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Upon arriving at the parking lot of the gracious church that hosts the Hillsboro-Roubaix road race we met one of the fantastic local voulenteers, this conversation transpired:
Voulenteer: "Welcome, how y'all doin' t'day?"
vitaminwater-Trek: "Pretty good really."
V: "Y'all from 'round here?"
vw-T: "Nope, Chicago."
V: "Ahh, where'd y'all stay?"
vw-T: "Lithcfield."
V: "Y'know Lithcfield has the most fast food places per capita in the whole USA!"
vw-T: "Wha?"
V: "Mmh-hmm, it's a good place t'stay if yer hungry!"
Culvers, Ruby Tuesday, Denny's, 2 energy gels, 1 package of energy blocks, 3 fig Newton bars, one apple Newton bat, 3 30oz water bottles, one Pepsi, one bananna, Steak 'n' Shake, 1 Cherry Coke, 1 bottle of water, 1 box of Mike 'n' Ikes. that's what I consumed.
60 riders. That's what Hillsboro-Roubaix consumed.
For months, since the pre-registration appetizer a myopic focus has been paid to HR. With every day hundreds of racers' mouths watered for a taste of arguably the jewel in the crown of Midwest spring racing. On Saturday, March 29th dinner was served.
Waiting for the race to begin the skies were ominous and the winds howling. Riders were covered with jackets and shivering behind cars; it looked as if the weather was about to take a turn for the worst. The menu read cod fish, if you will. And yet as the lid came off the silver platter so too did the clouds. The sun woke from its 4-month slumber as ushered in one of the bluest skies seen in a long while. And though sitting in front of us was now a beautiful fillet Mignon it was resting on a bed of the wickedest horseradish this side of Passover dinner; Illinois winds.
Perhaps a bit too driven by a growling pit in their stomachs two riders took off almost from the gun for what would have been in a professional race, a fantastic T.V. time opportunity. Here in Hillsboro it was a fatal flaw; they were gorging on the free bread sticks. Once off, the pack began the tedious work of eating. Energy bars, bananas, gels, water bottles and a few sandwiches complete with a side of coleslaw and a kosher dill pickle were consumed. The racing was tempered for we all knew that this was merely the antipasto and that the entree would come on lap two. And it did. As the diners headed out of town a scramble of riders took off on the heels of Eric Goodwin. It might be worth noting that in the 4 years of his participation he's never once managed to eat more than a few bites of the Hungry-Man-Supersized-Grand-Slam breakfast he routinely orders before the race. Perhaps it was a sudden hunger pain that sent shock waves through his legs, perhaps a bit of delirium caused by passing on that side of sausage...either way he was off and with him about 9 others. Within a few moments they had formed a sizable gap as the pack was busy picking morsels out of our teeth. With that group hovering just within site the field got rumor that the buffet was a first-come first-serve and that we were missing out on the shrimp-cocktails. We then began attacking relentlessly. One after another riders attempted to bridge, chase and attack their way to the break. It was the type of gorging often seen on national holidays. Sadly though the combination of rollers and fierce head/crosswind sections were too rich. It wasn't until the wait staff had been in the kitchen too long and the pack approached the first wooded section that the bread and butter was no longer cutting it. As the large escape captured the two lone diners, who by the looks of them had become delusional and envisioned the other as a pedaling turkey, the pack began smelling the sweet scent of a doomed escape. Eric made is way back to the pack where yours trully was prepping for the next course. The pack wasn't catching the break and unless we acted soon it would be all over for us. On the heels of a Goodwin bellow I jumped. I made a bee-line for the bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape at the end of the table in hopes of forcing the pack to react. And react they did. Soon we were a whole field approaching the final lap.
After gorging ourselves on the second lap it was time for a digestif before the dessert tray was brought out. The field had been whittled down to about 50 riders many of whom were loosening their belts in hopes that they could make room for just one more bite. We rolled around, stretched out a bit and prepped for the inevitable clawing that would come when the triple-thick molten chocolate cake was presented. As we passed through the first wooded section the speed picked up and a Mesa rider excused himself. Certainly we though he was headed to the washroom, little did we know he was going to sneak into the kitchen and have some private-time with our cake. At the second wooded section two more riders took off including Vision Quest for what was an unabashed move to the kitchen doors. Shortly there after Get a Grip and another rider took advantage of a poorly time champagne toast by the pack to move off the front. Blinded by clinking of glasses and jovial laughter I noticed the move only later. I moved to the fore and attempted to ignite the chase; they were gunning for my dessert after all! For some reason I was allowed to wander off into the lonely ether. It was here, for the next 15 minutes that I hovered between my comfortable seat at the table and the kitchen doors with plenty of time to wonder just how savory that cake would taste. In the end though the onslaught of headwinds were too much for this solo rider and I resigned myself back to the table.
The run up to the finish was uneventful and in fact rather boring. The hills were taken at a gentleman's pace. The bricks were somewhat effective in softening the field yet a group of 10 or 15 rounded the final corner together. Though were were now fighting for crumbs everyone was as hungry as ever. Sensing a slow-motion and possible harrowing sprint (um, 10 exhausted guys fighting for pride...) I opted to give it a solo move. I held off the field until the last few meters where I was passed and lost 6th place by no more than a few feet. I threw my napkin on the table for 9th place. Jeff Wat punched out at 15th place. 20 or so finished in our group and another 25 or so straggled in after having one too many Grappa.
And now the day after the feast we all look back at our uniforms and the various stains that now accompany them and begin planning our crash diet for the weeks prior to next year's running of the Hillsboro-Roubaix Road Race.
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