USA Pro Challenge: In the middle of the Peloton

A view from the road of the USAPCC

The moments on F Street before the first stage in the USA Pro Cycling Challenge left Salida were mayhem. As the time to go approached, the energy on the sidewalks and in the street built in a slow crescendo until—boom, the excitement erupted.

Brian Riepe of Mountain Flyer Magazine and I were following a handler working his way toward the media cars just as more than a hundred riders from around the world began converging on the starting line. We could only watch as the field of riders closed in around us.
No one was going to give up his position for a couple of guys lost in the crowd, so we high-stepped over wheels and sidestepped through the mass and finished with a sprint to the cars.
Inside Media 1, retired Missouri state highway patrolman and former driving instructor Jerel Schomer let us know that we needed to start driving “now,” and we were off ahead of the pack.
The route in front of us was closed to outside traffic, but it was anything but void of cars. As we left town toward a gated community at the foot of Mt. Shavano, the road was one wide lane heading west. According to Schomer, more than 100 vehicles would be riding over Monarch Pass and into Crested Butte with the race.
Motorcycles carrying race officials, photographers and safety personnel were zipping around a convoy of Colorado State Patrol cars. In our rented Infinity sedan, Schomer was away from the leaders, who had just emerged from the pack behind us. He downshifted and punched the engine, flying past police cruisers with a beep of the horn.
Gunnison Country Times publisher Chris Dickey remarked, “Now you’re just having fun.” Schomer grinned, “Yup.”
Then we waited while the riders carved through the foothills in a tight formation. The radio squawked. Four riders were gaining ground on the peloton. First it was a 10-second lead, then it was 40 seconds, a minute, two-and-a-half minutes… they were off.
Lorinn Rhodes was calling out the position of the racers from Comm 1, the car riding directly behind the peloton, in English and then in French. Each of the race’s 17 teams had two support vehicles, usually squat, hatchbacked imports filled with spare bike parts, gear and people who could ride up to assist a rider in need, so long as they didn’t help them along in any way.
Rhodes would call up a team car when a rider signaled for help. Each car was numbered and would work its way to the front when called, then fall back into order when their job was done. Neutral cars worked the gap behind the leaders and at the back to help anyone who wanted it. Otherwise, it was every man for himself.
While it was chaos on wheel, it worked like a serpentine machine slithering toward the 11,312-foot summit of Monarch Pass. Most of the vehicle traffic sported out-of-state plates and, according to Schomer, many of the drivers had worked together on races around the country.
As a patrolman who had experience on a road bike before anyone else in the department, he worked with the Tour of Missouri when it first started in 2007. For him, at the time, it was a break from the ordinary and a good way to work with something he enjoyed. Now, just over a year into retirement, he has been from California to Georgia and Utah to drive with races in one capacity or another.
According to one of the motorcycle-riding safety crew, it takes a start with small time races before motorcycle drivers gain enough credibility to earn an invitation to a world-class race like the USA Pro Cycling Challenge. Another moto-rider said he had been waiting 18 months for an invitation to ride.
And it didn’t take long to figure out why. The motorcycles were everywhere with every type of job, from carrying medics to putting photographers into position to get the shots that would be broadcast to the world on TV or the Internet.
Other people along the route were watching from lounge chairs set up in front yards, at intersections and all along the shoulder of the road as we neared the top of the pass. Campers and cars had been lining that section of the road since at least 8 a.m. Now their drivers were out with costumes or spandex on, and occasionally without anything on but some skivvies.
The field had become spread out with the peloton still pulling itself uphill at an average of 14 miles per hour. But at the front, the Columbian rider Eduard Alexander Beltran Suarez was leading the leaders and took off when the time seemed right to pull away, winning the sprint to the top of Monarch Pass. There were a few white clouds in an otherwise blue sky and the temperature was still above 80 degrees. The crowd’s cowbells and horns were going crazy.
It was a scene straight out of any of Europe’s biggest bike races. The biggest climb of the day was over, but the riders still had more than half of the race to go.
As the leaders passed under the inflatable arch shaking in the wind on the crest of the pass and the noise of the summit faded, the pace of the race changed from a crawl to a downhill sprint, accelerating from 15 to 50 miles per hour almost instantly as we screamed alongside other cars down to Sargents.
Halfway down, an oil spill had been cleaned from the road, but grit remained on the road. The leaders pushed toward 60 miles per hour and farther from the peloton while a hundred car tires chattered through the turns.
Again, a crowd appeared at Sargent’s, flags flapping in a breeze that nearly tossed the third-place rider into a road barrier and shook him from the leader’s group, which had dwindled to two.
The pace settled around 30 miles per hour working through the turns that trace Tomichi Creek as it drops slowly into Gunnison and the leaders let themselves get drawn in by the peloton.
Schomer said it’s a trademark of bike racing: that those who lead through the race rarely take the podium. Then the gap that had hovered around four minutes throughout the race dropped to three and then two—as what appeared to be the entire population of the Crystal Creek Valley occupied the shady spots beside the road to watch the race come through and show their love of the sport.
“Eat Beef, Ride Fast” read a sign posted on the side of a round hay bale in a field. Even Doyleville had a dozen spectators lined up, with one shirtless little boy in overalls riding a horse and several on ATVs.
As the first cars rolled into Gunnison, Schomer was amazed. People lined the street from McDonald’s as far as we could see. A voice on the radio commented on a huge American flag hanging at the sprint line, where riders would race to in order to earn points. By the time Schomer turned the car onto Highway 135, seeing the line of spectators stretching on toward Crested Butte, all he said was “Wow.”
It was another wave of adoration for the riders that soon faded into the rolling sagebrush hills where the leaders quickly gave up their lead past Almont. Crested Butte South had a crowd gathered, prompting Schomer to say that there were still people coming out to see the race. In fact, there was a crowd waiting in town.
With the field condensed into one mass charging toward the mountain, Media 1 sped into Crested Butte and toward the turns through town and past thousands of people. Schomer’s foot came off the accelerator for a second. “What a great little town,” he said, looking from side to side.
As we rode toward the finish line, another crowd materialized and a familiar cacophony came through the open windows. With the job over, we pulled aside and stopped, getting out in time to watch Levi Leipheimer raise his arms and ride to victory.