El Tour de Tucson 2005
Although I've lived in Tucson since Fall 2003, it took until 2005 before I was settled enough to attempt to properly prepare for and experience this race. Participants range from Tour de France top-ten finishers and Olympians, to weekend racers to fitness cyclists to "once-a-year dust-off-the-bicycle" Tucson citizens. In other words, this is a bit like an organized marathon. A certain minority are going for the win or to finish with the leaders, another segment for personal bests or benchmarks times established by the organizers Perimeter Cycling (platinum, gold, silver and bronze), and some just to finish or be able to boast, perhaps as an annual rite of passage, that they've managed to bike over 100 miles again. This is the account of my first time at this storied Tucson event generally known simply as "El Tour", as in "are you going to be doing El Tour this year?".
Out of nearly 8000 riders, if I recall correctly, nearly 5000 do the 109 mile version of the event. The logistics and sheer numbers should scare you. Yes, on the one hand it's wonderful and indicates that cycling is a big draw here, but a huge pack of cyclists going in all directions and speeds is a scary thought. These kind of races are more common in Western Europe where bike racing has been a tradition for over a century. For example, there are numerous Gran Fondo races in Italy. Last race I did of this sort was La Marmotte in 1998. Held in the magnificent French Alps with 4000 cyclists racing the mountain passes made famous by the Tour de France, and finishing up on top of the 21 switchback climb of L'Alpe d'Huez, it's a cyclist's dream course. There are mountains and spectacular scenery surrounding Tucson on all sides. However, El Tour is based on a relatively flat circuit around Tucson. It also doesn't finish on top of Mt Lemmon or Kitt Peak, but it features two rather difficult dry river bed crossings.
Although El Tour is held annually in mid-November, my first thoughts about how to approach the event began back in April.
Given the size of the event, a certain section at the front near the start/finish line is reserved for qualifying "platinum category" cyclists. Among fitness cyclists in Tucson, it seems that getting a platinum pass or time at the Tour de Tucson seems to be a honorable and meritous goal. To get one, one has to meet certain qualifying criteria such as holding a USCF category 1 or 2 license, or to have completed the '02-'04 editions of the race in under 5 hours (men), or meet platinum times in other qualifying Perimeter Cycling events. Only the last criterion applies to me.
In April 2005, Perimeter Cycling ran the 70 mile Tour of the Tucson Mountains (TTM) starting and finishing in Marana. A platinum pass for El Tour is available to TTM finishers who can average 24.7 mph for the 70 miles, the cutoff time being 2 hours 50 mins. I plonked down about $70 to enter the event, tried to stay away from the crashes, also tried not to crash myself, and hoped for no delaying punctures or mechanicals. Despite lacking top fitness, apart from getting stuck briefly behind one small crash and consequently getting gapped near the end, I managed to stay out of trouble and keep rubber side down. I ended up with a time of 2:45:09, a 25.1 mph average and eh voila!, I was platinum-qualified.
Well, although I work at the university, it's not easy to make the 6am rides, especially if you live nearly an hour by bike away, but I decided I needed to do one fast ride a week. I selected their 81 mile Wednesday morning training ride which swings across town on Broadway, then down through Old Spanish Trail, across some relatively unpopulated stretches south of Tucson and back up through Mission Rd. Weeks of getting hammered on Pistol Hill Rd, Vail Rd, and Helmet Peak Rd climbs had their desired effect.
As November approached, I felt in the best shape I'd been in since I moved to Arizona. Excited, I sign up for the race. Ka-ching! About $75 in entry fees, plus for posterity I had to splash out on the official cycling jersey, shorts and socks for an additional $100+. It made picking up my free commemorative poster at Commerce Bank of Arizona in exchange for my name and address seem almost an act of charity.
I join the last GABA El Tour training ride which covers much of the race route. It's a bit disorganized, but it's a comfortable 21.2 mph average over 90 miles.
I haven't been doing the special GABA training series for El Tour. I only joined this last ride because it's a nice way to preview the race route. Unfortunately, the ride has the distinct deficiency of not going through any of the (critical) river crossings.
I'm told it's a mad high-speed dash from the start for 8 miles until the Santa Cruz river. I find the crossing dry but deep and full of sand. Man, I can't ride through that! It's going to be a huge bottleneck for hundreds of cyclists barreling down at it at 25 mph and then having to get off and run. (Post-race analysis: according to the powermeter data, I came into the crossing at 31 mph spinning 101 rpm and outputting 310W.) Despite reports to the contrary, I don't see how anyone can ride it on a road bike. A few frantic phone calls later, I'm told they sometimes use a CAT to scrap it out the night before.
Did the 81 miles at a good but not exhausting pace. I have good base fitness. I even did a 190 mile ride about 10 days ago. Pasta from now on until Saturday.
Beat the lines on Friday, picked up my race packet early on Wednesday evening. Race numbers. Electronic anklet timing device.
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OK, looks like I got here early enough to secure a prime spot for the big start, just behind the truly exclusive Platinum VIP section. Those guys can show up 10 minutes before the 7:00am start.
Remember it's a big dash down to the first river crossing. I'm told if you're not up near the front when you get to Drexel Rd, you'll never see the front again. Although, I see that 5am has garnered me a good spot in the reserved section, there are hundreds of cyclists already in the Gold section. Those guys really had to show up early.
It's freezing this morning, well, about 40F, as I settle down for the 2 hour wait. I'm well-prepared. I have a track suit over my cycling gear, a ski hat, gloves, chemical heating pads applied to my lower back and knees. Loud music from FM 92.9 The Mountain is blaring from the PA system. Note for next year: I need earplugs. No trainers are allowed in the section. I see lots of rear-wheel trainers set up in the parking lot. People must have brought two bikes, one for the race and one to warm up on. Note for next year: bring trainer and spare bike.
Put it all in a plastic bag. Toss it over the barrier. Remove all the chemical heating pads. They're good for four hours but I only needed two. All the clothing is collected later in a huge pile. I thought they'd discard them as trash, but I pick them up after the race.
Everyone edges forward. It's still chilly, but we'll soon not be worrying about the cold.
Into the first corner onto Congress St, out of the saddle all the way out of the corner, stomp on the pedals to try to hold my position. But I see people swarming and moving up on the left and right sides of the road. Post-race analysis: 2 minutes in I was doing 492W at 109 rpm, so it took a while to settle down. Don't have time to think or see. Just act. A waterbottle or two skitters its way across the road. Avoided. Watch for bumps in the road but it's curb-to-curb cyclists moving at 30 mph, so there is nowhere to go even if I can see a bump. We're a group of many hundreds of cyclists jockeying for position, trying to move up all the time.
Although I've checked out the first part of the route, the first river crossing arrives shockingly quickly. A huge cloud of dust ahead. Cyclists getting stuck in the sand and falling over. Guys trying to dismount, arms and legs akimbo, guys trying to half-wheel their bikes. I dismount, run a bit pushing my bike, carrying it a bit, pushing it some more. Sand and small rocks enter my shoes. Try to shake them out without stopping. I'm losing 20-30 positions. Note for next year: wear sacrificial time-trial booties.
Emerging from the crossing, I see no big lead group, only a long, thin line of cyclists up ahead of me. I chase hard, catching rider after rider, each of them affording me brief shelter from the wind before I jump again. After about 10 minutes of all-out chasing, I see the police motorcycles again, I'm back with the lead group. The group continues to swell as more and more people make it back. There must be at least 300 people here.
Up to now, apart from the chase after the first river crossing, given the huge adrenaline rush, it's not been that hard physically speaking. I've been told that patience is a virtue on El Tour: save your effort, stay out of the wind, avoid accelerating hard unnecessarily. I have been observant, and, besides, it's my first El Tour: I am here to learn how to ride it well. Nevertheless, let's quantify these feelings. Post-race download: we've hit 43 mph on the rollers. At times, I've been pedalling at 40 mph at 120 rpm putting out 300W.
Nevertheless, at high speed with a pack of hundreds strung out across the whole road, all trying to move up and gain positions on both sides, even if my legs don't feel it yet, El Tour has demanded my complete concentration. I've seen two or three crashes in the lead group already. One happened nearly right in front of me. There were a couple of riders down. Another rider spotted them a bit too late. No room to swerve. He jammed on his front brake and jacknifed over the front of his bike. I realize these things happen in a blink of an eye, but it's strange how time somehow dilates and I see him somersaulting in slow-motion and landing hard, his bike ejecting upwards and rotating in the air. Ouch, I don't wanna think about how painful that is at speed. I shudder and concentrate harder on staying in one piece. More waterbottles ejected from riders' bikes on bumps skitter across the road. I narrowly miss one or two of them too.
On corners, the pack compresses to fit into that narrow neck, at times I see riders at the inside have nearly no room and are squeezed into almost a standstill, riders at the outside edge are briefly edged off the road into the gravel. In the middle, we are literally handlebar to handlebar, careful not to overlap wheels. Out of the corner, it's pick a rider to follow, out of the saddle, stomp hard and recover. Through the eye of a needle, the pack stretches into a thin line and recovers its width time and time again. On small rollers, it's uncanny. Like a roller coaster ride: up and down, up and down. In a large pack it can even make you queasy just like a passenger in a motorcar.
The second river crossing arrives. I think I might be just barely in the top one hundred. It's so narrow. Riders flounder. I flounder. One leg out pushing the bike, other leg still clipped to the pedals. Damn, some people are able to find a line and ride through parts. This hobby horse style is costing me. Eventually, I have to get off and run. I lose even more positions. More sand and stones enter my shoes, it's affecting my pedalling. Exiting at Canyon Ranch, I thread my way through narrow streets, hyperventilating, out of breath and out of power, and still hemmorhaging positions. Onto the short steep climb on Snyder, I stomp up the best I can, but I know I've lost valuable time.
For the first time, there are visible gaps between small groups. I struggle to move up, then miracles-of-miracles a tandem passes by, and I gratefully latch onto its wheel like a limpet mine. It takes me all the way up on the rollers, catching rider after rider, small group after small group on Sunrise and Ina. We are now a group of about 30 riders as we make the turn north on Oracle Rd. We can see several riders up ahead with a police motorcycle escort. The chase is on. Unfortunately, once we catch those escorted riders, the whole group shuts down the chase. We are the 2nd group on the road. The front group are out of sight, maybe 5-6 minutes up the road and gone for good. We've missed the boat. (The gap at the finish to the second group is ten minutes.)
For the first time in the ride, I feel the racing has calmed down. The pace seems reasonable and there is little stress. Seems like the 2nd group has lost its will to race and is angling for a steady ride to the finish. That's fine with me. Up through Rancho Vistoso, onto Moore Rd and the always exhilarating, high-speed ride down Tangerine Rd, nothing much happens. We're basically averaging 25 mph.
Onto Avra Valley Rd and Airline Rd, up the short climb into Marana, I feel the headwind but I feel comfortable nestled in the 2nd group. My legs are fine. Nutritionally, I'm downing gels on a regular schedule. Hydration-wise, my 70oz+ Platypus will last for the entire ride. I feel I can manage this pace, maybe even think about going really hard when we get to Silverbell Rd.
Unfortunately, right after the top of the short climb, at mile 93.3 I hear a loud bang. My rear tire deflates instantly. The rear tube has exploded. I feel a bit sick as I roll to a stop, watching the group ride away. The tube seems to have split circumferentially along its seam. Knowing the capricious nature of bicycle equipment, I had put on a brand-new rear tire for this race a full two weeks earlier and worked it hard in training. How could I have pinched the tube between the tire bead and the rim, as conventional bicycle wisdom states I must have?
It takes me 5 precious minutes to strip the tube out, check for sharp objects, put in a spare and re-inflate with my CO2 cartridge. (Post-race, I later returned to the scene of the flat on two separate occasions to search for my discarded tube and cartridge, but someone had already disposed of them.)
Strangely enough, nobody has passed me during my tire change. This is bad news. A myth of El Tour shattered: the ride is so big there is always somebody to ride with. Ha! is all I can say to that. I remount and give solo chase knowing I will lose significant time to the 2nd group. With only 16 miles to the finish, even if they continue to just hold steady, there is no return possible. In fact, since nobody passed me during the tire change, there is nobody even remotely catchable. It's just a simple question of limiting my losses now.
Still, I get down low and flat on my handlebars, holding the Shimano STI brake cables and pedal at a measured but hard effort level. It's a case of high-precision self-torture heading south on Silverbell Rd. Unfortunately, it's also into a headwind and going slightly uphill. It's perhaps good I didn't go to the limit before, I need every ounce of energy now. For the first time, I'm watching my SRM powermeter as it measures out my effort. I'm on my own, no more police motorcycle escort. Approaching every interaction, I wave ahead to the marshals, hoping they'll see me coming and stop the traffic. They do. I blast through every intersection never needing to touch my brakes.
Nearing the end of Silverbell with a few miles to go, three riders make it up to me. Damn, I'm not doing as well I as should be. Still, we rotate, each of us sharing the headwind. We also catch one guy. As a result, my body has time to recover a bit. Nevertheless, the headwind has taken its toll, I'm sure I've lost additional precious minutes. I've put out as much steady power as I can in the most aerodynamic position I can muster, but I've only averaged a bit over 20 mph on Silverbell. Note to self: I need to be able to sustain higher lactic acid levels and improve my time-trialing.
Final turn onto Congress St, near the intersection with Interstate-10, we're swarmed by a large group, the 3rd-placed group on the road. Where did they come from? It's totally disheartening. In fact, it's the worst possible outcome. I've worked hard on the headwind on Silverbell with nearly no help, only to be caught and swallowed up by a bunch of guys in the last mile who are going to outsprint me for 100th place. I might as well have waited in Marana eating a banana.
Final turn onto Granada, last tenth of a mile, I make a half-hearted attempt to sprint. I've lost a total 10 minutes and about 20 additional places to the 2nd group as a result of the flat. 5 minutes for fixing the flat. 5 minutes for the chase.
Final time: 4:42, 23.5 mph average including the river crossings. A not unreasonable time considering the truly untimely flat. As a small consolation, I was comfortably inside the platinum cutoff (sub-5 hours), but the way it happened was deeply unsatisfying. What can you do? I have to try again next year. By the way, the 2nd group I was with before the flat came in around 4:32 and the lead group (whom I never saw after the 2nd river crossing) finished around 4:22. In summary, the best I could have done without incident would have been to finish with the 2nd group. The river crossings are decisive, I don't really see how I could have made the lead group after the 2nd crossing.
Sandiway Fong
Tucson AZ