Titanium in the Tour

I think it’s safe to say that competitive cyclists have a common fantasy. It’s of being in a real Tour if genetics, geography, and the lure of a financially more rewarding career somewhere else hadn’t persuaded them to just be normal people during weekdays and hard-core "roadies" in the weekends. We’re the ones who follow and understand national races like the Tour Pilipinas. We’re the ones who stay up late at night to watch the coverage of the annual Tour de France, where a guy named Lance Armstrong once fought cancer and came back to win the Tour de France five times in a row. And, well, we’re the ones who’ll skip work when we can to put in some more mileage in our legs, preferably up in the hills or mountains. Because if Lance can do it, so can we. Or something like that.

So when World Cycling Adventures Organizes comes up with a 3-day stage race dubbed the Globe Telecom Cycling Challenge 2003/Tour of Jalajala-Mabitac-Bugarin, expect our kind to join. Nine teams of five riders each signed up for a 44-kilometer team time trial, an 87-kilometer road race, and a 12-kilometer individual time trial to be held in the windswept flats of Jalajala and the hills of Bugarin and Mabitac. An invitational event strictly for white-collar executives (to keep the competition fair by preventing sandbagging pro cyclists), this would be just a short taste of what real professional cyclists do for a living. And while the total mileage of the 3-day race would be less than what a typical pro might encounter in a single day’s stage, the intensity and competitive atmosphere would test the limits of our endurance and strength. We’d be in pure hell for three days, racing and tearing our legs off for team honors and the much-coveted yellow jersey of the race leader.

The day before the first stage, Universal Motors lends me a shiny Nissan Frontier Titanium. Timely, because our team — Team Band-Aid Superstar Roadies — would need a suitable support vehicle. A new truck with multireflector headlamps, chrome wheels and reworked fender flares for more visual oomph could hardly hurt our team effort. Band-Aid was kind enough to sponsor our team, and a good thing too, because Stage 1 would indeed give me a chance to test some of their first-aid products. With supple black leather upholstery accented by red stitching, brushed aluminum panels, and other good stuff, the Frontier had our support crew fighting for the keys when I arrived at our meeting point on the first day.

Stage 1 : Team Time Trial

With the five-man teams being set off at two-minute intervals on the out-and-back course, my team braced for an hour and change of maximum heart rates and burning pain in our legs. Loaded up with water bottles, spare wheels, and the other paraphernalia of an amateur cycling team, the support crew goes ahead in the Frontier to hand us fresh water bottles at the turnaround point. When the marshal flags us off, we work our way up to a steady 38kph as planned, but as if by unspoken consent, we’re soon doing 41kph in the paceline. It’s a hard but manageable effort, with members taking turns at the front, "pulling" the team by blocking the wind for awhile before letting another teammate take his turn. The first eight kilometers go by quickly, until I see one of my teammates falling back and out of our slipstream. Now our red-and-white train has one less engine, but as designated team leader, I decide to maintain the pace rather than lose time waiting for him to rejoin the group.

The course enters the rolling hills and windswept flats of Jalajala, and it’s becoming just a little bit harder to keep the speedometer reading at "41 kph". Veering slightly to the left to adjust for the crosswind coming from the rice fields, teammate Fred Chua (a businessman) misreads my body language and moves to the front. Not wanting to break his momentum, I take position behind him. Fred pulls like a freight train even in the wind; it’s a big effort on my part just to keep up with him.

And then disaster happens. I lose concentration for a split second and then my front wheel overlaps his rear wheel just as he’s pulling aside to let me pull. A panicked yell is all I can manage before our tires hit and then I’m flying, crashing back to the road and rolling over and over. I probably blacked out on impact, because I don’t really remember seeing the world spin around me. I just remember seeing sky, and then lying flat on the ground, but having enough presence of mind left to yell to my teammates to go on and leave me. Clock’s ticking, you know. You would think we were being paid in the millions for such professionalism, but no, we just love the sport so much. Some rural spectators witness my crash and check me for broken bones, but I tell them I’m okay. My first question is "Nasira ba bike ko?". This is not a trivial question. While the Frontier retails for P925,000, that’s only about 1/3 of the total value of the bikes in the peloton. Titanium, aluminum, carbon fiber, premium Italian steel — you name it, this Tour has it.

Fortunately, my Good Samaritans say nothing serious is broken on my bike, then point out that I’ve got blood all over the front of my jersey. I realize my body took a beating in the crash. I’ve got a big bruise on my chest, piso-sized abrasions on my knees, hands, and ankles, and big ones on my shoulder and right hip the size of a Nokia 7250 and a 7650, respectively. Blood and pus is oozing like there’s no tomorrow, but there’s no pain... yet. A quick, groggy call to my support crew and they assure me they’ll pick me up in a few minutes. Meanwhile, I take further stock of my damages. My Rudy Project Furya helmet is smashed at the temple area, my sunglasses are scuffed, my chin is burned, my gloves are shredded, and my four thousand four hundred peso Italian saddle is likewise scuffed from its 10-meter long skid on the road. Now I feel truly awful.

Soon enough, the Frontier comes my way with lights ablaze and blinkers, well, blinking like a good Tour vehicle. The trip to the finish line is quick, and Edward Perlas — training buddy but support crewmember for this race — seems to be enjoying the truck’s light steering and classy interior. I, on the other hand, resort to giving splits to my remaining three teammates who are now riding like the damned.

When we get to the finish line, we are elated to find that we still finished 2nd out of nine starting teams, one minute and change behind the Team Look-Carrera-Alabang. The race leader’s yellow jersey (a Tour tradition) goes to that team’s Joel Gironella.

Stage 2: Road Race

The trip from my house in Paranaque to the starting point in Morong is largely uneventful, save for giving me time to admire how well the Titanium’s white-faced gauges are at early morning. Nissan really makes good-looking instrument panels, and the Frontier is no exception despite its mission as a workhorse. The ride is seriously stiff, though. Unless you plan on loading up the truck’s bed with heavy stuff like sacks of cement, water jugs, or one cooler, three wheelsets, and three support crew friends, you will likely find the stiff ride unnerving over potholes, ruts, humps, and other normal road booby traps.

The 12-kilometer neutral zone from Morong to Pililia junction is likewise uneventful, but gives everyone in the peloton the opportunity to chat and subtly sneak into position for the race proper. We’re not four kilometers into Pililia when the pace suddenly picks up; a small group has just broken away and now the peloton is giving chase. My team gets the urge to give further chase when the pack slows down, but I tell my teammate Ronnie Cuevas to just keep the yellow jersey in sight. As long as we’re with the race leader, we won’t be losing time.

We roll through the countryside until the Frontier rolls alongside us and crewmembers give us bad news: the breakaway is now one minute up, and getting farther. Now we’re really getting antsy and few other teams want to chase because some of their teammates are in that breakaway group. Every time we attempt to sprint away, we look back to find the peloton still with us but keeping a discrete distance behind, letting us use up our energy.

We reach the climax of the stage, an eight-kilometer climb up Mabitac with its switchback turns and overpowering sun. For a few moments, I feel really drained of energy as I’m pedaling at 18kph and rider after rider powers ahead of me. Then the yellow jersey and his teammate Robin Valdez comes along and I ride with them. I decide to work harder and (hopefully) get ahead this time, and it works for awhile. The Frontier comes up and hands me ice-cold water, while another friend tells me how nice and cool it is inside the truck. At the halfway point, I’m finally getting to pass still more riders when my leg cramps up on me and forces me to stop and massage my calves. A frustrated minute later, I’m back to chasing everyone I passed only a few minutes ago.

The cramps dog me for the remaining 25 kilometers of downhill and flats, but at least Ronnie makes it to 4th overall. I settle for 10th, almost five minutes behind Eric Carandang, who won the stage, posted the fastest overall time, and got to wear the yellow jersey for the last day.

Stage 3: Individual Time Trial

There are worse things than the Frontier to drive when your arms and legs are aching from wounds and constantly oozing blood. At least the leather is easy to clean for that kind of mess. For a manual transmission, the clutch is probably the lightest in its class, and the steering is almost as light and buttery-smooth as an Exalta’s. The 84-horsepower 2.7-liter diesel is only adequate, but it has enough grunt for most of the chores you’d ask a truck to do. Against rivals like the Mitsubishi L200/Strada, Ford Ranger/Trekker, and the new Isuzu D-MAX, its strong suit is its excellent fit and finish (especially with the cabin). Also new for the "Titanium" are a rain sensor, integrated foglamps, and signal lamps integrated into the side mirrors. As a lead vehicle for a rolling train of exotic metals and carbon fiber, it’s a vehicle worthy of all the exotic machinery it’s protecting.

We make it to the start line of the final individual time trial; four kilometers of flats and eight of climbing up Bugarin. The Frontier goes ahead on the course for a very important mission: take pictures of us grunting and sweating and panting up the damn hill!

Once again, my ride is plagued with trouble. This time, my chain drops when I downshift from my 50-tooth chain ring to the 39-tooth. About 30 seconds are lost when I dismount, fumble with the chain, swear, and get back on the saddle for the last day of this Globe sufferfest. I’m stuck in a heavy gear, like using the Frontier’s 5th gear to crawl through traffic. Like pressing 50 pounds every 2-½ seconds. In 30 minutes and nine seconds, I reach the finish line at last. Once again, Eric Carandang gives a superb performance: 28 minutes and 50 something seconds, effectively winning the Tour in grand fashion.

The ride back to Manila is quiet, not because of disappointment — hey, we still did great! — but because my crewmembers fall asleep from exhaustion. As for me, it’s time to return the Titanium to its owners, mission accomplished.