I go in to most races with one simple goal; to do my best and leave it all out on the course. LoToJa was a little bit different in that I wanted something to show forall of my effort. My minimum goal was to make the final selection, which I assumed would be the one that happens on Salt River Pass. My stretch goal was to finish on the podium, which for this race means top 5 in my group.
LoToJa should be America's classic. At over 200 miles long with roughly 8k of climbing,it rivals anything Europe has to offer. After riding it (but no monuments!) I think it's a lot like Milan-San Remo, the longest and most boring of the monuments. MSR is known as 'the sprinters classic' because it's mostly flat with a few easy climbs thrown in that favor an all rounder with a strong sprint, think Peter Sagan or Simon Gerrans. The climbs are so easy even Cavendish has won it. For most of us that means 200 miles of BOOORRRINGGG with a few miles of cat and mouse action at the finale.
I'm targeting this report at the dedicated racer who wants to be competitive at LoToJa, not just finish it. I'm a 38 year old lifer cat 3. Knowing that the 35A field is traditionally faster than the 1/2's, and knowing that I don't belong with the cat 1/2's, I elected to race the 3/4 field. I spent a few days scouring the internets for reports from racers who finished with the lead group, which was my goal, to try and get a feel for how the race would go down. Apparently, fast guys don't write race reports. I went in to the race thinking that the first major climb, Strawberry pass, with it's 3000 feet of vertical gain, would be selective. I trained for it by riding at tempo on flat roads for an hour then hitting my local 3500' climb at maximum effort, which is what I anticipated for race day. Of course I put in huge miles over the course of the season. I have no idea what the total was but the capstone of my training regimen was a 190 mile ride with 15k of vertical.
Race day dawned a warmer than expected 60 degrees. Overcast skies but little threat of rain helped keep things warm. I elected to neither wear nor carry any foul weather gear, and I was delighted to not have to deal with arm warmers or a jacket. My decision proved to be the right one as we had highs in the 70's and not a single rain drop fell on me. The first 30 minutes or so were a bit chilly, but that's par for the course with a 6:18am start. My goal for the first leg, through Preston to the base of strawberry, was to take exactly zero pulls on the front of the group. The first 25 or so miles is on highway through the cache valley. Plenty of shoulder to ride on, and plenty of bodies to share the work. I stayed near the front, but never on it. Every time I would drift up to 3rd or 4th wheel I would pop out of the lineup and drift back to 15th or so. Sometimes blowing my nose or having a bite to eat to try and make it look like I wasn't just skipping pulls. The group was exceedingly polite and I never had a problem getting back in the lineup. Nor did I get any stink eye for not doing my share of the work. There were a couple of guys that I noticed doing an awful lot of work on the front, both built like bodybuilders and wearing Christian Cycling Club kit. Near the base of strawberry one of them started talking Tour De France and how he subscribed to NBC Universal just to watch the Tour. Me and another guy engaged him, then started talking about the Vuelta which was in full swing. Mr. CCC said 'what's the Vuelta?'. That confirmed my suspicion that we wouldn't be seeing him on the front (or the back, or anywhere else) much longer.
About this time we hit the strawberry/Emigration Canyon climb proper. I had a mileage cue sheet taped to my top tube and I had been waiting for the climb to start. According to the elevation profile the climb was 20 miles long with 3k of vertical gain. Never having seen it before, I assumed it would be similar to my local 16 mile 3500' climb. I was wrong. For the first 10 miles the gradient can't have been more than 3%, yet our speed was only in the low teens, 13-14mph. I kept waiting for the attacks to happen or the grade to pitch up, neither of which ever occurred. I think the max grade on that climb is 6%, which is the average of Bogus Basin Rd, my benchmark. I had been bragging to anyone who would listen over the course of the season that LoToJa isn't just a ride, it's a freakin race. So I kept trying to make it one. When I knew we were near the top I moved to the front of the group and proposed that the few of us who were clearly the strongest put in some digs and try to drop some of the wheelsuckers. My proposal was declined, we need more bodies to work across the flats, they said. The real move happens on Salt River, keep your powder dry until then, they said. I was in no position to argue, as I didn't really want to ride 150 miles solo. So I let them make the pace. Through the aid station, up the last little pitch, then on to the descent to Montpelier. On the descent I was playing games, slingshotting off the lead few guys without pedaling, hopping in and out of the lineup, trying to have some fun. Everybody but mo-hawk guy, a Zanconato rider who had a plastic mohawk glued to his helmet, made it clear that this was serious business and no place for games. Montpelier was the first of three stops my crew was to meet me for a feed. We had choreographed the days program of 3 feeds in minute detail, or so I thought. I had carefully packed 2 musette bags for the first 2 feeds, Montpelier and Afton. My crew, well meaning and seemingly capable, were to put the few items that I had listed into one of the 2 recovered bags so they could hand them up at the third feed. At Montpelier the hand up went exactly as planned. I grabbed the musette, slung it around my body, extracted a gel flask, the turkey lunch meat I had in a sandwich bag and a single bottle of HEED. The nerves and apprehension about not dropping the bag outside the designated drop zone got to me, and I ended up tossing the bag prematurely. Right in front of another rider no less, luckily without consequence for him. I meant to grab all 3 bottles that were in there, plus all the clif bloks I had packed. I wasn't too worried, as I was confident I had enough to get me to the next aid station at Afton, but I knew I would be running low by then.
In between Montpelier and Afton are the 2 remaining "climbs". Geneva is barely worth mentioning, much less naming. It's a smallish highway climb, just long enough to have a passing lane. At this point in the race I had to pee something fierce. During my pre-race prep this was one of my major concerns. I've tried to learn how to pee while riding, but stage fright has always prevented me from succeeding. The low intensity of the 'race' up till this point had allowed me ample time to eat and drink. In fact I had basically stopped drinking because I had to pee so bad. At the top of Geneva I drifted to the back of the group and tried to pee. I got so far as to hang my dick in the wind, but the moto ref was right behind me, and the little voice in my head wouldn't let me forget that he was watching. I quickly gave up on that plan and chased back to the group. I finished up my bread-less turkey sandwich and jumped in the rotation for the ride to Salt River pass, the dreaded KOM. In between Geneva and Salt River are miles and miles of false flat uphill. The grade is super mellow, and with everybody in the group working we had no trouble keeping the speed above 20mph. There was a steady stream of droppage from the fields ahead of us, plus a few of the faster cyclosport riders drifting back through our group. We did a good job of keeping the pace line single file and to the right of the white line, but the fact that we were rotating pulls and the occasional dropped rider spending time talking to their buddies in our group meant that we occasionally were 2 or 3 wide across the road. Traffic at this point is still extremely light and despite the fact that we were in a sanctioned race I felt like we were very conscious of cars and quite polite. Regardless, as we hit the 1km to the KOM start sign, the head ref pulled our whole field over. I was towards the front of the group, so as I went past her into the turnout I asked if I could go to the bathroom while she talked. She said "Sure, I don't care if you pee while I talk!" So I commenced doing exactly that. While she relayed how pissed off the Wyoming highway patrol was about our breaking the law by not riding single file, I did some pissing off the side of the road. I had gotten to the point where I was considering pissing in my shorts or even, gasp, stopping to relieve myself, I had to go so bad. I've never cared enough about a race to think pissing myself was worth it, but then I'm usually not fighting for the podium either. With 100+ miles to go it was too early to tell if I would be duking it out for the top 5 today, but my legs felt great, my attitude was incorrigible and I liked my chances.
Properly admonished and feeling wonderfully lightened, the ref allowed us to continue on to the KOM Salt River Pass climb. I left the turnout as I had come into it, at the front of the group. I soft pedaled and looked over my shoulder until it was clear that the train had all it's cars, concurrently we started the official KOM climb. I had no intention of trying be the king of the mountain, neither for my group nor overall. But if this climb is indeed where the final selection is made, I intended to be in it. When the group was back together I lifted the pace just a little bit. No out of the saddle sprinting, no Froome style staring at stem, just a gradual acceleration to a pace I knew I could sustain for the duration of a 4 mile climb. I pedaled for a few seconds, then looked over my shoulder to see if I had drawn out any of the strong guys. To my surprise and dismay, I was on my own with a few seconds gap. At this point I was sick of the boring, static pace of this so called 'race'. I'm here to race my bike, dammit, and race I will. So I muttered 'fuck it' to myself, put my head down, and fucking buried it. Now I'm sprinting out of the saddle and looking over my shoulder to see if anyone has the gumption to chase me down. Mohawk guy looked like he was trying to get me for a while, but he was dragging the whole group with him. The gap stayed steady for the next mile or so, then I looked back and it was clear that they had given up. I continued to give max effort through the top of the climb, grabbed a bottle of water from the neutral aid and rolled down the other side. In hindsight, this was my biggest mistake. I should have used the 1.5 minutes I took from the group to do a major resupply at the aid station. Knowing that my crew probably wouldn't be in Afton, a mere 25 miles away by now, I could have taken 3 full bottles of brew and loaded up on chomps and other snacks, negating the need to feed in Afton. But I didn't.
As I rolled down the other side of the hill an older gent who had been dropped from the master A field (the fastest in the race, recall) was with me. I started bouncing the idea of a solo effort all the way to the finish line off him, just for shits and giggles. I assumed he was a seasoned racer so might have some insight. Just about this time we passed a sign that said '95 miles to go' and my only option suddenly became clear. 95 miles solo trying to hold off a group that was working well together? I'm no Tony Martin,but I can't imagine even he could pull that off. I sat up and after a few minutes got picked up by what was left of the field, about 10 guys. We went in to the climb with about 30, so whittling it down to 10 was alright. I would have been far happier with a final selection of 5, thus guaranteeing each of us a spot on the podium, but I had to take what I could get.
On the ride down from Boise my crew and I discussed in detail the plan for race day. The race organizers had a designated route for support cars that was different from the race route. Certainly a well intentioned plan, and it made for an exceptionally pleasant ride. All the way up Emigration Canyon I think we passed a dozen cars. After Montpelier they had the northbound lane of the road closed and they were using a pilot car to run traffic in an alternating one way pattern in the southbound lane. Even though the road was theoretically open, I think we saw less than 50 cars until the junction with highway 89. For the segment between Montpelier and Afton, the delta between the designated support vehicle route and the race course is huge. The racers have to ride only 44 miles, while the cars have to travel a little over100. At race pace, 44 miles could be less than 2 hours. With traffic, 100miles in a car could be more than that. I thought my crew and I were clear that they probably wouldn't make it to aid 5 in Afton in time, so if there was any doubt about beating me there they should just skip it and go straight to the next aid station in Alpine. When we arrived in Afton I wasn't surprised by the fact that my crew was nowhere to be found. I was well fed and hydrated at this point, but my bottles and pockets were all completely empty. I rolled through the crewed area and pulled up to neutral support expecting to find rows upon rows of pre-filled bottles like they had at the top of Strawberry and Salt River Pass. Fear struck when I realized that not only were there no pre-filled bottles, but there was no cadre of eager volunteers waiting to help. I frantically pulled in to the water coolers, probably blocking access for someone else in my field, and proceeded to fill the 3 bottles I had. It took way too long, I watched most of the other riders get replenished by their crews and ride off down the road. Bottles full, I grabbed a huge hand full of Gu chomps and remounted while stuffing them in my bento box. In desperation I dug deep trying to catch back on with the group. There was road construction under way and traffic pylons guiding cars into 2 of 4 lanes on the highway. Things were pretty nervous all around, cars and riders all jockeying for position. I heard a commotion right behind me and assumed a rider had gone down but it turned out to just be a pylon getting knocked over. After a few minutes of chasing, another racer from my field pulled around me and dragged me the last few hundred meters back to the group. Relieved, I sat in with the rest of the group and had myself a snack.
The next section of the course is super boring, luckily we had a strong tail wind and kept an average speed in the high 20's, 26-28. There were rumble strips on the shoulder to keep things interesting when rotating through the lineup. A constant stream of droppage came and went off the group, everybody was extremely polite and understood that they couldn't do any work that would affect the outcome of our race. The 10 guys in the hunt kept a good rotation going while a bulb of hangers on milled about just off the back. Eventually we pulled in to Alpine, where I fully expected to be greeted by my able crew and take on the bottle of diluted red bull I had staged for this point in the race, plus everything that I had missed in Afton. I thought I heard somebody call my name as I pulled up to the designated spot, 7.1 of the feed zone markers. I stopped and yelled but got no response. Confused but not willing to waste any more time, I rolled yet again to the neutral area and grabbed another handful of chomps. I had really been looking forward to the turkey lunch meat in musette #2, but I had to settle for the blue flavored chomps that were all I could get. Good thing I don't have a sensitive stomach, changing your diet on race day is a big no no.
I felt more than adequately fed and hydrated, so I wasn't particularly worried about bonking before the line. I even wondered for a second if something besides cluelessness had gotten a hold of my crew. Car wreck? Moose attack? DQ? No matter, my legs felt great and my competition looked adequate at best. Most of then were starting to show signs of strain.
The Snake river canyon is a quite enjoyable part of the course. False flat uphill with some small to medium rollers. Traffic was consistent with the previous hundred miles, plenty of shoulder to ride on but the occasional semi to keep you on your toes. I regularly upped the pace on some of the bigger rollers, begging someone to come with me, sometimes just by looking back, sometimes by chastising my compatriots. Never did I get any takers. One guy rolled off the front by himself. I immediately bridged over and tried to talk him into making a break for it. He made it clear his tank was empty and he wouldn't be pushing the pace for long. So much for racing.
After the canyon there is a section of rollers. I think this is the hoback junction area, but I wasn't paying close attention at this point, so I'm not 100% sure. I was sure that we were coming in to the last 20 miles or so of the race. According to my computer, we were on pace to break 9 hours which far exceeded my pre-race estimate of 9:20. By thispoint in the race I had pretty much given up on making a seperation happen before the line. I'm wily enough to pull a podium from a 10 up sprint, and I felt so good I thought I had a shot at the win. So I took my turns on the front and waited for the 1 minute of racing after eight and a half hours on the bike. Some other guy got a little frisky just before we turned off the highway. I bridged up to him and gave it what I got. The group made it clear they weren't letting us go and chased us down directly. In my head I kept asking 'when do we go again', but I never quit thinking about it and just went for it. In hindsight, that was weak sauce.
After the highway there is a really nice section of residential road with views of the Tetons. It's pretty easy to forget about racing and just enjoy the ride for a few miles. There is a short section of bike path that takes you under the highway. For future reference, anybody that goes in to that section solo or in a small group will have an advantage over a larger group. Then there are only a few more miles to the finish line at the Jackson Hole Alpine village. The first real sign that we were close was a literal sign, 4k to go. The tension in the group ratcheted up even though the pace didn't. Having never seen the course or the finish line before, I wasn't sure what to expect. For some reason I thought we would turn off the main road and the finish line would be on a side road in the village. We kept rotating until about the 1k to go sign, at which point the cat and mouse games began. I was on the front at 1k to go and tried to pull out so I could mark the rest of the group. Now I could see that the line was in fact on the main road that we were already on. Sprinting from the front sometimes works, but I have better luck sneaking up from behind. At about 400 to go someone did exactly that. The telltale WHOOP WHOOP of carbon wheels under load telegraphed that it was go time. I stood on the pedals and tried to break my bike in half but didn't feel like I was accelerating as fast as I should be. I guess 200 miles had robbed me of some snap. There was only one guy who matched my effort, I couldn't quite get him. I watched the instigator start to fade at 100 to go, but it was too late. I came across the line in 3rd, not too bad for a first attempt.
After it was all said and done, our elapsed time was about 8:46, right around 10' faster than the previous course record. It turns out that the cat 1/2 field beat us by about 1:30, setting the new course record. When I reviewed the KOM results, I discovered that I climbed Salt River about 1:30 faster than the rest of my field. If they would have kept up with me, we might have set the course record. Something must have happened to the master A field, they finished 12' slower than our 3/4 field. When going up the Snake River canyon near the end of the race I did notice a group of riders and vehicles in a turnout. It looked like the aftermath of a pretty serious crash. I'm hypothesizing that it was the master A's, but I have nothing to corroborate my theory.
In hindsight, I made 2 major mistakes. I should have taken an extended feed break at the top of Salt River Pass. This would have negated my panicky chase from the feed zone in Afton and left that much more in my legs. I also should have attacked relentlessly between 20 or so and 10 miles to go. If I had attacked and countered and attacked some more I'm sure I would have broken at least half the group. If that didn't work I should have sat in from 10 miles to go until about 2k to go, then laid it all out there Cancellara. I'm sure I could have gotten a gap by accelerating from the back, then 2k of full gas time trial effort might have been enough for the win.
At least I would have left it all out there.
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