Ocala Road Race (Sunday)

Lambert Vaes (2nd) and Kerry Duggan (3rd) represented in Ocala for the orange and gray of Cycle Logic.

Basically Lambert and I plus a guy from Florida Velo attacked 50 racers on Pumpkin hill (Germantown) and managed to stay away the last 4 miles to finish 8 seconds ahead of the bunch. (and as it turned out 3 massive crashes near the finish)

It shouldn't have worked. The field must not have seen two guys with similar jerseys - but Mike said he and several Florida Velo racers immediately and agressively "got fat" on the front.  Sweet. 

Lambert go 2nd and I got 3rd. We didn't contest the Florida Velo guy winning because  A)  he was fresher and worked a bit harder  B) he was not in the GC so not a threat and C) we were so freakin' tired at the end and just kind of rolled across the line together all weary smiles.

Overall, none of us were in the GC money because we suck in time trials and have bikes areo as a 12 pack.

Note:  Look at Lambert, he SO needs to work on race number location. At least he used more than two safety pins this time. Sigh!.

K-Dogg

Rouge Roubaix #15

Five Mile Bridge

Bridge...........Must....be around.... NEXT corner......groan!......maybe NEXT corner......aaaagh!   Where the @#*% is that Fve Miles from the FREAKIN' End BRIDGE?!Keep going......turn that big gear. DON'T lose that wheel in front ... it just gets EVEN harder!  Hate my chain.......chain gang.....that's what I'm freakin' on - a chain gang - doing life without parole!  Out of GU, fuzzy thinking, on the verge of swooning.
Somebody make me stop!

This is what the last 20 miles of Rouge Roubaix the 15th feels like........somewhere just before the "Five Miles From the End" Bridge. Mile after mile of twisty, turny, rough chip seal road. Every corner looks the same. BANG through the pot holes, SLAM over two dozen wooden bridges and DODGE the dodgy bits. All on your skinny tire 10-speed bike. The only concession to conditions was to bleed tire pressure to 90.

Even before that there were 101 miles of big hills......big paved hills......big dirt hills.... with steep wheel-sucking sand patches and slippery marble-strewn, scary descents over and over.  When the hills flattened out Mr. Gusty Headwind showed up and spoiled the pack party. Keep going, keep going. Save a little punch for the dirt sections if you can. Eat another Double Shot if ya got it.

Scott, Justin, Ed and Kerry during their pre-ride.

Scott dropped the GU I gave him. The one he REALLY had counted on getting him home.  I had just rolled up to him and Jayson after chasing (with two other guys) for two hours due to an early  flat. Our boys were with the shattered remnants of the first chase group which failed to bring back 5 pro-elite masters. They were exhausted from the noble effort.  "I see you still have that GU I gave you this morning" I said.  It was sticking out of his left shorts leg. "Yeah, I really need it now" he groaned.
Then, like a bad dream, it suddenly fell to the ground and popped a few wheels back. His entire body slumped so hard there was a shock wave. "No soup for you"! said Chef Roubaix.

Jayson and I took a few pathetic pulls to help the pack out. Suddenly my two former buddies punched it up a hill. On the verge of fainting I managed to bridge up then looked back. Nothing back there. So sad.

The fourth and last dirt sector came and went bringing tears to our eyes.  My two younger companions (40 and 43) had mercy on their older shadow and didn't insist I match pull for pull. For a while. I was no threat to their race I kept teling them. They didn't seem to believe me but I kept clawing back from their increasingly unfriendly surges.
My goal was to stay with them to the bridge. To the Bridge.....the Bridge.  All will be fine after the Bridge. Eventually we hit the Five Miles To Go Bridge. Everything should be fine now. Two miles to go and my buddies left me struggling up one last hill. One mile to go and my front tire went flat. "You gotta be FREAKIN' kidding" I mumbled to no one. Luckily a wheel truck was right there.  Unluckily the only spare left had a CX tire so wide I barely could pound it on with brakes wide open. I spun it. Nothing happened. The tire was so tall it dragged on my fork crown.
Criminy!
This race cursed me to the very end!

One mile to go. I was afraid of capture any second. Nothing for it but to buck it home. Like a stuck pig it squealed every rotation. Squeal! Squeal! Squeal!
Burning rubber was a worry but soon the finish line rolled past. The tire survived but now sported a flat top. The crowd cheered wildly for every hollow faced racer that finished - mostly solo. I had never seen such a far-away look in Scott's weary face. But now we could sit down at least. Justin worried us coming in half an hour later, but he had two flats. Ed was in 4th position 2/3 into the race but somehow faded from there. The quiet man wasn't elaborating. Jayson was just "knackered".

Scott, Kerry, Ed and Jayson post-Roubaix

After showers, jambalaya and local beer Jayson and Ed lay horizontal in the room avoiding their painful "Roubaix Butts."  They swore they would never do this race again. Two hours later they couldn't wait to race it again. They must have spotted the Five Mile Bridge and hope was renewed.


K-Dogg




[editorial note: Kerry's effort earned him the top step on the Masters 55+ podium...he's just too modest to mention it in his own story. Congratulations Kerry!]

Southern Cross 2013 report

Mountain people say if you don't like the weather just wait 10 minutes and it will change.
They lie. The 51 mile Southern Cross extreme CX race was 28 degrees at the start and 34 at the finish - 3 1/2 cold miserable hours later. It was so cold at the finish the hot lasagna they served outdoors
was brittle before we sat down. During the race a power bar was a flat, cold rock. Completely inedible.
Mike's gummy Power Blok clicked when he dropped one. Water bottles spouted an ice dome with slush that had to be chewed.

Unaccustomed to these conditions Ed, Mike and I pawed through a ridiculous plethora of of bike clothes in every possible combination. What to wear?
A 12 mile 20% plus dirt  climb is best  done naked. However, an 8 mile descent begs a wool burka.
If you have to change a flat you'd best start a survival fire. We ended up horribly overdressing to cope with standing still 30 minutes at the start. Surely we could peel layers later?

The course itself was miserable. A 400 person mass start is crazy enough without ankle-deep slimy red Georgia clay.  Imagine riding a light dusting of hay over a blaze of fresh dog crap.  Deep slimy ruts formed as 800 tires slipped helter skelter careening around the initial technical CX 1.5 mile start.  The air buzzed with angry orange blobs launched off tires and and slapped onto bike frames, vests and sunglasses. My heart rate maxed out at 195 running up one of those shite hills less than 2 minutes from the start. But.......suddenly  you notice you aren't cold anymore. Now you are feverish.

No time to change as we left the dirt and began forming little  echelons  desperately chasing other little echelons heading toward the first 12 mile climb.

About 20 seconds ahead I could just make out Ed's familiar orange Cycle Logic kit safely esconched in the lead group-but no matter how hard I sat-on we just couldn't close.  (I didn't catch Ed until he crashed and flatted 30 miles later.) But soon the 12 mile rocky climb began.

Immediately I was baking like a butterball turkey with the stops stuck.  Sweat soaked through 4 layers of  lined lycra and dripped down my open chest as my ticker beat 175 at 6 mph.
Legs were somewhere between track standing and 30 RPM.

What was I thinking?  Everything moved in slow motion for an hour.  Riders I could catch in 10 strokes on the flats were actually 20 seconds ahead. You had to carefully thread through a minefield of quartz and granite rocks as big as melons.  Touch one this slow and you might not get going again. Cries of "that's it!" echoed up and down the valley as people started walking.

Eventually you top out at the feed station where  volunteers clang bells in your face, yell "good job!" and generally piss you off — not racing.

And then you descend, and descend, and descend some more.  Four zippers head North now.  Over-gloves are found. Your powerbar is now a lollypop-all you can do is lick it.  Luckily the Gu still squeezed out - on my cheek, on my gloves and on my jacket.  At 29 degrees and 37 mph
your eyes weep, your nose gushes and your hands ache on the brakes.  Throw in ruts and dodging boulders around every other blind curve understand how Ed eventually crashed.......and flatted at the same time.  He hit a big rock, flew over the bars and ended up on his knees facing away.  He didn't mention this to me when i came upon him calmly fixing replacing his tube.  At the end (he still caught me for all that) he had a mild concussion, a bloody bulb on his upper back and minor strawberries. Truly The Fighting Irish.  The Fighting Irish that do yoga.

A few more hard, hot climbs, a few more freezing,scary plummets and we ended back on the final 1.5 cyclocross section. Mike was so tired he chugged half a can of the traditional beer hand up at the hardest run up hill. He said it was a tempting to bail and cruise the 1/2 mile paved shortcut  back to the warm Mommobile.  But we both managed to click back in and stagger on with honor- ignoring even more irritating cheers of "good job!" or "come on buddy! ride through the creek! You can do it!"  Personally, I was in a black mood and mumbled "I don't give a #%*#!" and simply sloshed through the frigid  water not risking a fall on my #%*#in arse this close to the end.

Unfortunately we don't have  video due to "technical" issues -meaning it was too cold to remove gloves and push tiny camera buttons and that our Australian film crew had a broken collar bone.

Overall the event is well worth attending and rates a "10" in overall experience. They just need to do something about the climate up there. Brrrrr!

K-Dogg

Spring Fling - bunch sprint

Final moments of the Masters 35+ B DeLeon Springs Road race in Deland, FL on 1-27-13. 

The 3-man break had already decided the podium, but with two money spots still on the road, the field digs to the line. Cycle Logic's Paul Messal had good position, put his head down and claimed 4th place on the day along with a few bucks.

click image for larger viewer

Race of the West report

Ed Dunne's race
Forty hilly miles combined cat. 5, 60+ and women.

Halfway into the race Ed bridged up to the winning break of 7-8.  Near the end legendary 62 year old Dave Viney left the group and towed an unnamed cat 5 to first.

Ed got 2nd (and a bronze metal) in the field sprint for 3rd.

Good show Ed.


Kerry's race. 50+ men
Seventy hilly miles.  Thirty eight starters. Hill challenged Big Belgian Lambert Vaas pulled the plug at 60.  After 69 miles and 69 painful attacks/surges it came down to an uphill headwindy sprint (more like a stagger). Imagine 15 arthritic, cramping Lemmings trying to throw themselves UP a cliff.  The Dogg got 5th and $35.

Thank goodness this is the last decent road race on the Florida calendar.  Time for a rest. Time to just run around inside the fenced yard a while.

Bumper Bikes and Saint Purnell Parts the Sea of Mud.

Those who live on the mighty Mississippi are kissin' cousins to plagues and flood, miracles and mud. The river gives, the river taketh away. Ain't no thing - just deal with it and move on. Happens all the time they say.

Even before the 14th running of the 105 mile Rouge Roubaix bike race began, the host town of Saint Francisville had a problem. Four miles from the finish, a 100' long bridge flooded over, leaving a huge tree across the middle and a knee deep, gooey brown mud-slide at both ends. No earthly way to run a bike race across it.

Three members of Cycle Logic bike race team and one frenemy from another team came upon this scene of devastation on a reconnaissance drive the night before. While a half dozen anxious and unaccountably rude young racers milled about in panic and disbelief - Irish Ed Dunne calmly scouted out an alternate route involving a high sandy ridge and floating across on an oak stump Noah's Ark style. "Easy as Mississippi Mud pie." he implied.

While pretending to consider this dubious solution we were distracted by the god-awful thundering of a giant diesel engine approaching from upon high. It was Saint Purcell and his almighty bull dozer of justice. Raising his 10 cubit wide bucket he quickly smate the evil mud from both sides and cast the stubborn tree back whenst it came. There was rejoicing amongst the lycra clad chosen. The race was saved! Laisser les bon temps rouler! Let the good times roll.

Race Day
Race day morning and we lined up in mixed category race waves. Ninty-three of us were promptly escorted out of town by the High Sheriff of West Feliciana Parish with motorized Race Bible Angels beseeching us to "be not tempted to cross the yellow line at any time or be cast down unto the hell at the back."

Without incident our sweaty little tribe flew over 25 miles of smooth and sinuous roads with no great change of race position-until the 9 mile long rocky road to hell began. Immediately the slippery gravel, potholes and hills thinned the pack to about 25. Two miles later a dangerous single file snake of 15 guys were opening up a dangerous gap. Shaking off my stupor I moved to the front then put the hammer down. A few guys, including Frank Jennings (1st last year) Randy (2nd last year), my teammate Lambert Vaes and Jayson O'Mahoney jumped on my wheel as I dove from slippery corner to slippery corner to shrink the gap. Thirty seconds later I latched on to what would become the winning break.
Whew!
Sit in. Recover. Go again. Sit in. Recover a little less. Go again. Think about famous Greg Lemond quote "...It never gets easier-you just go faster."

A mile or two later I notice Jayson, who is a much better time trialist than I, inexplicably vanish off the back. He had one of his few bad days apparently and later broke a spoke. At least it wasn't his chain again. Belgian teammate Lambert Vaes was on the verge of catching back on but flatted. He went on to finish 4th and in the money even so.

Emerging back onto blessed pavement I counted nine 40+ men and three of us 55+ men. No women at all were left, unlike the two previous years, the pace was apparently too high this year. But it was time to make sure we stayed away from the other 80 riders so I encouraged a big rotation long and loud enough (emphasizing that we were 55+ and no threat to their prize list) that we held the chasers off.

An hour or so later we left the big rolling paved hills of Mississippi and headed back towards Louisiana onto dirt on Blockhouse Hill. Blockhouse is about 1 mile of 15% packed gravel road with a fat guy at the top waving a crisp $100 bill for the first up. Three or four guys went after it hard leaving the rest hoping they would blow up and come back to us when the pavement returns 2 miles later (which all but one did). Once you reach the top you plunge down and up two more short but steep hills with deep, wheel sucking sand at the bottom - which you hit at 40 mph trying to hold momentum up the other side. You realize this watching guys suddenly fishtailing and face - planting all around you.

Being a mediocre cross biker I too was soon fishtailing and looking for a soft spot to land when a sort of miracle occured. I say sort of miracle because a string of obscenities, including the lord's name in vain, erupted violently behind me as a 180 lb blasphemer rammed my rear wheel and "bumper-biked" me back upright and through the sand pit unscathed and rolling back up the hill. At the top I was amazed there was no damage to my tire or wheel. I love my Kryseriums. After 5 years of racing and 3 Rouge Roubaix's they are truly bullet proof.

Soon, 4 of us were back on pavement then quickly chased down two more. More importantly, only Gus Ferrar and I were left in the 55+ with Randy still fighting the sand pit. Sweet! lots of horsepower and little obligation to chase hard.

Eventually we entered the last of the dirt sections. The first hill was almost impossible to ride up without falling over on the steep, slippery gravel and 17% gradient. I was determined to finally ride up it unlike last year when Frank Jennings (who went on to win anyway) popped a wheelie right in front of me and stopped everybody cold.

This year Gus and I were side by side torqing out 20 rev's and rocking back and forth when he also popped a wheelie and stopped everybody cold. I must confess, I blasphemed him as he thrashed on the ground trying to unclip. Seeing an opportunity to sneak away with 1st place I ran my bike hard up the rest of the hill, jumped on and bombed the next few scary dirt rollers like a bat out of hell.

It was to no avail. The dude is very strong, he chased me down and kept me on the rivet every uphill. Luckily I have been taking descending lessons from Jayson and gained it all back while I put my brain on hold, just as I was taught.

Back on "pavement"
For the next 20 miles Gus and I rode in the company of 3-5 40+ riders who came and went (backwards) fighting fatigue and leg cramps. For some reason Gus either felt really good or didn't realize I was his only competition left and took almost as many pulls as the youngsters who wanted to rein in the last guy off the front. I pulled a fair amount of time but leg cramps dictated a slower speed than most of the others. Ya got what ya got.

For a while I considered telling Gus I wouldn't fight him for first since he was stronger but stopped short. Who knows what he really had left. It could be a bluff. Let him prove he is stronger. My team wants me to win.

Well, he was stronger - quite a bit stronger as it turned out. The final sprint is up a nasty two-step hill. Whatever cramp you silenced talks loudly now.

"Shut up legs!" I said.

At the top of the first hill I surged ahead a bike length. "He's fading! He's fading!" I thought. "Please stop! Please stop!" said my legs.

"Shut up legs!" I said again.

I hear a gear click and two youngsters with Gus in tow were suddenly 2 bikes in front of me. "Sit down! Sit down you moron!" yelled my legs. I sat down.

I am not Jens Voigt. I listen to my legs.

My legs won the argument. I got second in the race. We both felt blessed by Saint Francaisville and will be back next year.



Laissez les bon temps rouler!

K-Dogg

Southern Cross Race and Mr. Dobalina

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina. Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Google this name. You will eventually discover it's from a strangely addicting repetitive song by The Monkeys from 1967 called "Zilch." Like an irritating jingle that won't leave you alone it was firmly lodged in my brain for the whole weekend by a certain little Australian monkey at the start of the 2012 Southern Cross Extreme Cyclocross race last weekend.

Three middle aged (plus) road racers decided to drive 450 miles to torture ourselves and 3 expensive bikes up and down 7000' of climbing and 50 miles over rough dirt paved with granite outcroppings. But before this fun the race promoters insisted we navigate an insidious cylocross course of felled trees, knee high clingy kelp-like grass fields, slippery stream crossings and 10' high vertical ditch walls.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

The weather report called for 38 degrees with a high of 46. Wind at Springer mountain ridge clocked at 35 mph with gusts. Possible ice on the roads. Just before the race my bottom bracket was making cracking noises every stroke. The race mechanic rode a little circle, shrugged and said "don't worry about it. Aluminum and Titanium always do that."

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Back to the car. Nervous chatter with Irish Ed and Aussie Jayson. Make jokes about how differently they pronounce the "F" word.
"I'm freezing! What are you wearing? Will I sweat like a pig on the the climbs then freeze on the way down?" Throw clothes in the car. Grab them back out. Take turns nervously peeing behind car. Cram down Sport Beans for no good reason.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Ten minutes to start we head towards the start only to see 300 people already lined up 8 wide and football field deep. Crap!
Remember it's a mass start. Men up to 40, Men over 40, women, juniors and "others." The whole gaggle is supposed to sprint
50 yards then leave the pavement en mass into a grassy hole shot that plunges down out of site like a double black diamond ski hill.

Everybody intends to be at the very front to avoid the inevitable log jam as the course funnels down to 4' wide at the felled tree.
For some reason Jayson and Ed decided to be good boys and slink to the very back of the herd. Having not been schooled in proper U.K. finishing schools I stopped two rows back and weaseled my way into 15th position. Unlike selfish roadies, I found X'ers extremely polite and accommodating. They actually smiled and made room for me. When the gun went off Ed and Jayson continued being good boys politely waiting a full minute to even clip-in. I was half way through the course. Good on them!

Being so far forward I was able to comfortably hold position thru the narrows, up the kelp hills, over the felled tree, cross the slippery stream, up the vertical wall and 100 yard hill that few could ride up.

Then we hit blessed pavement and 20 or so bikers ahead formed eschelons heading out of the vineyard and toward the first 12 mile dirt climb up Springer Mountain. Jayson and Ed were still seething in line at the felled tree with 295 people flailing around in front of them.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Half an hour and a few dozen minor ascents and descents our little group of 6 guys hit the base of Springer chasing 15 or so top guns. Springer Mountain has an average grade of 15% with several long sections of 25-27%. The road is so rough and steep only 4 wheelers can keep moving. That, and bikers with a minimum of a 34 X 28 gearing. It takes most people over an hour to top. Our little group eventually lost 3 off the back and I was 100' (and 30 seconds at that speed) behind the rest turning squares at about 7 mph. Somewhere in the 27% purgatory section, 137 pound teammate Irish Ed quietly floated up and past me like a polite wee shadow. "Ah Kerry. stay with me now" he breathed. Finding little draft at walking speed Ed slowly vanished into the boggy mist like the Tuatha De Dannon never to be seen again. Left alone in my granny gear, the Monkey's mantra seeped back matching my cadence......

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

At this point the rear tire started bottoming out on the rim from time to time. A few bounces confirmed this. I was down to about 20 pounds. Stopping at 27 % is out of the question. You'd only trackstand then stupidly pull a Wiley Coyote over the cliff face. Twenty minutes later I hopped off and found it was holding. Should be ok. Forgot about it and started the 8 mile 15% switchback descent. Several people came past at irresponsibly fast speeds. Eventually it ended onto a three mile stretch of civilized pavement. Now my body knew what do - go into a tuck and run down the last 4 to pass me. No skill required. Approaching 35 mph the 20 pounds in the rear hissed as loud as a commercial sandblaster and rolled about as well. Crap! Can't stop now! Bridge up! Bridge up!

Ok-bridged up just as the last big climb back up and over Springer Mountain began. Eight miles straight up. At least I was in my element and soon dropped everybody except a really nice 18 year old named Boris. Yes, Boris from Birmingham. We stayed together the whole climb. Nobody passed us except two tall guys on single speeds. They don't count. It had to be an illusion.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Just over the top my rear tire finally gave up the ghost. Tire change took 3-4 minutes in a cold 35mph wind-fumbling with cold hands, over stuffed pockets and my only air cartridge audibly depressurizing.

The last big 8 mile descent was much rougher, sketchier and scarier. Several rude people I'd dropped flew past drifting through the bumpy corners at speeds I wouldn't do on pavement. They don't count either.

Eventually the pavement returned with 5 rolling miles to the finish. Up the road I acquire a good target-another master with better downhill skills. In two miles I was doing most of the work pulling us up to a group of four when he attacked me! Sneaky old bastard! He came back but the die was cast.

We were in 13th and 14th position in the 40+ category so it seemed silly-but- he slowed, I slowed.

Minutes later we entered the vineyard, leaned into a screaming downhill only to slam on the brakes as we were abruptly directed back onto the final 2 mile 'cross course of death by a loud bell ringing blonde. She was pointing at a vertical wall. Imagine an 8' tall red clay cinder block wall leaning just slightly away from you followed by 100 yards of 45 degree "finish you off" hill. "Go old guys!" she screamed. Side by side scrambling up the climbing wall I noticed my companion set his jaw and grind his teeth in anger. "How could she tell?" was all I could think of to say. Side by side the top of the hill turned into another hill but paved. HIs 'cross skills were better. We had both changed to the small ring at the base but he still had it in the 11 when he jumped on his bike and proceeded to fall over. One second back I chuckled, jumped on my bike and almost fell over too. "Go old guys!"

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Over the pickle and through the woods we battled back and forth. He dropping me on the technical stuff, me grinding back and passing on the grassy hills. He'd pass me with superior dismounts and remounts while I had the superior skills of bruising trees and ramming marker posts.

Eventually he crossed the finish line a second or two ahead of me to take 13th in the "Old Guy" category. Well done. We kept the race honest to the end.

Ed was standing with a gaggle of grinning racers who finished well ahead and said he loved every bit of it except having to stop twice and squirt more green sponge to keep his tire going. Tubeless seems to be the way to go-that and losing 14 pounds.

Half an hour later, "angry tank" Jayson unloaded his bike from a pickup truck. His chain mysteriously broke at the bottom of Springer Mountain half-way into the race. He was understandably in a black mood but vowed to redeem himself the next day on the Doc Holiday road race (which he did) and at next years Southern Cross Extreme 'Cross race. Ed and I also vowed to return but I assure you Mr. Dobalina will not.

Kerry Duggan

Nocatee Cat3 RR - August 27, 2011

Two bottles are typically enough for a 1 hour 40 minute effort. Saturday was not "typical" on many levels.

6:00am - 83 degrees.

6:15am - Pick up mates at official team race HQ (outer reaches of the Target parking lot).

7:00am - Stop @ convenient store so Kerry can "Do the Dew".

8:40am - Arrive at the course to a paparazzi mob of one (O'Mahoney with stolen camera).

8:45am - Begin race prep: stretch Lycra over sticky, sweaty, clean shaven legs; spend next 5 minutes getting said Lycra where it supposed to be; have teammate assist in unpinning the front of my jersey from the back so I can pull it on; loose the keys (Kerry stole them); loan out extra gear to those less prepared (uh um, Scott E); tell friends to park in places they shouldn't and get reprimanded by THE MAN; preview the course and call it a warm up; memorize the super-secret, sure-fire, race-winning strategy.

9:35am - Game on.

The race began with a slow roll out into a slight headwind that would soon-enough prove to be not-so-slight. The peloton was reminded by the race referee after a half mile that this was NOT a neutral roll out. Hounds released.

The attacks (and chasing) went on for the next lap and a half. Rob and I worked well together covering most attempts of substance and set each other up for a clean bridge here and there. Cylce Logic was represented in several moves that looked promising, but the bunch wouldn't have it. Following two hard chases into the wind on lap two, Alfred Baurley (who solo'd to victory in the Juniors race earlier), maintained tempo and rolled off as the bunch seemed content to recover for a bit. I was on deck to cover the next move and waited for a reaction. With none coming, I thought we'd see if they minded two up the road; apparently not.



It wasn't long before an ORC rider (Mike Hernandez) got away as well, so we eased up, welcoming the help as soon as possible. One lap later, the gap is around a minute, with a 4th rider coming across. Again, we ease off to let Roy Foley of AJ Barnes get a little respite and wipe the drool off his face after a monster effort. Roy quickly went to the front and did some serious work, and I'm thinking this could go the distance. However, conspicuously missing was team Velobrew, who had a lot of matches to burn in this race. I feared they would burn our house down, but I committed 100% to the break nonetheless.





Fast forward two laps: a chase group is attempting to crash our party, led by none other than The Juggernaut, Ken Sallot. Rob was witness to the carnage caused by Quadzilla after dutifully pulling back attackers and disrupting chase for most of the race. We get the "2" to go sign with a gap of about 25 seconds on the chase group (Sallot, Brian Stalvey, and Dustin White). I reasoned that the closing chase wasn't all bad; we (the four leaders) only had one teammate between us, and I figured the break would definitely be safe with two Velo-dudes in the mix.

The break may have been safe, but I wasn't. Rear flat with less than 2 to go. My heart bounced off the tarmac, it sank so fast. I let my break partners know I'd be seeing them and sat up. When I turned my head and caught a glimpse of the wheel truck (perfectly placed in the race), I thought, "There's a 1st time for everything, let's give this wheel change a college try." As soon as my arm went up, the wheel truck rushed to the seen of the crime. (Sidebar: A huge race-saving thanks to the wheel truck crew! Stellar job. If anyone knows who they were, please let me know.) A lightning quick wheel change and a nice push start had me within reach of the Groupe de Juggernaut that flew by me during my unplanned pit stop. With my adrenal gland resembling a squashed grape; I put my head down and red-lined it. Back in business.

Shortly thereafter, we catch the 3 leaders. Roy does a double take and gives me a compliment. Goosebumps from dehydration set in after the hard chase. No water left in the bottles. 1.5 laps to go, seven man break.



Halfway down the back stretch, the break seemed to become aware that we were the race and began to recover, setting up for the finish. We completed the final lap slower than the previous six, but with everyone contributing for the most part. The super-secret, sure-fire, race-winning strategy was to go real hard (~35mph) heading into the final roundabout, get a gap by cornering with nerves of steel, and try to hold it to the line (Rob and I measured the distance during our warmup: .35 miles). I had played with the roundabout speed on previous laps and knew a gap would open. To my surprise, the youngsters (Baurley and Hernandez) played my card first. I took up chase, and the 3 of us indeed rounded the 'bout with a gap. As expected, we got a strong face full of wind coming into the final straight. Barley was leading and sat up while swerving hard left; Mike began to slide left into his draft just as I lit the fuse. I barely squirted between them, but maintained momentum and wound it up. The pedals kept turning, through the cramps, until it was over.

I yelled in conquest after crossing the line, then began to wonder if I really hit the line first. The Juggernaut rolled up and held my bike while I stretched the cramps out of the hammies. I asked him if I was dreaming. He asked me if those cramps felt real.

Apparently there was talk of fines being handed down to CL for excessive celebration prior to completing the race; Rob had a party on the back stretch after getting the thumbs up from O'Mahoney. He still got 3rd in the field sprint. His feet were hurting from all the dancing, he said.

Gainesville Races

Great weekend for Cycle Logic! On Saturday, there were time trials held out in Archer, Florida. Jayson O'Mahoney narrowly missed the podium in the Cat 3 ITT but helped the Cat 3 Cycle Logic squad (also containing Ken Sallot, Carlos Smith and Tal Mincey) take 3rd place in the TTT. Our sole entry in the Cat 4 time trial, Mike Arena, walked away with the whole thing as he proved that he's a force to be reckoned with.

Sunday was the classic downtown Gainesville Criterium. Mike Arena once again showed that he is a beast. The Category 4 final results don't adequately tell the whole story, so we'll give you the abbreviated version here. After attacking off the front numerous times in the early stages of the race, Mike dropped a chain, dropped from the field, stopped, got off the bike, fixed it, got back on, chased like a daemon, caught back on and attacked again! The cat 4 field ought to be thankful that he wasn't full gas in the final lap! By far, the most heroic ride of the day.

Eight Cycle Logic boys toed the line in the Cat 3 field and made for one of the most fun races spectators have seen in a long time. Damn it was fun! The guys started with a plan and put it into action from the gun. Jayson was a constant fixture at the front of the field making sure nothing dangerous went up the road, if it did, one of the guys would go with it. Tal and Roger stayed comfortably in the pack while the teams presence made everyone else uncomfortable.

More than halfway through the race we all got a nice scare as Scott laid it down in the second corner. After cautious examination by the medical professionals on sight, it was determined that Scott was fine and will live to race another day (his bike notwithstanding).

There was constantly Orange and Grey at the front of the field and as the last few laps were counted down, Tal and Roger made their way to the front. In a hotly contested sprint, Tal lead the field up the hill toward the finish line only to be swallowed up in the final 10 meters! Roger stayed close to Tal as they finished 6th and 5th respectfully and scored some solid FPS points for the team.


The guys utilized textbook teamwork to almost perfection and gained a ton of knowledge about themselves and the team in the process. The season ahead looks bright and we're all looking forward to seeing how things unfold throughout the year.

Thanks to all the friends, family and fans that came out to support Cycle Logic this weekend. Damn that was fun!

view a ton of photos from Sunday's race here