The Boys 10-12 group absolutely ripped out of the start gate with hometown hero Grant McElroy bringing the gold glory by only a wheel in the finishing sprint. Grant – you’re our hero! Portland salutes you!

In the Womens 13-14 group, Katrina Howard nailed her 8th stars and stripes jersey by riding straight off the front of the group, lapping the entire field, and then attacking them in the final lap so she could finish alone and post up in peace. Astounding.

And if that wasn’t enough, the Mens 13-14 group was even battier. Phillip O’Donnell and Daniel Park zipped off to open up a gap in the early laps, trading pulls like a couple of seasoned pro-tour riders. When they caught and lapped the field, they decided to sit at the front, dragging an entire chasing peloton up to the small group that had initially been behind them. And if that wasn’t weird enough, there was a HUGE crash in the final lap that took Park down.

With an entire lap on the field and a non-functioning bike, Park ran for the last quarter of the course, just beating a hard-charging peloton behind him to secure his silver medal. He pulled a sweet ‘cross remount about 4 feet from the finish line and crossed it on his bike, smiling through a mouth full of blood. Then he stopped and let me take an awesome photo of his bloody-mouthed grin.

No time for captions today as I’m running on four hours sleep and shooting out the door to shoot a day’s worth of time trials. You can see full results and more coverage at USAC’s website or browse hundreds of great participant photos over at Cascade Event Photography.

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Yesterday kicked off USA Cycling Elite, U23 and Junior Road Championships and the Paralympics National Road Championships in Bend, Oregon and, though these early groups (the youngest kids) aren’t the big name headliners who will draw crowds this weekend, they are the athletes who define this event.

They’re the next generation of cycling greats. They’re little people riding their guts out, getting nervous before the race, puking after, sobbing when they win (or lose), crashing in the first 2k and getting back on their bikes to finish the race. They’re the real deal and it was an honor to be on hand to watch the drama unfold.

And the para-cyclists? Don’t even get me started. You want inspiration? You want a good reason to never open your trap again to complain about anything ever? Come watch one of these events. Talk about the power of the human spirit….

Click through the slideshow below to view all the images. Click a photo once to reveal the description / information about the image. If you’d rather view these on Flickr, hit the “USAC Road Nationals 2010″ link on the upper lefthand corner.

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*****

You can tell a lot about what type of person someone is by the following situation. Imagine you’re in a restaurant in a foreign country (say, a ‘stan or something eastern European or Asian). Your traveling partner takes a bold step and orders something off the menu that they haven’t been able to translate. When the food arrives, they take one bite and pronounce it one of the foulest, most disgusting things they’ve ever eaten and then ask you if you want a taste. Do you: a.) say you are satisfied with their empirical research about the nastiness of the foreign food and using common sense, refuse to put whatever glob of animal parts it is in your mouth? Or, b.) say “I’ve got to try to this for myself.” If you said b.), then you should definitely sign up for the Rapha ride next year!

It started out so well. On the way to the coast, the girls saw a dead chicken (good sign – one of sacrifice), I saw the Embrocation team (good sign – one of hotness). And then, well, things went array like the best laid plans of mice and men.  Here’s my in-eloquent, scatological-themed take on the day:

Mile 0/parking lot: Parking lot contains a coffee stand, two outhouses and a lot of cyclists. These are all good signs. I put my directional tyres on the wrong way but this bad sign is mitigated by our good moods and constant referrals to “Die Hard.”

Mile 1: We have ridden one mile when McGraw makes note of how far we have gone. Someone says that McGraw is not allowed to give us any more mile markings until we have one mile to go. We started going uphill. The pitch is mild. This is a good sign.

Mile 6: We had made it uphill. No one has exploded, bonked or thrown up during the climb (as opposed to my performance on a recent team ride up Newberry). Good signs.

Mile 7: Heading down hill, I veer directly into a pot hole and pinch flat. Though this race is unsupported, I still put my hand up hoping for a wheel car. We change the tyre like a NASCAR team who has just taken hits of meth followed by shots of Red Bull. Despite the speed, the Rapha Continental team that started three minutes behind us comes by. Bad sign.

Mile 9: We pull out onto Hwy 101 and see the Rapha team up the road. The camera crew comes up and Susan puts in some good quality PPT (Peithman Pain Train) time on the front. She smiles for the camera and we try not to blow snot rockets or spit while they’re filming. Rapha team is getting closer. Good sign.

Mile 10: Heading up hill, a chain gets dropped. We slow to get it back on. Kind of a bad sign, but shit happens.

Mile 11: With the Rapha team in sight, I hear the voice of God/Laura McGraw: DRILL IT, STEPH. So I do, and after a little while I noticed that no one is behind me. My initial reaction is that the massiveness of power generated by my thighs has destroyed my team in all of thirty seconds. Then reality sets in and it becomes apparent that something has happened and they’ve all slowed down while I’ve done a Cofidis-trying-to-get-my-face-on-camera-move. Bad signs beginning to write something on the wall but I can’t make it out yet.

Mile 12: We have a situation and we’re not sure what it is. Allergic reaction? Asthma? As we turn off 101 onto some farmer’s road, Schweitzer flats and I continue my quest to hit every pothole between Otis and Portland and knock my wheel out of tru. The assessment is we will keep riding and hope that whatever is happening will improve.

Mile 30: No improvement. We have a very sick person but are in the middle of Deliverance-nowhere, Oregon. The Rapha ride is now being referred to as a “shit vortex” and “the perfect shit storm.” The bad signs have clearly written “you are screwed, ladies.”  Our sick person does a great Charlton Heston impression when we asked her if she wants to get off her bike to rest or abandon. We are told we will have to pry her bike from her cold, dead hands before she quits.

Mile 64: First check point. Coca-Cola is the greatest contribution to mankind. Sick person is still sick. Almost every team has passed us on the road. But who cares about the laterne rouge when your only goal is to get someone home and make sure they are ok?

Mile 74: We joke about how the climbers (Gunderson :) would not enjoy these 3-4% graded climbs.

Mile 76: The Rapha Conti team gets one of the four flats that we see. There is a ridiculous descent down a gravel round, though to call the size of those rocks “gravel” is inaccurate. They are little knife balls of death waiting to shred my tyres.

Mile 77ish?: I flat. Again. We flag down Dave Roth and take his Gatorade and a tube.

Mile 80ish: Peithman and I get sno cones in Carlton. Snickers are the greatest contribution to mankind.

Mile 92ish?: Forest Grove area?

Mile 110: North Plains. I could have kissed the ground. We can see the West Hills.

Miles 125 – 135: McGraw leads us to the Hwy 26 bike path on a route that involves cutting through fields and carrying our bike across a construction zone.  This is interesting.

Mile 137ish? Going up through the zoo, a bum offers us some wine out of his brown bag. I almost get off the bike and have a drink with him. Screw Ron Toms! We then see a tranvestite photo shoot on the Burnside bridge. Good sign!

Mile 139: Jesus H. Christ, we lived through it.

It was a bittersweet expirience and somewhat emblematic of the season (or, at least my season); great expectations mitigated by bad luck. But it’s easy to love your team when things are going well. It’s when the shit hits the fan and things get tough (like riding 130 when you’re ill), when finding the bonds of solidarity and support are difficult. But we rode those last 130 miles, when things were going to utter scheisse, like a team, supporting, pushing/pulling, feeding and doing breathing exercises with each other. And Heather brought us roses at the end.

Gentlemen’s Race, we’ll get you next year!

~Stephanie Chase

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Besides the fact that I L-O-V-E the rain (you can throw punches at me next time you see me for saying that, but it’s true), I also love to run. Which is probably why I love cyclocross so very, very much.

I love running (and cross) so much that I convinced my editor at the O to let me write my last column about tennis shoes instead of pedaling. Sweet! A cycling column about running.

Mash on this link to read it: My Secret Runner’s Heart

Enjoy and thanks for reading!

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I am in San Jose at Anti-Training Camp, gorging on carbs and fat, not a bicycle in site. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, XTerra Portland is set for August 15th out at Hagg Lake.

Hagg Lake holds a lukewarm spot in the heart of every roadie who’s ever braved February weather to race the heralded Banana Belt World Championship here.  I don’t know why we insist on racing in February, but we do.  And we pretend to like it – sometimes.

If you ask me, the knobby-crew has it right. Race Hagg in August when it’s hot, dry, and fabulous.

The mountain-biking will be fierce, the swimming watery, and the running bumpy as nearly 200 competitors compete for triathlete bragging rights. (The course covers a 1000 meter swim, 25 kilometer mountain bike and a 5.5-mile trail run).

So many questions to be answered – not least of which is who will take home the bulk of the prize purse. Beyond the big winner?  Can XTerra cool-ify triathlon?  MTB crossover roadies are always just a little cooler than their roadie-exclusive counterparts, no?  What happens when you mix the classic hyper-Type-A triathlon personality with the indescribable lightness of the fat-wheel assault?

I wish I could be there to tell you, but I can’t.   If you get a chance, go watch.  I’m pretty sure it’s going to be rad – and I know a few triathlete-turned-roadie-turned-mountainbikers (ahem, Kristin!) who might represent the untapped future potential of this growing sport.

XTerra attack!!!

(Mucho information about the event available online.)

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I’m at the Cascade Cycling Classic doing some race coverage and this shindig is going off.

The mens field is stacked. (STACKED) The women’s field is stacked. And the pace so far has been pretty off the charts. (The men rode today’s race 30 minutes faster than last year) Stage winner Oscar Sevilla covered the 80-mile course in under 3 hours, averaging almost 28 mph.

That’s just sick.

Anyway, it’s late and I’m fried (literally and figuratively) so, without further ado, a brief photo preview of the stage. Apologies about the centering issues… can’t figure out what’s going on and too tired to deal with it tonight!

Rock.

Face reflection.

Doomed breakaway.

Sevilla drinks.

Post-race.

Media car.

Three Creeks climb.

Evelyn wins (again).

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This shit is good.  And, up until today, it was good in the good way: exciting breaks, emotional victories, and big crazy sprints. The only thing that was lacking was the GC action, and I was content to wait until week three for that story to unfold.

You can’t talk about today’s stage without talking about George Hincapie and the Big Five Seconds that kept him out of yellow.  It was the story of the day, overshadowing both the death of a 60-year-old spectator and the victory of Ivanov, who finished an amazing ride with a picture-perfect attack that looked risky but ultimately delivered the goods.

Today may not have been the Tour’s best day – but it was probably the most dramatic. Hincapie pissed at Garmin. Bruyneel denouncing Garmin. Garmin claiming innocence. Cavendish with a questionable and severe relegation that may ultimately cost him green. Thor thundering. AG2R confused but happy.

And George. George sitting there with his family in town watching Nocentini put on a yellow jersey that could have been his but for five seconds.

You can’t write this shit.

And as much as it sort of makes me want to cover my ears and scream, “JUST RACE YOUR BIKES!”, the high drama makes for some damn good television.  Screw Days of our Lives – we have Days of Our Tour… our own rolling soap opera complete with villains and heroes and ridiculous plots and unexpected twists and really terrible commercial interruptions just at the wrong time.

It’s almost as funny as it is tragic because sadly, many of the same kinds of dramas play out in our local races, too.  Just go to PIR and stand next to the officials truck after the race – you’ll be regaled with emotional complaints about “blocking” or bad tactics or bad riding or bad body odor – or whatever.  Road cyclists are, frankly, renowned for their ability to piss and moan about stuff.  Let’s not take ourselves too seriously – it’s what we do.  We should own it.

It’s part of the deal.  And putting the world’s fastest riders in the world’s biggest race, crammed with favorites and egos and ambition and money? It’s like a pressure cooker for all things road cycling.

It means career-making performances, sobbing German victory salutes, shit-talking sprinters, and steely-faced GC contenders. And it also means days full of drama and questions and accusations.

It’s a good Tour, with all its ups and downs – and let’s not forget that it’s also the first Tour in which we haven’t (yet) seen a huge doping scandal come to fore (someone go knock on wood for me, asap). I’ll take the inter-team drama over busted druggies any day.

Everyone gets to have an opinion (and unfortunately everyone also gets to have a blog), so we’ll have to deal with the debates and speculation.

Me? I think Garmin’s actions were suspect. I think George deserves to be in yellow right now.  And I think (maybe I hope) that revenge is going to be a bitch for the argyle boys.  But I also think George might have been able to ride harder. From where I was sitting, it looked like he sat up a few times to look around (for help? to see how things would play? was he thinking of the stage win?)  I kept saying to Sal, “Why doesn’t George go?  Why isn’t he going?”

Maybe he didn’t have it in him. Maybe there’s something we don’t know. But it seems like he should have been all-out, eyes-crossed, driving, driving, driving. Five seconds. Five. Could he have ridden harder if he hadn’t worried about what was going on around him?  Only he knows that.

I wish he was in yellow. A lot of people wish he was in yellow. But he’s not.  And it’s over.

Tensions are going to be high going into the mountains tomorrow.  And the GC boys better start racing.  Verbier is a relatively short climb, but there’s damage to be done and somebody better get to the doing.  It’s time.

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The AVC is going to be the big show in town tonight: the weather is ridiculously perfect and the stage is set for some of the nations fastest cycle-engines to spin crazy circles around one of the steepest walls anywhere.  Seriously – bikes at mach speed riding on walls. National champs and Olympians. Serious boys and girls of the big ring.  You can’t beat it.  You should be there.

Do it for me. And while you’re there, grab some grub from Madison’s – they’ll be catering the shindig and will have you covered in the food/refreshment arena.

All the information you need is here.

And don’t worry – if you can’t make it tonight, there’s plenty of thrills left tomorrow starting at 10am. Maybe I’ll see you there then?  Pray to the digestion gods for me.

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He was riding in the Alps, I was working at an ad agency.  Needless to say, it didn’t work out.  But we tried.  We gave it everything we had.

He was in yellow and it blinded me because I wore black and had platinum hair.  But he climbed!  The little Frenchman climbed and won my heart.  He took the jersey and held it.  Like many, it gave him special powers and he suffered at its hands, even as it made him fly.

He went into the mountains and the sun beat down.  His body pumped so much oxygen it seemed incredible.  He unzipped the jersey and put his little French hands on the tops and climbed with urgency, as if I were standing at the top, waiting for him.

I wasn’t.  But it didn’t matter because he kept the jersey for a 10th stage.  And the Texan said, “Good job, little Frenchman.” and waited one more day to pull the Magic Yellow Shirt away to claim it for his own.

My mother doesn’t follow cycling, but if she did she would have called me and said, “He rode like a Patriot!”

Our Little League softball team was called the Patriots and we played with worn out gear and old uniforms.  We played and we won and we never quit.  We slid and bled and became heroes.

Like the Frenchman.  Heroes.

We wore red, white (grayish white) and blue – but it could have been yellow.  Or maybe it should have been yellow.

Either way, Voeckler rode into the mountains and stole my little Patriot heart.  At least for 10 days in 2004.  He was a no-name wanna-be-climber kid.  A tiny man with the face of a child.  He did the impossible and understood the impact.  His face betrayed the amazement that I felt.  It was a mid-tour interlude where we could stop thinking about the Texan and focus on the little man who was coming out of his skin with unfettered elation.

It was impeccable.

And then today I heard his name.

And the feelings came back.

I looked at Sal and said, “Voeckler!  They better watch out – he has a magic forcefield, that one.”

And he did. The peloton came but they couldn’t touch him… he rode and gritted and pedaled and grimaced and gutted it out.

And he won.

Shaking his head across the line, in visible disbelief.
Kissing the ring of the woman he loves.
Hands to the sky, hiding nothing.

The magic of Voeckler is that he does not give in to the “cyclist’s cool”.  He wears his heart on his sleeve.  He relishes magic as it comes.

In the crushing world of charging sprinters and steely-faced GC boys, Voeckler is the tiny climber who attacked in the flat and confounded an entire field of the world’s best cyclists.

He’s the hail mary. The long ball in the bottom of the ninth.

He’s my little Frenchman in yellow.  And he just made the 2009 Tour de France worth watching.

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Tour predictions, here we come.

This is a crazy tour, right?  Right.  I mean Astana has a cluster-f#@* of internal politics going on and no one is happier about it than the media (that may actually be the point). Then there’s the returning champ, Carlos Sastre, whom absolutely no one is even thinking about at the moment.  Bring in the Schleck brothers, Denny-the-stubborn-Russian Giro champ, Cadel “I am sick of this ugly bridesmaid dress” Evans, and Italian-Stallion Pellizotti and you’ve got a serious throw down on the mountain shaping up.

(For the record, due to my romantic arrangement with a Sicilian I am contractually obligated to mention any and all Italian contenders.)

So, given the goat rodeo that is about to go down… what do i think?

Here’s what I think:

GC Top Three:

1. Contador
2. Sastre
3. Armstrong

Don’t ask me why. Contador has been quiet, but I have the sense that he’s fit and ready.  Armstrong looks to be peaking at the perfect moment, but without the confidence of prior years (he admitted in a VN interview to lacking confidence) I’m not sure he’ll throw down enough power early on to garner the Astana team leader role.  That said, the Texan is a stubborn sonofabitch, and after all these years of watching him?  I will never, ever, ever underestimate him.

He scares me.  And I’m inclined to root for him this year simply because he’s not the favorite.

Sastre?  I always love an underdog.  1988 Dodgers World Series anyone?  With all the media hype, I have to admit I’d like to see Astana take a back seat to the little man. But I don’t think it will happen.  I think Sastre will have to settle for second fiddle.  But I think he’ll take some joy in besting the Texan.  Sorry, Lance-fanatics, I’m just calling it like I see it.

Evans is a head case. All signs pointed to yes last year and he couldn’t pull it off.  I’m sorry, but if you come in as the favorite and you can’t deliver?  Lowly  no-name Cat-4 bloggers get to call you a head case and you have to deal with it.  Don’t worry – you get paid enough I’m sure you’re not worried about it.

Schlecks?  All I’ve seen is random bursts of glory lacking any kind of consistency.  The Tour is a long race – consistency is important.  If one of the brothers comes away with the win I’ll be impressed.  And very surprised.

Pellizotti: Those Italians… you can’t trust them. ;) (shhhh…) Who knows, he might be the dark horse.

Green Jersey

Sprinters unite, take back the night!

I am throwing caution to the wind with this one… THOR!!!!

Why?  Because he’s THOR for godsake.  Named after the God of thunder, legs like armies, face like oh-my-god-are-you-the-nicest-man-in-the-world?

But at the end of the day, it’s because he’s Norweigian.  And I’m Norweigian.  And my beloved grandmother (god rest her soul) would have it no other way.

He won’t win, but he’s my pick either way.  (Cav will win, Boonen needs to lay off the snow)

Mountain Polka-Dot Persuasion

Tough one.  Super tough. To be honest, I think the mountain competition is a complete crapshoot, mostly dependent on how the GC battle unfolds.  That said?  Let’s go with Frank Schleck.

Why?  Because his first name is Frank (and I would say “FRONK”) and his last name is Schleck.  Which is a lot like “Shrek”.  And who doesn’t love Shrek!?

That’s all I got. I honestly think the poka-dot prize is way, way, way up in the air.

I anticipate that Mr. O’Rourke will call me out on the polka dot cop-out, and I do not expect to gain any bonus points for dark horses or unknowns, but I’m gonna stay steady and call it true.

So… this begs the question, what do you got???

Spill it.

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