at the start of Hunting Creek Rd.  (The recovery period was approximately 4.50 seconds from the end of the climb.)  Traffic was light, so I experienced no stoppages from Huntingtown to Hunting Creek and rolled smoothly into the segment, beginning my effort seamlessly.  I invoked the RPE scale and tried to hover near 3.5 out of 5.

During the effort itself, I was mindful of the calm winds until I approached a stretch of road that opened up on the right to an expansive field.  There are several “openings” in the corridor which the trees form along the road: the first just before HC & Matthew Dr, opening left and right; the second at JC & Alameda Dr, opening left and right; the third at HC & Bowie Shop Rd, opening predominantly left; the fourth at HC & Deep Landing, opening left; the fifth and final just before HC & Fresh Meadows Ln, opening left and right for a considerable expanse.

But it was only on the third opening that I noted perceptible changes in wind direction and its influence on the bike.  The breeze was in an Easterly direction and came across my right shoulder as I crossed into the open space here.  The opening fields form a great tract that runs East-West, and it creates conditions for buffeting on especially windy days, as the wind sweeps over the Patuxent River.  On this day, there was enough wind to require a slight adjustment by leaning right in order to correct the new input.  Apart from this, I observed no adverse weather conditions at all.  I was careful to note precisely the moments at which I rose from the saddle: just south of Leesburg Dr, and just north of Deep Landing Rd.  During each spell out of the saddle, I adjusted only to maintain the same cadence after shifting to a lower gear, and was careful to remain standing for only so long as I needed to crest the hill.  This ended up being about four seconds.

With these observations, I covered the 3.9 mile course in 9.52, setting a personal record on the course before using Lowery Rd to return to Huntingtown & Cox by doubling back via Hunting creek.  My effort on Cox Rd to Mexico was similarly promising, but for the purposes of the test invalidated by the excessive tailwind and notable assistance which a series of tractor trailers rendered.  For this effort, I recovered from Bowie Shop Rd to Cox & Huntingtown at Rt 4.  As with the turn onto HC, I rolled smoothly into the segment and began my effort.  I stood up to do a light sprint from Cox Rd roughly halfway along the parking lot running adjacent to Rt 4, or approximately 150 ft.  I settled into my rhythm and pressed southwards before hitting the first rise just past Lorrin’s Dr before the Methodist Church.  I got some assistance over this hump from three trucks that passed in quick succession, and then I felt myself transferring power for acceleration down to Bowie Shop Rd, where Rt 4 kicks upward about 20 ft before plummeting to Mexico Restaurant.  On this segment, my maximum speed was 36.5 mph, which brought me into second place on the course.

Encouraging, to be sure, but ultimately invalid as a comparison for gauging differences in performance on the wheels.  The variance between this effort with the perceptible advantages of the tailwind were evident after my second run on Christmas Day.  And though my effort was unplanned, I think it’s an accurate representation of similar output under similar conditions.

The run with the 88s ran virtually identically to that with the standard alloy rims I used ten days prior.  As with the morning of the 15th, the day dawned chilly and windy.  The rising temperatures contributed to the wind until calming at around 3pm.  It was noticeably colder when I started this ride at 436pm, so I threw on some running gloves just to ensure comfort; this change aside, I had the same kit: shoe covers, aero helmet, cold gear base layer beneath the cycling jersey.  My pace fell within 7 seconds of my warmup ride on Cox Rd towards Huntingtown, which I completed in 2.56, only slightly slower than my earlier effort.  My recovery from the end of the climb to the start of the HC TT was approximately 5 minutes, a moment longer than the same recovery from the 15th owing to a stop at the traffic light at Cox & 4.  The effort began smoothly, as it had done on the baseline effort, and I began my run without incident.  Similar to the first attempt, I aimed for a RPE of 3.5 out of 5.  I stood for 4 seconds only at the small humps of Leesburg and Deep Landing.  

The only difference in perceived experience during this effort involved awareness of the wind and the smoothness of acceleration.  I felt the wind much more acutely than I had before.  When I emerged from the corridor at Bowie Shop Rd, I noticed that the wind came as before across my right shoulder.  But whereas on the alloy wheels the wind engaged me mostly across my upper body, this time I felt the lateral motion primarily through the front wheel.  I was in the aero bars, so I corrected, as before, with a slight lean and minor steering correction.  But once I made this correction and trimmed it out to compensate for the new input, the wheels seemed to stabilize themselves.  I could still feel the wind acting on my upper body and at the wheel, but they weren't buffeted about as much as I’d expected with a deep section rim.  Certainly things could have gotten hairy if there’d been gusts, but with relatively consistent conditions, the wheels were very manageable.

The second aspect which stood out was the sensation of power transfer and smoothness.  I noted the wheels were responsive in a way that I hadn’t expected of a system at this price point.  They were on par with the Zipp 404s in terms of transfer and retained speed.  It felt like I needed less effort to reach cruising speed and less effort to maintain it.  I even found myself holding back as I approached the threshold of my Zone 3 during a slight descent: after cresting a minor rise which didn’t require standing, I noticed my cadence increasing rapidly and approaching the 110s.  I dialed it down a bit without shifting to a bigger gear and noted the sensation of coming off the pace.  I don’t know how to describe it, unless it’s to say that the wheels rewarded power input with corresponding velocity output.  I imagine the responsiveness comes from the stiffness of the hoop, but the ease of maintaining speed must arise from the aerodynamic profile of the wheel.  The wheels muted the road noise perceptibly as well, which I was pleasantly surprised to observe.  There are some heavy segments of cracked and patched pavement on the HC TT course, but running over them at speed didn’t translate to the jarring frame I experienced atop alloy wheels.  I recalled this from my earlier effort on the course and braced for the effects: a rhythm-sapping, speed dampening shudder that transferred the dirty road straight up into my arms and shoulders.  But it was noticeably less than on the alloys.

The best part of the whole experiment was the final figures afterwards.  On the same course, with the same RPE but with the carbon wheels, I posted a time 11 seconds faster over 3.9 miles.  With all else being equal, this represents approximately 78.4 minutes in savings over the Iron distance bike leg.  And with savings like that, I think you'd be hard pressed to improve your performance in any way except by addressing issues above the saddle.

If we want to get creative and think of our budgeting like the government does - that is, by determining savings based on spending the "not most" for a given product (as opposed to not spending at all) - the savings between a set of big box brand CF wheels and ORRs is simply dumbfounding.  Zipp's 808 clinchers - the closest comparable model to ORRs ES-88s - are 82mm deep and weigh in at 1840 grams (approximately 4lbs), while the Orr ES-88s weigh in at 1770 grams (approximately 3.9 lbs). The weight savings isn't immediately significant, since it won't be apparent how much these wheels differ in terms of gain over time until they've been ridden in similar conditions over longer-than-average distances of 25-40 miles.  My test only establishes the ES-88s as superior to a standard alloy rim and not the Zipp 808.

Zipp’s 404 clinchers, on the other hand, are 58mm deep and max out at 1620 grams per set (approximately 3.5 lbs), making this a lightweight yet aero-enough profile that a rider will certainly feel the performance benefits in any general session, let alone racing.  I have a set of these, which are on Lydia’s bike at the moment, and I have to say there is something to the hype about this particular wheel.  Now, I’m not sure that it’s the best wheel in its profile class (55-65mm depth), but it’s definitely a way to buy speed, if not the best way to afford speed.  The first time I rode with these, my average speed boosted 2 miles per hour without any extension of perceived effort.  But then, I had even less structured environments to compare on than those of my most recent test.  What I initially perceived as phenomenal performance was the aerodynamic benefits of the deeper section compared to the alloys at roughly half the depth.  I averaged 20 mph to Solomon’s Island and back on a windy day back in the summer, and it was amazing the way the wheels responded to acceleration and held speed at that pace.

Hearing this, you might think that the Zipp 404s are the wheels to be had for the aspiring racer attempting to marshall resources needed for top performance.  And you could be forgiven until you realized the price of a set of Zipps.  The 404s retail at $3550.00 per set, the 808s at a humbler $2975.00 per set.  By contrast, Orr’s ES-88s retail at $1299.00, and their 404 equivalents, the FST6 (60mms deep, and tipping the scales at 1680 grams per set) come in at $1249.00.  Unless there’s a massive difference in workmanship and quality of the carbon weave, the massive differences in price are simply paying for the brand’s cache - which, let’s not forget, is considerable amongst cyclists.

So the savings over the regular 11 speed model from Orr (1499-1299) comes to $200.00, but after the discount to match Williams’s model, and including their sale price, (1299-849) comes to $450.00!  Compare that to the comparable Zipp model for ≈80mm wheels (2975-849) comes to 2126!

These figures are simply amazing!  I’ve done some snooping around online and discovered that Orr’s wheels are all over elite amateur triathletes up and down the eastern seaboard.  They’ve reached the midwest and even adorn the competition bike belonging to Lindsey Torgerson, a fine ITU circuit triathlete!  If this doesn't garner credibility for the crew at ORR, I'm not sure anything else can.

The bottom line is this: for the price point, these wheels are an absolute steal for the amateur on a budget.  They bring significant advantage in savings over distance without changes in power inputs, as my test established - not that I'd recommend trying to podium with your wallet.  But if you're currently trying to put your event together for a competitive finish - perhaps an age group award or top 20 overall, these wheels are a fantastic place to start a program for improving the total system of your game.