The Cat 3 Schmuck Schleps to Tulsa
Sometimes it seems like the hardest part of racing is getting to the race. Stan and I were going to get to Tulsa for all three races, come hell or high wind, and take home some of the abundant cash on offer. Never mind that I'm not much of a crit rider, had work conflicts and Murphy was out to get us with his law.
I managed to get my Friday shift covered at work but still had to close the gym late Thursday night and hadn't pre-registered. This left Friday morning to pack and added the pressure of arriving before registration closed an hour before start time. Also, I still had a training client to meet at 10:00 in the morning. We agreed that we needed to leave at noon, and it was my turn to drive, which meant leaving to pick Stan up even earlier. As is typical for me, and in spite of my having risen early to pack, I was still running late. I was just loading the truck at noon when Stan called and explained that due to some new circumstances, he felt that he should drive. Now that he had scored us lodging for free and was driving too…and I hadn't registered, I was feeling like, well, a schmuck.
Finally on the road an hour behind schedule, we hit the expected traffic on 35 North leaving Fort Worth, but didn't lose any time we couldn't make up. Then there were the expected construction delays in southern Oklahoma. We'd still make it in time. In Oklahoma City, rush hour was getting an early start. We became a little worried, but it's only another hour to Tulsa right? Wrong. Tulsa: 90 miles. Now we both needed a nature stop and didn't have time to take it. We could practically see Tulsa when…standstill traffic. We were at the point where every bump in the road is an insult to your bladder. We get through the traffic with a little time to spare, but then the exit that Stan's directions said to take was closed for construction. The nature stop would wait no longer. From where we stopped, I recognized a street name from the directions, so from there we found our way to the course by Braille…just in time to register.
Now that we had an hour to kill we enjoyed a long warm up on the course, which was going to be a fun one—even for a crit head-case like myself. In an effort to break my bad crit habits, I lined up early and at the front. Right from the start I made efforts not to be intimidated by larger or more aggressive riders. I was going to stay in the top 20 no matter who or what…crash--right ahead of me. Sparks, bikes and bodies everywhere and spreading out. I can't get around it. I squeeze through a six-inch gap between a wheel and the curb. I still have a few behind me, not many.
I worked my way back up to the front and fight my chicken-s nature staying there, but with six to go, I watch two more guys come together and lock up in the same spot. More sparks, bikes and bodies flailing in front of me. The only route I find around this one is through the parking lot where the band is playing. The alternateens seem surprised by the stray bike racers. From far off the back I managed to bridge back up without going anaerobic. The pace had slowed, the pack had condensed and a chicken like myself had no access to the front. Strike one at the cash. Stan missed it by a slim margin.
Saturday was hot and we hung around at the venue dehydrating for too long prior to our start. The course was too wide and flat for my taste, but the bikini bike wash on the backside was a nice touch. The pack stayed bunched up all day and, lacking the legs to help break things up, I reverted to my overly submissive crit habits. Stan was in position for some money in the second to last corner when the guy inside of him clipped a pedal and looked like a Romanian gymnast…well, maybe not. Strike two. The day was redeemed when we got to witness 19 year-old Shannon Koch proving that it was possible on that course to win with a long solo break, even against veteran pro women. That was inspiring.
Day three: last chance for cash. Good news: the conflict today would be more man vs. nature than man vs. man--specifically, man vs. gravity. Should be my kind of race. Assuming that the field would shatter early and a break of 5-10 would emerge, I started aggressively with an early break of three, one of whom was a spoiler, then a one lap dash for a prime in which Nathan Leigh roller-coaster-ed the second hill, caught me, and took $20 right from my pocket. Thanks pal. At the midpoint with at least 30 riders left in the pack I knew I'd better catch some rest. With a few laps remaining I knew I'd used all of my jumps and would have to hope for someone else to string out the group, preventing a bunch sprint. With two to go, someone volunteered but no one had the legs to follow him, so he just went on to finish alone. Smart move.
At one to go, Stan fired a shot across the bow that forced everyone into battle mode and nearly killed me. Once I got my speed up on the second half of the big climb I moved back up, but on the descent of the second climb I was reminded that I make a better kite than an anchor as 4-6 guys came around my right, stealing my inside line on the final turn. I had to plan on using less road-space in the corner and move right to discourage any more passing. The bunch slowed enough at the corner that I still had my choice of sprint lines. What I lacked was sprint legs. I still salvaged 12 th , though, and still had some money to take home—almost as much as I'd spent. Stan snagged 17 th for some cash of his own. It wasn't a lucrative weekend but it was cheap, and in spite of our troubles we achieved our goal, sort of.
Overall, these were some of the best-organized races I've ever been to and even as cat 3's we were given star treatment by the commentators, bands and spectators. The courses were fun and set in high profile locales, exposing clubbers, diners and park users to the spectacle of urban crit racing. As cool towns go, Tulsa's the best-kept secret in the Midwest.