Take the Fondriest, leave the cannoli

The spring classics in Kosovo

Those of us addicted to cycling struggle through cold winter months, seeing every day our bikes sitting forlornly, our Strava accounts reminding us how far we already are behind annual distance goals, and our summer bike clothes not fitting as smoothly as they should.

I was struggling after returning to Kosovo from New Year’s when the air quality grew to become among the worst on the planet, and for much of January and February I was fighting with constant migraine headaches. I’ve discussed my theory that this winter was worse than most because of a new vein of sulphur-rich coal the local utility started burning, but whatever the case, I was slow to start the new season. We did get out in March, intrepid cyclists braving snow and ice in the low mountains east of Pristina, and by the first race of the season, we had an amazing break of warm weather.

The real sign of moving into the season, for me, is getting onto my designated racing bike. Since I was 21 and suffered from a knee injury for pushing too hard, too soon, in the spring season, I’ve had at least two road bikes to swap between. One has always been an aluminum-framed Trek used for winter riding and geared lower (easier on the knees), the other a carbon-framed bike with full-sized cranks and the sort of gears that take a good deal of power to muscle through. Some years I never left the training bike, but those were times when my goals were much more modest. And occasionally I’ll use the Trek when race conditions are particularly rough.

For Mitrovica in March I was (barely) ready for the Fondriest. My Fondriest TF-3 I bought soon after arriving in Kosovo- it was barely used, and while I’m not the sort to spend time drooling over photos of bikes online, when I saw this one all I could think was, “Damn, that’s sexy.” Italian-built and one of the lightest bikes around (a stripped-down weight of only 1.6kg) and ultra-stiff, it’s like owning an Italian sports car... beautiful, fast, but uncomfortable and a maintenance headache. The first race was mostly flat (by Kosovo standards), so Gjengiz insisted that I take the bike with the most power available.

An unusually warm and clear day for March in Kosovo, it was nonetheless balanced with high winds from the west. Our team drove to the center of south Mitrovica, with Migjen, Gjengiz and our new master’s teammate Jimmy. Dorant was not feeling well and was acting as soigneur. Jimmy was new to the team but had been diligently training on Swift in his garage each morning at 5am throughout the winter, and seemed in better shape than most of us. He also had a new bike, a high-end Bianchi from Italy that had taken months to arrive through Kosovar customs. My plan was to let Jimmy escort Migjen, and I would stick with Gjengiz in case the groups were separated. That way Jimmy and I would be domestiques, but the plan quickly fell apart after the race started.

Winter cycling is serious business

Leaving Mitrovica, the pack of 40 racers headed west, and then turned south to climb over Lubavec. Migjen and Jimmy surged ahead with the lead group, and while I was alright on my slightly higher-than-normal gears, Gjengiz (a natural climber) fell off behind quickly. Toward the top of the climb I saw Jimmy stopping just ahead, who had been dropped from Migjen’s group when his chain fell off, and his misaligned front Campi derailleur had just failed again. Without pausing, I yelled at him to look after Gjengiz, and decided to sprint ahead and chase after Migjen’s group.

The course took a steep, winding descent toward Novolan, where a plateau dropped down onto farmland below and the city of Vushtrii. I had a younger rider in front of me that I was slowly reeling in, bunny-hopping over potholes and railroad tracks, and once I passed him I could see Migjen’s group in the distance, just turning into the Vushtrii town center. The race through the town was not controlled, not really, plus as with all spring classics the downtown had ancient cobblestones. We weaved around parked cars, startled pedestrians, my bike jarring the life out of my arms (the Fondriest was not designed for cobbles), and I did not even notice that Jimmy had given up on Gjengiz and was chasing my wheel. The road led out of Vushtrii onto the highway to Pristina, a flat road past commercial landscapes, where police were keeping side traffic from entering the road just ahead of bikes.

I could see Migjen’s group about 200 meters ahead of me, but in cycling terms that distance can seem like an ocean. Closing on a pack working together, especially in windy conditions, took every gram of energy I had, and I could only focus on that point, creeping up on them meters by meter, oblivious to the traffic– or that I had a teammate right behind me, who was too tired chasing me to help out until the end. The movie Breaking Away captures that moment better than any other visual I’ve seen.

Photo of Indiana, not Vushtrii

Once we caught them, I rested in the back of the pack for a time, but then took over my role to protect Migjen. The pack had a mix of teams, but it was up to Jimmy and I to protect Migjen until the end, even if that meant helping the other teams in the process. Given strong crosswinds, the best tactic for me was to keep up a fast pace, preventing attacks off the front and wearing out anyone behind as much as possible. We biked most of the way back to Pristina, turned around and then raced back up the highway, back through Vushtrii, toward Mitrovica. Our pack stuck together, I kept in the lead as much as possible, and then at the end did the other thing domestiques sacrifice themselves for– while pacing the group I stopped pedaling, knowing that most of the guys behind would do likewise for a few seconds, giving Migjen the chance to jump ahead in the sprint. Migjen took second in the end, but I had a hard time explaining to others that my time (two seconds behind the leaders) was intentional. I was not a sprinter myself, and in any case was too tired to attack the rest of the peloton. Poor Gjengiz, dropped off the back in high winds on flat roads (his worst conditions) dragged in some time behind us. But overall, it was a good day.

Migjen, me, and Jimmy at the race finish

I then dropped off from cycling and any sense of fitness for weeks, as I headed to Egypt. Almost two weeks of academic conference, Nile River archeological visits and endless food.

When I returned to the bike weeks later, I felt as if I had gained 8 kilos. I forced myself right onto the hard training routes from Pristina- Marec and Kamenice, and yet was hardly up to my previous fitness by the time the Prizren race came around on April 21.

Prizren city center

Like the previous race, April 21 dawned sunnier and warmer than the previous cold, blustery weeks
leading up to it. Four racers, this time with the accomplished runner Albion instead of Jimmy, piled into Rexha’s small car and headed to the city of Prizren. The last race there had been cold and rainy, and my spirits were no better than on that day. I had hardly slept, was feeling groggy, and was imagining getting dropped early on the longish, 110km course. The center square of Prizren is still largely medieval, with a communal fountain, cobbled streets, and a castle overlooking the town. We usually start from Prizren to head into the Sharr Mountains that loom above the city, but this time I was told we would have another largely flat race, and again I had brought the Fondriest. I had hardly touched that bike since Mitrovica, and could only imagine finding out that the route was indeed mountainous, or had a typical hilltop finish. I didn’t even manage to get a coffee before the start.

The peloton headed out to the edge of the city for a neutral start, and the first line of cyclists were lined up for a sprint start. When the whistles blew they didn’t start out too quickly, but the first part of the race was a constant series of surges and attacks off the front. While I ignore most of those and try to keep a constant pace, the attacks that day were quickly wearing, and I told my teammates I couldn’t keep up if the attacks didn’t stop. Still, I carved out time to take a selfie, despite the speed and constant danger of potholes. I found myself trailing a number of times, though at least on the first climbs I managed to stay with my teammates. The route followed much the same route as in October, only turning off to head toward Gjakova before the larger climbs hit. But the Gjakova road had its own series of climbs– the first was not so bad, but on the second I saw the peloton draw away from me ahead, while at the same time I heard Rexha calling from the team car, offering me a bunch of bananas. While I didn’t want them, I understood my role was to stuff them into my jersey and take them up to my teammates. I wasn’t sure I could even do that. I had to slow on the climb to grab the food, and was then caught in a series of cars that were impatiently being kept behind the peloton by police. Finding no room on the right curb and having to slow for traffic, I took to the left lane and just started passing cars as quickly as I could.

Me, Gjengiz and Migjen

I caught the peloton again just as we entered Gjakova, whipping through a roundabout and headed back out on the road toward Prizren again. While we’d had a tailwind on the first part of the race, now we faced a stiff headwind, and the diminished peloton couldn’t decide whose responsibility it would be to take the lead and work into the wind. KC Trepca was doing work unhappily, and I was trying to keep my teammates from going to the front. That would be my job, assuming I had the energy, and when would I start? We’d been told the course was 110km long, but no one knew for certain, and we were only at around 70km. Our pace had dropped from 40kph average to just over 30, and the lack of cooperation meant we kept getting slower. Frustrated, I jumped in front, only to have three cyclists immediately attack, then slow down to 25kph. Then they attacked again, and slowed.

Racing next to Dragan (in black)

I shouldered past them, impatient. Like in the Ferizaj race last year, it was easier in my mind to establish a faster pace into the wind, and keep attacks from surging ahead. I would only do it for a while, I told myself, since we still had some 30km to go, and no one knew the end terrain. After about ten minutes my impatience wore off, and I looked behind to see who would take over for me.

Only Gjengiz was there.

The rest of the peloton was already almost out of sight behind us, and Gjengiz shouted, “We have a good gap!”

Crap. I’d started a breakaway too soon, and without even knowing it. We raced through the village of Pirane, over the Drin River canyon, and I figured, hell, might as well try and see if I can set up Gjengiz for something.

Now, nothing against my teammate, but as I’ve written before, Gjengiz is not meant for flat roads and wind. Even staying on my rear wheel his heart rate was averaging 170, and he could do little to help. Like our training rides into Shkoder in Albania, I had to keep up the pace myself, as long as I could.

We turned a sharp corner, keeping the chase group from seeing us. Later I learned that the peloton wouldn’t chase us. Migjen was the real threat and was still with them, Gjengiz’s breakaways never worked, and that other guy was a crazy old American. While the Serbian rider Dragan tried to rally the group to chase, they argued that there was plenty of time. But time was exactly what I was afraid of.

Breaking away

My legs were burning with averaging 300Watts and 37kph into a stiff wind, over rolling terrain and toward the village of Krajk, where the October race had ended. Yet instead of being directed up the final climb as before, we turned back onto the final October road in reserve direction, back north toward Lukinaj. This was terrifying. Just past Lukinaj was Kushnin, where we both remembered a fast descent– meaning this time it would be a steep climb. “I don’t have the legs for any climbs,” I said as I looked behind me and saw a flash of red. I looked behind again.

“Crap, they’ve caught us.”

The peloton was finally bearing down on us, and I remembered this scene so well from watching professional and Olympic races, the helpless feeling of seeing breakaway leaders like Mara Abbott (2016 Olympics) get swallowed and quickly passed. Gjengiz and I sat up on our bikes and waited for the rush of cyclists around us, when we’d struggle to keep up.

Except it didn’t happen. Dragan pulled up to me, and I joked, “Hey, can’t you give an old man any fun?” but the rest stayed behind. I didn’t know what their thinking was- likely everyone was dreading the Kushnin climb and had expended energy in the chase. They were collectively catching their breath, rather than pressing the advantage.

Meaning I was still in front when I came around a corner and saw the final flags 200 meters in front of me.

Now, I wasn’t being modest when I said I wasn’t a sprinter. I still have some sprint KOMs, but those are from seated sprints, long leads instead of 1000-Watt explosions of power. Yet there I was sprinting, not knowing why I was not being passed. In a bike sprint, the lead person never wins, since the cyclist behind has the advantage of drafting, and can use that extra 30% of energy to sweep around the lead. Professional teams designate sprint lead-outs, whose only job is to help get the real sprinter into position. Someone finally tried passing me at the line, but I took it by a hair. Well, I’m sure I did, though in typically Kosovo fashion, even the finish line wasn’t painted straight. But it didn’t matter- all the elite riders were behind me, and I had just surprised everyone, especially myself.

We had the usual post-race lunch and awards ceremony, rode a short recovery ride the next day (though Gjengiz attacked a new mountain road, and Albion went and ran five miles or something crazy), and now that it's the last week of classes at AUK/RIT I'm swamped with work again. Sunday was a great memory, and shows how unpredictable bike races can be-- I still had an extra banana in my pocket when I finished.

Mitrovica race (Strava)
Prizren race (Strava)

(Last three race photos credit to KC Trepca)