Chaingate II

Chaingate II: or, The Entirely True Nonfiction Totally Not Fabricated or Embellished in Any Way Tale of How I Lost to Lance Armstrong under Dubious Circumstances

In July of 2010, Andy Schleck was wearing the yellow jersey as the leader of the Tour de France when his only rival remaining in contention saw him drop his chain. The customary action in this circumstance is to wait for one’s rival—especially when one’s rival is leading la Tour—but in an incident known as Chaingate, the Spaniard attacked as Andy dismounted to put his chain back on. Though Schleck made furious chase, Contador, with the aid of two other riders, stole 39 seconds back from Andy with just a time trial stage remaining to impact the general classification. When the time trial finished, Contador had overtaken Schleck as the leader—by 39 seconds.

Last Sunday, I was victimized by a scandal of even greater magnitude and gravity, wherein I lost precious time on account of a dropped chain and due to the ungallant actions of none other than Lance Armstrong.

I am not making any of this up.

I’ll wind back to explain. Juan Pelota, as his Spanish nurses call him, was in town for the annual Livestrong Challenge. I was riding the route with three fellow Philadelphia area racers, Kyle, Warren, and Breakaway’s very own national champion Joe. Our plan was to attack from the gun and stay out front of the more recreational riders who might impede our attempts to power away from the great Mellow Johnny. We got an early gap and began a rotating paceline, making good headway. Back in the peloton, Lance turned to his partner John College:

“College, isn’t that the guy that crash & cracked his pelvis in an individual time trial at the Tour de Toona while on pace to get 23^rd?”

“Yeah. I heard he got 6^th at Lower Providence last year too.”

“zOMG! That’s the move!”

So Lance, College, and a few other area strongmen furiously chased us through the Montgomery County countryside, eventually making contact as I set tempo on a little roller through Green Lane Park. Lance, after sitting on the chase the whole time, surely, rides past me. I could hear him breathing heavily, and it seemed an eternity before he was able to slip from my hip to square his bars with mine. “Good morning,” he said, trying to sound nonplussed but betraying a deep fatigue already setting in after just 10 miles. “OK,” I thought, “It’s on.”

[Kyle's shot of Joe eying Lance as I drag him around on the front]

Undeterred by my initial efforts to distance the 7-time tour winner, and confident in my endurance, having raced several back-to-back (sometimes greater than) ninety minute races on weekends in assorted mid-Atlantic and New England college towns, I set about working with the 3-week grand tour stage race specialist, rotating with him and the others for the next hour and blistering pace. After a short while, each of his loyal domestiques cracked, and it was down to six of us—Lance, me, Warren, Joe, Kyle, and College.

Trying to shake our confidence, Lance made a crack about my hairy legs (most racers, including myself, shave their legs). I have not shaved mine on account of not racing since my crash two months ago, and pointed this fact out to Lance, along with my inability to really train much for this contest of champions. Immediately after his comment, I attacked on a short, super steep climb. I attacked the 7-time Tour champ, philanthropist, and cancer survivor. And I attacked him hard.

Immediately I had a sizable gap, as Lance was unable to respond to my searing acceleration. The motorcyclist cops blocking traffic for us and Lance’s persona support vehicle (including a really cute blonde inside) were not sure what to do. They had never seen Lance struggle so mightily. Col d’Aubisque, Ventoux, the Galibier, Col du Tourmalet, l’Alpe—Ulrich, Mayo, Pantani, Basso, Contador? Child’s play. Entr’actes. Pretenders. Afterthoughts. Also-rans. This was the big showdown of both our 28-year combined racing careers (89.3% of which are his years). Me and the patron, the Philly Livestrong Challenge—with its 8,000 feet of climbing—this was no place for inferior climbers. My attack managed to shell not only Lance but my friends & allies as well. On the subsequent descent, unfortunately, Lance caught my mates off guard slipping back then tucking in behind his Nissan support car and motorpaced back to my wheel,

 [Raise your hand if you want to slow down and take a power bidon from your personal support vehicle]

“Please” he spat out between breathless gasps “I’ve got a support car full of food & water. It has to stay with me. Just work with me. I’ll do my best to pull and you can have all the amenities. And I’ll reward you handsomely. Do you like Michelob Ultra?”

Z’ounds! He must have done his homework. He knew I had but 2 bottles a fondness for Honey Stinger Waffles (and his blonde supporter). But he should know that I would never, ever drink Michelob Ultra. Seriously.

And so Lance & I worked together for the next couple of hours. I must admit to get through the next 60 miles or so I was thankful for the company. Sure I had to wait for him at the top of practically every hill and I’ve had better town line sprint contests against our women’s junior team, but at least it would make for some cool photos. Plus I knew one of the major climbs crested in a town called “Landis Store,” and naturally I wanted to hear what his reaction would be when we passed through. (FWIW, I don’t recall exactly what it was but I remember it was kind of funny.)

As the miles ticked by, Lance and I chatted a bit, about nothing particularly memorable. I asked him about his kids, how he finds time to train given his busy schedule, and whether he took performance enhancing drugs during his reign as king of the Grand Boucle. Answers: His several kids are doing well; their first day of school was the next day, so he was flying to Austin that night to get back to them, then on to Aspen, his summer residence, for the US Pro Cycling Challenge. His training is inconsistent, though he’d prepped hard for the past several months, like when he was doing repeats on the Madone to gauge his fitness pre-Tour. (This ride obviously meant something to him.) And he said that he did not take performance enhancing drugs.

(OK, seriously, if you believed that, just stop reading. Not his answer. That I would ask him that. I’m cheeky but I am not, in point of fact, a moron. But if you believed me, well...this entire blog post is lost on you. May I suggest alternative reading material, like Highlights?)

Now, the Landis Store climb was not far from where the 70-mile route rejoined with the 100-mile route. It also was the ceiling of the Challenge, the highest point, the peak of the longest, toughest climb. We crested side by side and then went the wrong way. Surprise! The Landis people led us astray.

A dozen or so miles later, Joe, Warren, & Kyle came into view. They had opted to take the 70 mile route, refuel, then, as loyal teammates do, they waited up the road for me with food and bottles. That was good, because realizing the difficulty I was putting Lance in, the Nissan had stopped offering me Honey Stinger Waffles. They did offer me a Snickers, however. And I swear I saw Lance stifle a deceiver’s smile. HE KNEW ALL ALONG THAT I AM ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS! He was trying to assassinate me. Well it didn’t work, Lance. You hear me? It didn’t work! These colors don't run.

At any rate, once again we were up to 6, and I went to the back to recover a bit, as I had been pulling for probably 95% of the last 3 hours, and figured I ought to eat up at the back as we descended. Surely Lance didn’t need me to pull him down a hill. That’s what Joe was for! (Incidentally, Lance referred to Joe as “that old guy” hammering the downhills. Newsflash, Lancelot, Joe is 1 year your senior.) 

At the base of a climb, not 10 minutes after rejoining Joe and company, disaster struck. I was on Kyle’s wheel, shifting into the big ring, now fully recovered and ready to show Lance how we teammates could throw down an assault on an uphill when we worked together. As my chain moved outwards to the big ring, Lance swerved around a pothole, leading me directly over it. The jolt caused my chain to shoot over my big ring and get wrapped round my crank. Try as I might, I couldn’t shift it back. Kyle started to drop back to give me assistance, knowing we’d easily catch Lance if we needed to, but I waived him on. The chain was completely wrapped around my crank, a tangled mess. The Nissan sped past me, determined, as the blonde in the passenger seat gazed back longingly (sorry, I'm taken). Lance looked back and sprinted as mightily as he could. “This is it,” Joe swore he heard Lance mutter to himself.

My powertap file shows that I was coasting/producing no power for 90 seconds. That was enough room for Lance, since I had given Kyle the go-ahead to keep working with him. I raced frantically to catch back on, and at one point had them in site, about 45 seconds up the road. But soon I cracked hard, and without the motobricade, soon was forced to stop at a light, now lacking my Lance-moto-blockade.

Disappointed that this chaingate cost me an opportunity to drop Lance once and for all, I soldiered on alone, eventually catching Joe in the last couple miles, and we lazily rode into the parking lot to meet Warren & Kyle, who managed to stay with Lance the remainder of the ride. Kyle even got his photo with him crossing the finish line, which will surely be seen by hundreds if not thousands of people.

 [Sitting up to gift him his brief moment of glory]

So in the end, I’m not too disappointed by the outcome chaingate 2, though I expected a little more chivalry from the man I’d pulled around Pennsylvania for hours on end. Alas, there’s always next year, and he knows it. He’s already training for it! 

[ Real Tweet]

Right, so obviously most of that was written in good fun, and I hope for our sake Lance can take a joke. The ride was a blast, and my goodness is that “old man” still fast as heck. For those who speak power, here’s one number that stands out: 250w (at 130 lbs for a power:weight of ~4.2 w/kg) for about 3.2 hours, covering 70 miles (21.7mph). That’s the time from when Lance joined up with us to when I dropped my chain. That includes 5,600 feet of clmbing, at 21.5 mph. The national championships I raced in May had only slightly higher numbers—but remember the numbers listed here are part of a 7 hour ride! And in reality, Lance was doing much more pulling than I was, though the part about me attacking on a hill and dropping him momentarily immediately after he teased me about my hairy legs (shaving them today, btw, as my first race since my injury begins Friday) is true, though he certainly didn’t need a motorcar to catch back on. Speaking of the motorcar, they were very helpful and complimentary, and my friend Kyle wishes the blonde lady inside to know that he is in fact single. (I’m not, so please stop calling me.) The event was incredibly well run and part of an amazing cause, and I encourage everyone to try it out for themselves if they haven’t already done so. As it turns out, Lance does ride them, and if you’re lucky, as I was, you too could ride with the most famous cyclist perhaps of all time.

 [Real Tweet]

Two final brief, funny things before I go, both of which occurred when it was just me and Lance. All day long people were going nutso when we passed by them, everyone shouting “Go Lance! Yay Lance!” when we went by, which, I hear all the time, but this time there was genuine admiration and sincerity, rather than the derision and occasional tossed beer can that I’ve grown accustomed to. At one point, some recreational riders not part of the event stopped at an intersection at the top of a hill to let our moto-cops and us pass by. We were going uphill, me on front in fact, when she asked whether we were part of a race. “Nah, that’s just Lance,” I said, sounding as not out of breath as I could pretend to be while leading him up a hill. The rec riders went absolutely bonkers. That was neat. And a short while later, another rec rider, this time on his own, was coming the opposite direction of us, and we were again going slightly uphill, this time Lance on front. We met just before we crested and just after he crested his little climb, so neither of us had much speed. He started to give the “country wave,” as we call it in the Midwest, where I’m from. I greeted him vocally but quietly, and he started to give a perfunctory hello back, when, just as we pass him, we hear him slam to a stop, yelling “Holy S***!” A second later, we hear a what sounded like a tumble. I think the guy fell down in awe. “I get that a lot around here, Lance. I’m kind of a big deal. Sorry to steal your thunder.” “Yeah, I bet,” he said. He didn’t believe me. Well, we’ll see how things play out in 2012.

 [Kyle & Lance a the Finish]

Thanks for indulging!

Charlie