My first competitive outing was a GVCC training race at Valentown in 1985. I lacked virtually everything except a decent bike, my then brand new Panasonic DX-4000. By the time I rode my first citizen's race in Wayland at the end of the summer, I had some all of the "proper" tools, and came in roughly mid-field. I was hooked, and for several summers afterwards, I made my way to a series of races scattered around the Finger Lakes. Southern Tier and northwestern Pennsylvania.

Sometimes, the mixed fields provided us with some unexpected entertainment. One year, a horde of local high school football players descended on the race, clearly expecting to wipe the asphalt with the fragile riders and their exotic machines. Most of us were leaving the parking lot when the first of them were coming to the line . . .

These races generally shared a similar topography: generally flat to rolling, with 1-2 major climbs. These were not the relatively short, steep rollers we have in Western Pennsylvania, but rather long, grinding climbs that blew the pack to pieces. A typical climb in a Finger Lakes citizen's race was 1-2 miles long, and averaged 5-8%. Unfortunately, most of the hills came too early in the races for the climbers, who often found themselves chased down after making their escapes.

Gradually, the atmosphere began to darken; some riders seemed to take things a bit too serious, and the congenial atmosphere began to evaporate. A number of my colleagues began to drift away from the competitive side of the sport even as I had my best year in 1989. This alone couldn't explain the demise of most of these races. I have several theories as to why the majority of races described on this page have long since faded into oblivion. The late 80s and early 90s saw the rise of the mountain bike, and despite the fact that most mountain bikes never saw dirt, clearly the focus was shifting away from machines that could fly over the asphalt.

Logistics and litigation no doubt hastened the end of the races. The process was already underway when I was racing in the mid-80s: Livonia hosted its last race in 1986, and the Dansville Dogwood Festival followed suit shortly thereafter. Insurance skyrocketed in the late 80s, and organizers probably found it far easier to support and insure 5 and 10k runs, as opposed to 30 to 50 mile bicycle races. Regardless of the causes, few of these events survive to this day. To my knowledge, only the excellent Hans Huddle race has run continuously since the 80s, albeit with significantly fewer riders. The Old Home Days bicycle race, run out of Jasper, New York was also held in 2003, for the first time in a decade.

There is a lesson embedded in the unfortunate end of these once popular races. Western Pennsylvania currently can boast of having a number of very popular, highly successful citizens races, such as the Tour De Tamarak, Five Forks Classic, Tour of Strongland and Kinzua Classic. While these events can draw hundreds of riders of varying ability, their existence is very much subject to the whims and foibles of their participants, economics, sponsors and organizers. Tradition and longevity are no assurance that an event will survive to the next season. I've already heard of one Pennsylvanian event folding in 2003, and I would just as soon not see so many of these events consigned to a "memorial" site, such as this one.

My swan song came in this race in 1990, when I struggled to get 73rd place (I hadn't trained much that season, and only came to this race at this insistence of one of my friends).

To the best of my knowledge, the Finger Lakes Classic is no longer held.

The Hans Huddle is one of the only Finger Lakes region citizen races to survive the higher costs of insurance and dwindling packs. The 2002 race followed a different course, but the new course presented us with similar terrain. Organizers responded to complaints about the mass sprints by throwing in a 2 mile climb up Groveland Hill. I would have loved the new course in 1989!

Suggested Tactics: The opening miles of the race are flat, and the stronger riders invariably ramp up the pace as soon as possible. As with most citizen races, it is imperative to get to the front of the pack, lest you find yourself blocked in by slower riders. If you can keep pace (I couldn't this year), make sure that you have a good shot at the hill: if you're a climber, it's essential that you hold you place at the head of the pack, lest you get trapped behind slower riders. If you're a sprinter, make sure you get to the hill first. This is a long climb, with a series of "steps." It is a perfect hill for climbers who favor a long, moderate grade, but not so steep that power riders will find themselves shelled off of the back immediately.

The approach to the town is quite fast, and while the hill can split the pack, it is more than possible for riders to catch escapees, if they can push a heavy gear. If you're going to go on the hill, push hard, but remember that there are still several flat or downhill miles ahead.

Hans Huddle Website

Tactics were far from my mind in 1986 and 88, as mechanical issues took me out of the pack early on (I finished nevertheless). I was part of an 11 man chase group in 1989, when I attacked on the 3 mile long "Augerhole" climb. A single rider broke off in pursuit, and chased me down the descent to the finish. He must have had a larger gear, a few more pounds or a combination of the two, as he caught me after a 45 m.p.h. chase.

Tactics: This course features several climbs, the most significant of which is the long "Augerhole" ascent in the race's final miles. This hill is a climber's dream, but odds are that the pack will splinter long beforehand. A short, steep "sprinter's" hill crops up in the first couple of miles, and the advantage often shifts to those with the explosive power needed to overcome such short grades. A good climber can make inroads on the Augerhole, but it's clearly in your best interest to stick with the group over the first climb. I climber the Augerhole in a 53X19 combination in 1989 when I escaped from the chase group, but I also weighed in at 139 pounds. Heavier riders and non-climbers will suffer on this one.

Left: The Augerhole climb and descent into town. The climb lasts nearly 3 miles, but the worst is in the final mile, when the road kicks up almost 400 feet.

The course was flat, and several miles shorter than most of the others. These facts naturally contributed to the race's high speeds, with the lead packs averaging around 24-25 m.p.h.. Riders faced only two obstacles beyond these high speeds: the 1 and a quarter mile climb up Dutch Hill, and a short, sharp ascent at the finish. This was not a climbers race, as virtually any strong breakaway on Dutch Hill faced the 11.25 lonely miles back to the finish, and the steep pitch of the final 100 yards favored the sprinters. Perhaps to mollify the sprint-challenged, the organizers offered a prize for the first rider to crest Dutch Hill: a Tour de France Style "spotty" mountain point jersey.

I have two lasting memories from this event. The first comes from the 1988 race. Steve Lee and I were in what appeared to be an inexperienced 10 man chase group. Steve, another 2 riders and I would take pulls, but the other riders dawdled behind, unable or unwilling to work.

The cause of our erstwhile companions reticence was made painfully clear when one of the riders loudly remarked that he wouldn't "let any woman" beat him. Our group bore a strong young woman along with us, and most of the men refused to work, lest they wear themselves out and suffer the ignomy of being beaten by a woman.

I was annoyed on many, MANY levels.

While we were certainly contesting places in the top third of the race, I knew that the men's trophies were gone, and I didn't see any sense in this pointless bickering. The remark was clearly aimed at the young woman, and I was furious to think that the female rider would associate all of us with this rider's thoughtless comments. I'd had women beat me before, with no impact on my ego, but I'd be damned if I let some misogynistic jerk squirt ahead of me because he didn't work lest our female companion nip him in the sprint.

My frustration came to a head as we approached Olean, and most of the chasers were still intent on keeping the woman "in her place." I sported a 30 m.p.h. sprint in those days, which meant that I was screwed if it came down to a group sprint, and that steep hill just didn't favor my climbing style. So I attacked a mile from the finish. Steve Lee and the other male workhorse quickly followed, although I wasn't aware of this until they came flying past me in the final meters of the race.

And the others? They were so intent on watching the women that they couldn't respond when the three of us (occupying the first three positions in the group, with the women in fourth place) attacked. Suddenly, their "tactics" backfired, as the woman went from potential target to inadvertent blocker, and their pride cost them any hope of winning the group sprint.

Seldom did such ignorance present me with such a golden opportunity for an attack.

In 1989, I came to the race with the intention of winning the polka-dot jersey awarded to the first rider to crest Dutch Hill. I was perfectly placed on the approach to the hill . . . until I got blocked in and quickly found myself at the back of the pack. I was furious, and stormed back through the pack, leaving all but a half dozen escapees behind. It was a wasted effort, as I couldn't catch the breakaway before the top of the hill, and my assault left me exhausted and inneffectual as a group of us tried to chase the leaders down.

Like most of these races, the Enchanted Mountain Stage Race and it's related citizen's race faded into memory in the mid 90s.

Left: The Dutch Hill climb. The 1988 and '89 races continued straight up the hill to roughly the 2000 foot contour line, before turning back.

Once the race reached lake level, it followed Route 54 (a joy to ride on any occasion) back to Hammondsport. It literally had something for everyone: a tough climb for the mountain goats, rolling terrain for the power riders, and a long, flat section perfectly suited for a fast paceline. A number of us formed a large chase group on that occasion, and we flew back to the Curtiss Museum's parking lot with a steady 25 mile an hour pace. Needless to say, the descent into Branchport in a pack was one of the more adrenaline pumping experiences of my brief career. Unfortunately, I could manage little better than to finish in the middle of our group in the final sprint.

I hoped to substantially improve on my 30th place the following year, and I quite confident that I could break into the top 20. When I arrived at the old Curtiss Museum, I was horrified to learn that the race had been cancelled! A number of us nevertheless chose to ride the course, and we even added some difficulty by scaling some steep hills on Keuka's east side.

To the best of my knowledge, the race survived until the mid 1990s.

My best finish came in 1988, when I finished 21st in a bunch sprint. I expected to build on this result in 1989; after all, I had improved substantially in almost every event that season. Instead, I finished well back, minutes behind my best time. My old training notes indicate that I had put in a long and miserable final week at Lakelands concrete, which might have explained my dismal performance.

At least I didn't have to ride the course alone. As the peleton drifted away, I couldn't help but to notice a single rider at the side of the road. Jon Dechau, a promising young rider, had lost his cycling shoe. The two of us paired up, conceded defeat, and spent the morning chatting. It was one of my more enjoyable experiences, even if John did pip me at the finish line.

I believe that John is now one of the stronger riders currently active in the Rochester area.

The Loon Lake Classic was held in Conjunction with the Wayland Potato Festival every August. It is my understanding that the festival now feature a 5K run, in lieu of a bicycle race.

This was typically the shortest race of the season, and challenged the riders with a steep climb. I rode the course one more time, and had planned on entering the race in 1989. I deferred, on account of an odd sense of an impending crash. Given my general lack of superstition, this was an odd occurrence, but I remained safely ensconced in my dorm room while Jon Dechau won the climber's trophy.

I can't be certain, but I believe that this race vanished in the 90s as well.

This was invariably the last race of the season, and I wasn't generally prepared for the tough course. The rain and cold weather merely exacerbated my misery.

One year, a Category I woman showed up and humbled most of the top riders. I was too caught up in a desperate effort not to vomit to care.

In 1989, I came to the race after having ridden all of 150 miles in the previous 3 weeks. I was in college, and more concerned with starting my senior year off well than piling the miles on before my final race. It was now a time honored tradition, and I bore myself down to Bradford, ready to pay penance for my lack of training.

Jon Dechau was there, fresh from his climbing escapades in the K of C race. Jon and I had developed something of a friendly rivalry that season. Our fathers chatted away on at the finish lines while we struggled on the roads, and we were reasonably well matched at the time, at least on the hills.

The skies were ominous, and the would be marked by its typically bad weather: in the 50s, with rain. Before I left home, I looked for a tight fitting sweatshirt to slip on under my jersey, but I ended up wearing a fairly loose windbreaker which my mother borrowed from one of my sisters.

The course that year featured a number of long, steep climbs. I remembered my tactical blunder at Olean earlier that summer, and made sure that I was at the head of the group as we reached the foot of the first hill. Jon Dechau was beside me, and I distinctly remember him turning to me and saying "Let's see what a couple of climbers can do." Both of us powered up the hill, and Jon gradually worked his way ahead of me. The group behind us exploded!

I was getting overheated, and to make matters worse, my windbreaker puffed out and acted as a drogue chute on the descent. A number of riders passed me, but I sensed that the vast majority were now well behind. Another rider, a triathelete, joined me, and we worked well together, chasing a number of struggling figures down. Unfortunately, Jon Dechau was one of those lonely riders. He was spent and having a bad day, and he soon faded behind us. As far as I know, it was the only time I beat him that season.

My companion stayed with me as I rode hands free for a few seconds to remove the windbreaker. As we approached Bradford's slick brick streets, he gradually rode away from me, and I was alone.

With less than a mile to the finish, I spotted his jersey ahead; he had a few seconds, but my rather crazed descent on wet road brought me to within striking distance. I caught an passed him, he followed my wheel, and we began to sprint for the line. At this point, there seemed to be little to race for other than a decent placing, but that was generally my goal in every race I started that season. He came alongside, but I held him off, used a bike toss at the line, and beat him by a wheel.

Within minutes, we learned that the sprint had been for third place in the age group. Had he ridden harder when he left me, he might have earned the rather gosh beer can trophy, but I returned to Nazareth with the ugly souvenir in hand, as proud as I can ever recall having been after a race.

Jon has since become a Category 1 racer, with a local palmares that I could never have hoped to rival even if I had chosen to stay in the sport. I always saw races as enjoyable activities, and I was generally content to make life miserable for a few people on the hills, and to shave a few minutes and places off of my previous best efforts. Looking back 15 years later, I could not think of a better series of events for furthering these goals.