montreal-quebec: la classique louis garneau

It was about the 4:00 hour mark, roughly 170km into the race portion of the Classique Louis Garneau from Montreal to Quebec (195km if you count the 25km neutral roll-out), when I heard over the wind whistling in my ears and the squeak of my gears and the loud thumping noise in my head which I can only assume was my 160bpm-and-ever-declining heartbeat, the sound of a truck engine sneaking up behind me.

Well I guess it's all over now. The broom wagon. La voiture balai. It's come to pick me up.

I look over to find a fit looking man sitting in the back of a pickup truck with Louis Garneau stickers and a flashing yellow light on top. "Voulez-vous le Gatorade bleu?" he yells from the back, sitting on top of a cooler full of drinks.

What the hell is this? A rolling feed for the laughing group? What kind of race is this?!?

This kind of race was La Classique Louis Garneau, the 250km epic from Montreal to Quebec City. Canada's oldest and longest one-day race, I had found myself at the start line, some 5 hours earlier that day, through a long series of logistical twists and turns. First off was my being in that part of the world - I was in Ottawa on government business for the Thursday before the race. I then managed to find a place to stay with my teammate Jeff Ain, who was coming to visit his mom in Ottawa. We then managed to convince his sister who lives in Montreal to put us up for a night and most importantly, to drive the car to Quebec City to pick us up at the end of the race.



On our merry way from Ottawa to Montreal in the car.


Finally, we had managed to sort out a spot with Espoirs Laval, courtesy of some great hospitality from Nick Rowe, a transplanted BC boy in Montreal. The stars seemed to have aligned for the two of us to race this prestigious and historic event.

Almost.

Our day started at 5:00 AM with a huge breakfast. The longest race I'd ever done was the 180km road race at Nationals in Kamloops. My longest ride on the bike was an all-day epic ride around the Lower Mainland and Fraser Valley that same year, clocking in at 218km. And this was a race. A flat one, with a supposed tailwind the entire time, but 250km all the same. Thinking about racing from downtown Vancouver to downtown Seattle boggled my mind. So we tried not to think about it too hard.

Rolling down the Boulevard St. Joseph in Montreal at 6:00 AM with our bright yellow LG mussettes over our shoulders we were treated to a beautiful morning sunrise. The 3-storey brick walkups of the Plateau looked great and there wasn't a car to be seen.

We arrived across from the Maurice Richard Arena, having passed by the Olympic Stadium and near the site of the old Olympic velodrome (now the Biodome) and were greeted by a familiar site: cyclists milling about, loud techno music pumping, and teams putting up their tents and setting out lawn chairs for their riders.

Jeff looked for our Espoirs Laval contact while I looked for a washroom. By the time I'd returned, Jeff had some bad news: Espoirs Laval had attended the team meeting last night and the two teams of 9 riders they'd registered (9 Cat 3's and 9 Cat 1/2's) had been forced to amalgamate into one team of 12 riders, the race's maximum number. Cut from the roster: yours truly, Jeff, and Nick, our BC connection.

Merde.

So there we were, 6:45 AM on Sunday morning, standing at the start line and not on the start list with no team to ride for. This was somehow not the way I'd imagined the race to turn out.

We talked to the commissaire, explaining our plight. No-go. You're from Vancouver? That's nice, you don't have a team, you don't race. Sorry.

We then spotted Mr LG himself. A few minutes later, Louis Garneau found us a spot on the local Ste Foy team, who had less than the 12 maximum riders. A bit of impromptu release letter writing from the Team President (moi) and we were in.

Big sigh or relief.

Huge wave of anxiety.

Oh shit, now we have to actually race this thing.

Not to worry though. After Louis Garneau launched the Cyclosportives riders, including 1988 Olympian Yvan Waddel who I watched at the Olympic trials in Vancouver and White Rock some nearly 20 years ago, it was our turn to start. Start the neutral roll-out that is. And what a neutral roll-out it was. 165 riders, 30kmh, for 25km, until we came to our official start. 45 minutes of chatting, checking out the scenery, and coming to terms with riding in a 165 person pack. Warming up the legs in a gentle fashion was pretty civilized as well.

Apres le "pee-pee" (as our esteemed race starter called it), the race really started. Two minutes into the race and we're doing 50kmh. Oh good. I'm glad that we're warmed up.

The action is intense. As expected. We hit pothole after pothole, crappy crack in the road, manhole cover. Guys are attacking up the sidewalk (I guess it's smoother), guys are on the far left, guys are on the far right. It's a rolling road closure, it's 8:45 AM, and we've got 4 lanes to race in. No-one is being shy about using all of them.

20 minutes in. I've hit Zone 5 on my heart rate monitor, as my pulse crests over 180bpm. I keep thinking to myself, "This will end... a break will get away, stuff will settle down, and then it will cool down a bit."

My speed dances between 42 and 52kmh. I go right, looking for a safer line and a possible exit route if we need one.

The minutes pass quickly. I focus on finding a good wheel. I focus on keeping out of trouble. I try to move up. I'm not sure I'm moving anywhere in particular. I can see the front... I think. Some pink jerseys of Garneau Optiks. Some orange of Jittery Joes. Some red and white of Jet Fuel. I spot cyclocross rider Greg Reain, riding with a pair of Stevens shorts on. I see Phil Abbott zip by from Ital Pasta. I hear guys yelling in French. I wish mine was better.

Crash. The sound of a thousand shopping carts being pushed off a cliff happens behind me. It doesn't sound good. I keep my eyes open and try to move up.

I lose track of time. It's after the 1 hr mark. I spot a hole on the right side and attack up it while the pace eases off. Suddenly I'm in the top 10 riders at the front, sitting onto a Jittery Joes wheel as he covers an attack. We snake left and right across the road in a single file line. The attack comes back, we get swarmed, I find myself shuffled back into the fray.

The first crosswind hits at the 1.5 hr mark. We've done 60km so far.... 60km?!? What? Yes, 60km. We're averaging 45kmh. That's what it says, 60km. I get caught near the back as we head into some more rural farm fields. We're guttered. I can see the pack echeloning up ahead. I dangle off the back for what seems like forever (it's about 4 minutes) while guys scrap around me trying to just get back in.

We eventually do, but I've burned a big match. My legs aren't too pleased with the effort.

I head back to the car for a feed at some point, grabbing a bottle out of the Espoirs Laval Mini Cooper (nice!). The course is too flat and fast for bottle feeds at the side of the road. Or is it. The mussette bags start to appear around this time and a few brave souls attempt to grab one at 47kmh. Disaster strikes as I see 3 guys get them caught in their front wheels and hit the deck hard. Ouch.

We're back in crosswinds again and a guy has collided with a motorbike. One guy just falls over slowmotion into the side of the road. Another guy has his left leg dangling beside him with his crank-arm hanging from his pedal, attached to his foot.

Bam, another pothole, and a bottle comes off a bike in front of me. The guy ahead of me hits it dead on and the top of the bottle explodes, sending Endurox into my face.

Guys are fighting for wheels, domestiques are shuttling up bottles in their jersey pockets, behind their necks, and other guys are getting shuttled up to the front. On my right, the sheltered side, some guys are taking the opportunity to piss, as their teammates hold them at 40kmh.

All in all, this is full-on. 20 car caravan, Mavic neutral support, 250km, 165 guys... it's got all the makings of a real race. I'm impressed by the general insanity and spectacle of it all. And other than the suffering, I've got the best seats in the house.

I'm back in the caravan for another bottle. A Jittery Joes rider is having problems with his cleats. It looks like it's Jeff Hopkins. He's got his left arm holding onto the Mavic car, his right arm on the handle bars while the Mavic guy is taking his shoe off his left foot. A quick look at the speedometer reveals we're doing 47kmh. I'm beside a Trek VW guy who's just gone back for a feed and the pace has picked up in the pack. We're behind the Mavic team car drafting and neither of us want to bridge across to the pack. So we watch the shoe repair on the bumper of the Mavic car. The pace slows a bit, we attack up the left side of the car and get back to the pack.

Through Trois Rivieres, there's a round-about and an intermediate sprint. The whole thing turns into a crit for a few minutes as we hit a series of corners pretty fast. Then it's back into the more rural roads.

Around the 3 hour mark (140km?) I get caught not paying much attention and get guttered in a crosswind section. Me and another big guy in a blue jersey are yelling at guys to echelon. ECHELON! GAUCHE! ECHELON! But nothing is working. I start opening up gaps, guys start yelling at me. I'm going backwards.

At this point in the race, my legs aren't appreciative of the motorpacing we've been doing. I just can't get enough out of them to keep up the pace. It's an awful feeling. My two 18 hr weeks of training and some residual fitness from previous years has got me this far, but my pack skills have let me down. I should have been nearer the front. I knew this was coming at some point...

I come screaming out the back, right through the caravan. I can't even draft off the cars at this point (although I tried like hell). And then, I'm on my own. The wind cuts hard into me as I TT for the next 15 minutes keeping the pack in sight, but not close enough to get back in. I pass guys on the side of the road who've crashed, one guy who's getting a wheel change (I never see him again) and then I'm really alone.

45 minutes of solo riding and I'm a bit concerned about my situation. Have I seen the broom wagon? I don't have any ID, no money, no phone... I don't even have a map of the course. My French sucks. Hmm. Not good. I choke down a Cliff Bar and nurse my water, trying to tempo at 36kmh in the wind. My HR keeps dropping lower and lower and lower...

And then, Monsieur Bleu Gatorade shows up.

I roll over to the truck and hand him my bottle. I gladly oblige this fantastic gesture. Then I look over my shoulder to see if there's any other riders. A well-oiled echelon of about 12 riders all in matching yellow jerseys roll through.

Les Cyclosportives!

I've been caught by the fully supported fundraiser ride put on by Louis Garneau on the same course. We'd passed by them at the side of the road in Trois Rivieres and they'd now caught me. It wasn't the broom wagon at all, it was the lead vehicle for the ride. I took my bottle, rolled back into the group, and felt a hand on my back, "Eh, Escape Velocity, how are you?" asked a French accent. It was a Louis Garneau account executive who'd been working with us on sponsorship! A fit one too. These guys weren't messing around.

We had a chat, he introduced me to the group, and I rested up for a while. I felt a bit bad at first, guilty to be sitting in, but when I realized the pace these guys were going, I didn't feel bad for very long. It was near race pace, over 40kmh for most of it, and they were echeloning in the crosswinds better than most of the guys I'd been with earlier.

I rode with them for the next 80km. Few words were exchanged as we started to hit a few rollers near the end. At one point, Yvan Waddel, still looking fit and tall, pulled away in the big ring going up one of the inclines. These guys weren't attacking each other with the accelerations of a race, but they were grinding each other down with every small hill and incline. Our group was whittled down to six riders as we neared the Garneau factory.

A quick left hand turn and we had arrived.

250km of racing was done. I'd covered the 227km race route it in 5hrs, 27 minutes, some 17 minutes back of the winner, Ryan Roth of JetFuel. I'd averaged 43.2kmh for the duration. I didn't bother crossing the finish line, as I figured that would be a bit cheeky given the help I got from the big yellow train. I would have come across in 82nd spot, ahead of a small chase group that was in fact behind me (little to my knowledge).

But I was happy to have completed the distance, relieved that the day was done and the chamois time could end.

I eventually met up with Jeff and the rest of the Espoirs Laval team in the parking lot. Jeff had spent the last two hrs in the broom wagon with 16 other guys. He was one of the 80+ guys to DNF the race. It had taken its toll for sure.



The LG Factory, birthplace of my cycling kit.


We didn't wait around long. Showered up, packed the car, and it was back to Montreal. By 9:30 that night I was back in Ottawa, 24 hrs later back in Vancouver. It was a whirlwind tour. Make that a crosswind tour.

Maybe next year we'll be back with a team of guys and some fitter legs. If not, it was a great experience and a helluva race. If you're ever in Montreal in August and you're feeling up to it, I highly recommend it. Just make sure you get a team sorted out ahead of time, your tires are pumped up properly, and you're not near the back of the pack near Champlain, QC.