George Street Challenge 2017 Results

The results are in!

George Street Challenge 2017

Note that Dubstoevsky had to enter this challenge under an alias, Patrick Warner, in the men's 50-59 age group. The name, cycling historians and enthusiasts of arcane lore will know, is a loose Anglicization of the name of the eccentric Franco-Teutonic cyclist of the late 1800s and early 1900s, Patrique von Bongwarren. 

von Bongwarren family crest

The von Bongwarren clan, the result of the unlikely coupling of an aristocratic Prussian family and a down-at-the-barricades Alsatian brood, might have faded into ancestral obscurity if not for the cycling exploits of Patrique, the third son of Klaus & Simone von Bongwarren. 

Patrique, at age 13, entered the 1893 youth edition of Liège–Bastogne–Liège (minimum age was 16 but young Patrique bluffed his way in), won the race, and went on to be an perennial power in the spring classics. Known for his raw bursts of acceleration on steep climbs, and for his voracious thirst for Belgian abbey ale (he filled his bidet with it), Patrique von Bongwarren was a colorful character as well as a relentless competitor.

At the start of the 1907 season, however, he shocked his fans and the cycling world by announcing his retirement from the sport. Shortly thereafter, he abandoned his inherited chateau, gave away his acclaimed wine collection, and moved to southern California to farm pomegranates. 

See George Street Challenge 2017 for the recap.

George Street Challenge 2017

Starting Line
July 23, 2017
George St from Main St, Worcester, Mass

The official results have not been posted yet as I, Dubstoevsky, sit at Shad Bistro's only table typing up this recap of this morning's George Street Challenge, "the shortest race in America." It's essentially an uphill time trial that lasts (if you're pretty good) about 30 seconds or less, and if you're not all about climbing, then maybe you'll use a minute to get to the top. It's basically a 500 foot uphill sprint with a 17% average gradient. 

The competition was intense.

In a category all his own

Though despite (as mentioned) the International Association of Short Bike Races' officially sanctioned results have not yet been posted, we do know a few things about today's event with certainty.

Cello Dude

We know that a man with a cello strapped to his back took the challenge. We learned that the rider is a musician with a Mexican orchestra and that he never lets the cello out of his sight.

We know that the bright yellow pedicab ridden by an implacable Jamaican dude tenaciously and calmly peddled to the top, albeit with a pause or two en route. His ride was a crowd favorite.

We know the crowd was epic. Not just cyclists cheering on each other, but a whole line up of curious onlookers who lined the street and cheered with enthusiasm. There were cowbells and air horns. Everyone clapped and yelled.

We know that Dubstoevsky acquitted himself well and did not, as he did last year accidentally, stamp too hard on the pedals at the get-go, causing a slight wheelie; instead, this year, he caught the rhythm of the bike holder's release and eased into his launch with control. Underway smoothly, he hit it full force and powered upwards digging hard, downshifting at about the 3/4 mark, right at the slope's uptick, churning and thrashing the cranks to the line.

Are you kidding me?

Dubstoevsky's result? 31.62 seconds, nearly two seconds ahead of last year's result of 33.38. Sweet!

Which is ironic, actually, as I'd felt pretty crappy this morning, tired, drained from a migraine headache yesterday. My legs felt thick and unmotivated, stubborn. I timed my pre-race practice ride up at 47 seconds. I wasn't going all out but I didn't feel very powerful at all. I thought, well, fuck it, you're signed up so give it your best shot. If your legs fail, so be it.

But they didn't. 

So allez! Yes, we can surprise ourselves. 

***

Post Script: The results are in. 

Hugo and the Tour

Hugo and the Tour 2017

The big hairy Viking cat named Huguenot Torte, or just plain Hugo, or even, in the vernacular, The Monster (because he has unequivocally been determined to be a Love Monster), has here climbed into my lap and settled down to watch the Tour de France with me and discuss the various nuances, controversies, and twists & turns that have made this year's Grand Boucle so far; the Sagan/Cavendish imbroglio (Hugo is in Sagan's camp on that one), the brute Nacer Bohnanni and his innate villainy, Aru's attack mentality, the annual disappointment of the Colombian Enigma, Nairo (rhymes with Cairo) Quintana, whether anyone can beat Marcel Kittel in a sprint, the great job the NBC broadcast team is doing (Phil, Paul, Bobke, Christian V, the Mighty Jens Voight, the hapless Steve Porino, the intrepid Steve Schlanger, and the anchor, a classic strong-jawed American sportscaster with a deep voice and an air of avuncular security whose name I cannot remember). Hugo, as it turns out, is an aficionado of the Grand Tours in general but the mighty French leg in particular. Being something of a gourmond, he's asking for escargot tonight instead of the organic duck in beef gravy or the rabbit pate that he's used to. Poor Hugo. We have no escargot.

Clawing through Ennui

Tour de France 2017

I have not been dormant. I have not wrapped myself into a fetal cocoon and drawn the shades. Nope. It is July. The Tour de France is underway, fantastic weather has returned, and Dubstoevsky has been slowly but surely clawing his way back into shape. It has taken a suitcase of commitment to do so but the effort seems to be paying off.

Ah, July. Birth month. Humidity. Sunshine. Thunderstorms. The 4th of July. Long days. Warm nights. The Tour. 

4th of July
Kimball's Ice Cream, Lancaster, MA

The New England weather has shifted over the last two months. Two thirds of the days have been sunny, pleasant, not that windy, and the other third have been overcast and some semblance of rainy. Hot and dry followed by cool and rainy. Perfect. The landscape is lush and green, the air pleasantly thick and moist. We've had an abundance of evening masterpieces when the rich descending sunlight slants across the neighborhood illuminating the giant verdant trees and the many old dignified buildings built by skilled hands.

These are introspective days. Team Shad has splintered into a thousand cosmic thoughts. Dubstoevsky is now a team unto himself. Wing Nut, Assassin for Hire, freelances out of the wilds of the greater Deerfield drainage. He's thrashing the competition in the Big Hills of Conway, Rowe, Colrain, Shelburne Falls, et fucking cetera. I Ward has disappeared in the forests of Montague. 

These developments are not unexpected. It was a rag tag shoestring trio to begin with, a trio of eclectic mirage and squawk. Like the U.S.A. itself in a way. The important thing now is to move forward.