Greetings and salutations fellow tribesmen of the road! Welcome back to back to the Comanche Racing Race Report Blog (CRRRB [it's clever, I know]). It's been a long off season of epically slow rides, fading tan lines, dark beers, cyclocross and kit designing for all of our brethren but Comanche Racing is ready to come out from our winter encampments to proudly venture forth into battle as the Texas Road Race Season begins! Our enemies thighs will throb in pain as they stare in awe at our cultivated tan-lines, unbreakable pace lines and chic kit designs. Needless to say, Comanche Racing is ready to lay down the tomahawk this season and take some scalps.
That is... after our first weekend of racing for the season at the Tour of New Braunfels (to work out all the kinks). The epic journey goes as such:
Day 1: Tour of New Braunfels (om[g!]Loop)
We arrived at the at Canyon Lake (sufficiently caffeinated and full of sweats thanks to our fine sponsor, Dominican Joe) to the usual scene for a bike race: lack of parking (because, yes, one has to take up a whole parking spot to up one's trainer), mean mugging racers and endless lines into the porta-potties. After finding a spot among line of cars (probably illegally), we fine Comanches unpacked and made our way to registration to collect our race numbers for the weekend. As always, this process took longer than expected for many reasons: stopping to oggle bikes, chat with friends, mean mugging (some more) old enemies and find race numbers that had already been lost (only five minutes after acquiring them). But it was mostly because the registration was (what seems like) 8 miles away from the parking.
Commence pre-race rituals. First on the list: pinning of the numbers. Always a fun task and also mildly demoralizing. At first, everyone is hell bend on putting on their own numbers. But after employing all the different tactics of number pinning (pinning the numbers with jersey off of the body [which usually ends in a crumpled mess {not pro}], pinning the numbers with jersey on the body [usually ending with blood and gore or the racer looking silly in awkward karma sutra like positions {only kind of pro for showing off your flexibility}] etc etc), the racer eventually resigns to letting a team mate pin him. Next we have the warming up of the legs. Nothing too exciting here. Just more racers giving everyone the stink eye. Maybe doing some final adjustments to one's seat angle or height. Maybe even taking that last spacer out from under the stem and slamming it (like it should be). For the members of Comanche Racing this was not necessary for the majority of us had had the pleasure of a professional fit by Mr. Nelo Breda (of Nelo's Cycle, another one of our spectacular sponsors). All warmed up and comfortable, the Comanche tribesmen (Alex "the youngin'" Vogt, Derek "you wouldn't believe my wattage" Alvarado, Paul "Pull" Carty and your reporter) were ready to venture forth into battle.
Rolling up to the staging area of the Om(g!)Loop, one already felt a nervous air around the riders. First race of the season. How would everyone stack up against each other? Had their winter training been too lax? When would someone make a move? When should I make my move? Do my legs look alright? As all of these questions (all legitimate) were running through each racer's mind, (tweeeeeeet!) that familiar screech of start whistle pierced the air. With a re-affirming 'kuh-klunk' of engaging cleats, the race was officially started.
After a climb and a decent the tension started to let up as all the riders started to loosen their legs. Tense grimaces started to ease into tentative smiles as memories of happiness and pleasure of last years race seasons started to slowly crawl back into their consciousness. Conversations started to sprout from the anxious soil that Winter had packed into everyone's mouths. Riding bikes could be fun. Racing bikes could be exciting!
The situation changed (as it always does) in a matter of seconds when our foursome of Comanches were torn apart by an unfortunate circumstance. It appears to your reporter that evil spirits were amiss that day for the scene was one of queer explanation. Quite frankly, the laws of physics seemed to have disappeared. Either way, the story (as compiled by multiple sources) goes as follows:
(note to reader: please insert punctuation in this next paragraph as to accommodate your reading style)
On the second small descent one fine fellow felt the need to run into another fine fellow who in turn dropped his drivetrain chain (but continued to pedal) which cause the chain dropping gentleman to lose control of his bicycular device and swerve in the direction of your reporter who's brain promptly kicked into disaster mode as wrecking fellow somehow dismounted his bicycle and rolled of the road into the bushes leaving his two wheeled machine riding as if it still had a jockey on it at which point your reporter tried to slip through the hole between said dismounted rider and the out of control bike when the machine struck a bump and stopped its forward motion and decided to place itself perpendicularly in front of one Comanche rider (yours truly) while trying to get (for lack of a better phrase) the "hole shot" which quickly closed and caused a clash between man and bicycle and bicycle and man of epic proportions.
So, the story ends with two Comanches (Paul "Pull" Carty was also affected by this) scrambling to make sure their steeds were in good condition while watching the pack slowly ride away. With everything in check Paul and your reporter remounted in an attempt to catch the pack. While working together to catch the peloton, a very strange sticky feeling started to overtake the left hand of this Comanche warrior. Upon further examination, it was revealed that said left hand was covered in a very this red substance which seemed to be flowing from multiple lacerations.
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The Gore (after a pro medic cleaning [just poring water over it])
After a hard lap of catching up, the tree Comanches were re-united with much rejoicing. But victory was not yet at hand. More work had to be done. As the pace started to hasten, we took our place at the front of the pack (where we are most comfortable) and started to drill. After a few attempts of trying to make a break, we submitted to being read back in to the pack. Satisfied that enough pain had been brought on our fellow riders, we settled in to the group to recover.
We moved into formation as we approached the finish line with one lap to go, read to make our final attack on the field and roll over the finish line to take our victory. There was only one problem... there was not one more lap to go. When we started to move up from mid-pack a startling thing happened. The pace started to pick up and as we got closer to the line the figures in the front got out of their saddles and started to sway back and forth in a very sprint-like fashion. There we were. Stuck mid-pack during the sprint.
Rolling over the finish brought a very colorful array of choice words and an overwhelming sense of disappointment started to set in on your valiant warriors (Derek skillfully pulled in a top 15 but the rest were not so lucky). How could such a stupid mistake have been made? Allergies? Blood loss? Stupidity (pure and simple)? Did my legs not look good enough? Whatever the reason was, the desired result was not achieved for the amount of work that was done (and no one felt the need to vomit afterward [the first sign of failure {unless one wins}]). Luckily, Comanche had the next day to redeem themselves.
You should have seen the other guy.
A 3.5 hour emergency room wait, three stitches, four showers 248,392 calories consumed and an adequate sleep (6h 43m 7s) later, the Comanche Warriors were read to partake in the second day of battle. This time with clear heads and a will to win.
With an earlier start time it was much easier to find a parking spot (and also the fact that the designated parking area was a massive mall parking lot). Another perk of an early start is that you get to hit the porta-potties first. All of them clean and well stocked with plenty of toilet paper, ready to be destroyed by throngs of cycling trying to lighten their load before racing. Such a strange feeling of satisfaction can be had being the first to defile such an innocent thing... but we digress.
The mood was definitely different on this second day. The first day's race had been riddled with nerves and unanswered questions. The staging area for the Cat 4 race that Sunday was only filled with impatient men. Limbs were quivering from the chill of the morning, not from nerves. All thought was bent on willing the officials to blow the whistle so that we could at least move and start to warm up our muscles again (all that spinning for naught!).
20 minutes after the scheduled start time, racer's prayers were finally answered and the neutral roll out commenced. For the first mill we were brothers in arms, slowly pedaling our way to the battle field known as the "Grand Prix" loop. Rolling past the where the finish would be, every eye examined the road very carefully. The "center line" rule was to be in effect for the entire race so the sprint for the finish had to be carefully executed or things would get a bit hairy. Riders would either have to be at the front of the pack or know the hazardous areas to avoid while they tried to make their way up through the pack during the sprint without going too bar over and be disqualified. Scary stuff.
The peloton rounded the corner into the loop and the race began. A narrow road teaming with cracks, washed out pavement, rolling hills and will breaking headwinds were what your favorite Comanche warriors had to combat. But after cresting the first hill, we grouped up and made our way forward up the right side of the roadway (avoiding all aforementioned obstacles with ease) in an attempt to gain control of the front. An attempt that proved successful as we rolled into one of the major turns. Ready to take scalps.
We came barreling through the corner with flawless form when yet another unfortunate event occurred. The mishap wasn't caused by mischievous spirits' but purely by the overwhelming strength of this Comanche's legs. With a simple down stroke, the structural integrity of one's steed (the aptly coined, "Bromancer") was put to the test and the drive train chain was rendered in half. For the second time in two days, your reporter watched the race speed away. This time unable to follow in hot pursuit.
(Side note: This report has been informed by Team Wooly Mammoth war chief, Patrizio "Hot Tradition" Newellette, that the only material that can be used to tame the Great Spirit's strength in all of our Comanche legs is kuutsuu [buffalo] bone. Somehow, it is cheaper than a Campagnolo Super Record Chain.)
Upon examination, the horrid reality became very clear and in a fit of rage the now serpent-like chain was flung from the roadside. It landed deep in a foreign field to spread its poison elsewhere. A long walk was in order to get back to back to the finish line but fortunately (after being passed by many follow vehicles) the kind truck bearing the spare wheels for the Cat 4 ladies race allowed a disgraced warrior to hitch a ride in its bed.
(Second side note: the rest of the race at this point is hear-say. Some of the details may be overly dramatized or outright fabricated)
With one comrade now fallen, the three remaining Comanches (Paul, Alex and Derek) had to keep their heads clear (despite such a disaster). So, with a few deep breathes, the brethren tucked in and readied themselves for the long road ahead. With the agility of cheetahs now in them, they road the twistinig pavement like they had ridden it for a millenia. They dodged every obstacle and every evil spirit bent on thwarting their plans. Their cunning proved to be too powerful for such feeble foes and with much patience they waited for the right time to pounce.
The moment came and with the precision and speed of a laser Paul "Pull" Carty attacked, immediately creating a gap between himself and the peloton. He could do nothing but depend on his superior strength and natural aerodynamics of his body to help him through the "stiff" head wind. For minutes his hammer-like legs pummeled at his pedals as he prayed for the gap to widen between him and the pack. With a sigh of dismay, he noticed a shadow come creeping up from behind him. With the assumption he had been caught, Paul sat up with as deep a breath as he could muster, ready to accept his defeat. But when he turned around, to his surprise and extreme pleasure, he found that is was only a lonely 787 racer who had bridge up to him. Someone to work with at least....
Meanwhile, back in the peloton, quick decisions had to be made by Alex and Derek as they watched Paul pull steadily away. With a provocative wiggle of his rump, Alex had the riders around him entranced. Almost making them completely forget about the breakaway up the road. Unfortunately, this only worked for a short time but just enough time for Derek to jump to the front and feign a bridging attempt. It was only a matter of time before riders caught on to this scheme as they started shouting out, "Stop blocking!" With a smirk of satisfaction, Derek continued his soft pedaling routine until riders decided to act on their words and continue the chase.
Back up the road, the two riders of the break had entered into the final lap of the race and were deep in the darkness of the "pain cave." At this point, both riders had given their all but couldn't make any more of a gap. Mind weary and legs fatigued, the 787 rider sat up (to Paul disappointment). He could either continue by himself and hope his legs could carry him over the finish line or save them for the sprint. Paul weighed these options in his delirious mind, eye darting back and forth as if taking advice from an imaginary angel and demon perched on each shoulder (or were they?). Resolute on his decision, Paul also sat up.
The break had now been swallowed back up into the stomach of the peloton and the race came to a painfully slow pace. Every warrior waiting for the next move to be made with the miles slowly ticking down. Whether it was from boredom or a sudden need to berserk (we'll never know), Derek shot off the front in his own attempt to break from the pack. The chase lasted for a few miles but was soon reeled back in by the tired pack of riders. Fortunately, this kept Derek near the front as the finish line came into view.
At the line, your reporter stood squinting into the bright sunlight trying to catch a glimpse of the pack. Race after race had rolled over the finish line but non of them held any Comanches. Winners were made and spirits were broken over and over again. But when would Comanche Racing's fate be decided? Today? Tomorrow? The next century? (It could have been all the walking or the throbbing stitches in the hand but this patience was being tested.)
It turns out that the Gods were kind and a large group of riders came lumbering around the final corner. It was the largest group to come in through the finish and possibly the most treacherous. Remember, the center line rule was in effect for the ENTIRE race. This included the finish line where, traditionally, the full road is opened up at the 200 meter mark. Position was everything in this final half mile.
Spectators watched as figures shot out the back like dying sparks as the rocket-like peloton came burning towards the finish line. Eyes strained to see if "their guy" was in the front. To the delight of all the Comanche fans, Derek Alvarado pushed at the head of the packing, holding steady behind the first three riders to pass over the finish line.
It's official! Go Derek!
Thus ends the saga of the Tour of New Braunfels. And let it be written that Comanche Racing took 4th (Derek), 14th (Paul) and 18th (Alex) places. All of the hard work and training over the winter would not have been possible if not for our spectacular sponsors Frank (suppliers of delicious coffee and artisan sausages), Dominican Joe (caffeine purveyors and changers of the world), Nelo's Cycles (pro advisers and keepers of massive dogs) and Thunderbird Energetica (spiritual guidance and energy sweethearts).
Thanks for reading. Look forward to more race reports in the coming months. To keep up with Comanche antics feel free to "Like" us on the Facebook. Farewell, for now. I'll leave you with this sexy little picture.
-Luke J. Kalloch Esq.
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