A Half Way Review...

After a long reprieve from blogging, I am back at it again, due in part to the constant nagging of my father and grandfather. Probably more so, however, to the fact that I once again have something to write about and hopefully entertain a couple of you out there whom have requested the continuing stories. I left off about a year ago with the great news of finishing second in a stage in one of my final races in Switzerland. With this performance I finally felt that I had achieved my personal goal, and could finally take some time off the bike once I returned to the States. My season ended after over eighty race days, several victories, numerous top placing, and many lessons learned the hard way over in Europe that encompassed nearly a year of hard work. So after missing the first month of my senior year in high school, I gladly returned to my studies and my friends. My time off the bike only lasted a short three weeks and I soon returned to my usual training grounds of Breckenridge, the Bear, and of course Woody/ Glennville. By the time November came around training was in full bore. For that month I averaged over thirty thousand feet of climbing per week. By the time December came around I felt like a true climber, motivated by my suffering in the Czech Republic and Switzerland, I was focused on climbing harder and longer than ever before to ensure I would be the one inflicting the pain come next year. I soon realized the mortality of the body in way I had not yet experienced. Sickness befell me, and for two weeks I was reduced to lying in bed and making up school work. I was able to rest just enough to get on a plane to visit my mom and her husband in Qatar.
I spent the following two weeks in awe at the wealth of the Middle East. Everything there was on a different scale. Buildings were taller, the lights brighter, the streets cleaner, everything was immaculate. It seemed that money flowed easily and evenly to everyone that was willing to take it. The people were social there and never passed up a good time, and yet it seemed that they knew no hardship. Huge houses, personal drivers, in-house “nannies” to cook and clean, and new cars in every drive way (not Fords or Chevys like you see in Bakersfield, but BMWs, Mercedes, Jaguars…) was apparently the way of life. This wasn’t a place for the old, it seemed more of a place for the lively and young, people who wanted to leave their make, and make a lot of money while doing it. This was a place of the nouveau riche. I guess the only way to describe it would be by comparing it to New York City back in the ‘20s. I also went to Jordan while on my trip to explore Petra and some of the religious sites that seemed to be scattered throughout the country along with giant eroding castles from the Crusades. Jordan did not seem to be flourishing nearly as much as Qatar. Instead I found smog filled air, littered roads and fields, and many beggars. The historic sites were still fascinating; Petra is probably one of the most awe-inspiring places I have been- among the likes of Yosemite. Huge structures all carved out of the red rock of the area seemed to make the ancients appear Herculean. Walking in the footsteps of Indian Jones made it all the better. So for two more weeks I was off the bike, but I now felt healthy again and ready for some riding.
I was not sure how much endurance my legs had retained but I would soon find out. I made the twenty hour flight home, slept in my own bed for six hours, woke up to the grand smell of my father making waffles, and two hours later I was on a plane headed to Phoenix. Way back in October I found myself looking for a team to join. The past couple years I raced under my local bike shop- Team Action Sports- but I now felt I had enough experience and results to join a structured racing team. I soon found myself talking to Barney King, my team director for Europe during May. He was on board with a relatively new team called Race Lab presented by Waste Management. After discussing all the options with my father and coach, I decided to join Waste Management. Barney would be the team coach, and the manager would be Steve Cullinan. Fast forward to January and I am on the plane to Phoenix for the team camp to be held in Tucson. With no riding for a month under my legs, I basically ate my way through the training camp. I literally probably ate twice as much as everyone else on each ride. I had to, it was the only way to keep my energy up and prevent myself from bonking. The training camp went well none the less. Every guy on the team brought something a little different to the mix and the whole thing worked. Three of us were new to the team, and the others had already been together for at least a year. I knew one of the riders, Kiel Reijnen, from Europe, and I managed to get to know everyone else by the week’s end. The manager, Steve, turned out to be an great guy, never lacking in energy, and always supportive, and Barney was the same Barney from Europe and Canada- calm and cool, but ready to party when the time arose. Thus Team Waste Management was formed, each of us looking forward to the race season with our brand new race bikes and equipment.
The time period between the team training camp and the first big race of the season, Valley of the Sun Stage Race, was eventful but in the worst possible way. A training ride in late January turned into a bloody mess when I slipped on some ice while descending from Alta Sierra. The ride was going great up until that point. Just another long day in the saddle with all the hardest part of the ride complete and all that was left was the long “relative” descent back to Bakersfield. About half way through the descent from the top of Alta Sierra I was winding my way through the narrow road and was probably going a bit too fast but I felt it was justified since the road was basked in sun light. On one particularly tight right bending corner I suddenly looked down to catch a glimpse of a glistening substance beneath my tires. I was instantly reminded of my early season crash last year due to ice while descending on the back side of Lion’s Trail. I once again had the eerie feeling of my tires slipping out from underneath me and the unpleasant contact of my shoulder-elbow-hip-and knee (probably in that order) with the road. I slid into the adjacent lane and was stopped by the side of the mountain. I instantly jumped up, frustrated at myself for making such a fundamental mistake of winter training. I equally cursed the ice, and then I noticed pieces of motorcycle parts littered throughout the corner and I realized that I was not the only one to lay out on the cursed ice. By this time, after picking up my bike and quickly getting to other side of the road so as not to get hit by a car racing up the mountain for some afternoon snowboarding. I looked over my wounds- my shorts were shredded, my favorite USA long sleeve jersey was torn, and I was bleeding all along my leg and elbow. My bike was still in working condition, so I hopped on a pedaled with my left leg, my right leg hanging limply off the side of the bike, in a defeated and embarrassed state after not respecting the mountain roads. After a seemingly long ride back to Glennville, I used the rest stop’s phone to call my father for a ride home. While waiting I consoled myself with a BLT sandwich and French fries from the restaurant next door, and began to ponder how many days I would once again be kept away from my bike.
Scrubbing dirt and gravel out of your hip and knee is something that I hope never befalls anyone I know. I now had scars and both hips and knees from crashes, and I was starting to feel like my season would never take off. After two more weeks of down time I was able to start riding again. I rushed a few hard work outs to get some form back in order to prepare for my first race, Valley of the Sun (I was supposed to race in the Boulevard Road Race in San Diego, but the crash prevented my participation). So on February 13 I was back on a plane head to Phoenix once again.

(Thanks for checking back, the second half of the review to come soon)