Well, it certainly has been a period of time since I have graced you all with my pithy lizard language. That is because I made some strange life decisions, partially destroyed myself, and now hobble along with only the tiniest inclination toward any sort of bicyclery.
That is not to say, internet, that I no longer love the bicycle. I do! I lurve it. I love the mountains and the flecks of pastured green and white crawling up toward the sky. I enjoy the wind in my small amount of hair.
But in my heart there has grown a distaste. I no longer feel the joy that I once did ascending the ranks. I am Michelle Kwan in Salt Lake City. Okay, I am not comparable to Michelle Kwan. But, I am no longer the avid ascending beginner, with all the hunger of knowledge and unwieldy passion in my heart. I am the ragged, battle-whomped try-hard-ne'er-do. This has been my life for a good time now, and indeed it has influenced more decisions than I care to number. But it is true that I would not be here, with some of the best, most loving friends I have ever known without the bicycle.
I travelled with my new team (PSIMET/ZILLA Racing! Whee whoop!) to St. George, Utah for the Tour Del Sol stage race this weekend. A quick look over the event encouraged me: it looked like a local-yokel, B-team sort of event. I could go! I could perhaps collect two dollars of encouragement! I could eschew this idea that I am a fat life failure! And so, urged on by my friends and co-workers to go, go, go! I did.
I drove with new friends Becky and Peg for a total of nine and a half hours through the squalorous redrock west, gasping at the canyons and wondering where such things emerged from. We collected packets and such, did all those race-y things I have come to expect, but it felt somehow different. I did not feel like a bike racer. I was wearing ridiculous lycra, pedaling an expensive-but-somehow-in-my-mind-inadequate bicycle around a strange place--but, this of all times, felt different.
I prepared for time trialing sans time trial bike, as I have always done, and was smashed. I raced the crit, as I have always done, and again failed to achieve any sort of result worth smiling about. Because as I rode, a question in my mind: why? Why, why, why? Dear god, sweet christ, why? Why did these twelve women come here to ride in a sweeping circle in the darkness? Why do I work short hours to train, wish for money, travel to races, wish for money, lose, and cry?
I feel empty.
Road race tomorrow. I feel nothing at all.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Let's Talk About the Sexual Objectification of Women!
But Liz, you might say. This blog is called "Liz Bikes." It isn't called "Liz has horrible feminist rage."
Well, internet, I believe it was the original Will.I.am who said "WHAT IS IN A NAME," so there.
This weekend was the ninth annual Everyone Rides event. Basically, it is a heapish pilgrimage of cyclists from all over the place to sunny South Florida for the chance to ride with some of the brightest names in the sport, present and past: Phil Gaimon, Tom Danielson, Brad Huff, Franky Andreu, and Greg Lemond all made appearances.
The other thing making appearances was the Stradalli Cycles brand. Oh, appear they did indeed! Tons of riders sported various makes and builds--including Greg himself. Yes, the man who bought Time USA rode Saturday's VIP ride on a Stradalli.
This is fine. Great! I don't want to talk about small businesses, or competition, or any of that. I want to talk about respect.
Let's talk about actions. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. SCIENCE FACT!
Let's talk about Greg Lemond, one of the greatest, most decorated riders in cycling history, climbing aboard a bicycle that chooses to promote itself with images like these:
No one lives in a vacuum. When Greg Lemond rode that bike, he endorsed the imagery of the Stradalli brand. Whether it was a knowing endorsement, or just a tame, non-politically-charged ride on a friend's bike--this is beside the point. Because these images are Stradalli's voice, and they say: Women are meat. Women are objects. WOMEN WOMEN MEATY MEAT OBJECTIFICATION TANGO.
Look at another picture:
The Stradalli bike stands in front of an obscenely expensive car. A prototypically "sexy" woman grasps the saddle and pouts.
Guess what? This says something. It means something. For Stradalli, a woman and a luxury car serve the same purpose: they are aesthetic. They provide the air they want their bike to breathe; they give it a "man's man" character.
Let's see images with a man and a Stradalli:
Oh, so manly. But SURPRISE. THEY ARE WEARING CLOTHES. Oh, how weird! My eye is not being drawn to their sexual organs, like so:
So, what does this say to the average woman? I genuinely want to know. I imagine there can be two or three interpretations:
1) FEMINIST RAGE,
as you can see demonstrated now by the lizard. I will not elaborate.
2) APATHY:
AKA, "Sex sells, that's just how things are."
3) POSITIVE?
I guess someone might say, "they are not being sexualized, they are being sexual." Maybe? But this is pretty clearly some male-gaze stuff. Is this femininity? Is it really?
Now, with Stradalli sponsoring the Colavita Pro Women's cycling team, I cannot see how this can be ignored. You are taking a team of elite, kick-ass women who fight on the daily for respect and forcing them to ride bikes that don't consider women capable of riding them. But if they want to strip and rub their cleavage on the bikes, OH BY ALL MEANS.
But really, this is hardly a new opinion in cycling. This is a sport that paid Chris Froome roughly $600,000 for his victory in the Tour De France, and then threw Giro Donne victor Mara Abbott $630 and told her to GTFO. As a woman, you really can be the best! You just also have to be homeless.
IT IS OFFENSIVE. In an era where women's sports make up somewhere between .5 and 1.5% of sports coverage, (depending on who you ask) this boggles my mind. It is the ultimate of horrible ironies. I lay awake at night for injustices such as these. Nobody asked to be whatever gender they are! Roughly half just happened to have the misfortune of being ladies. For that reason, we are doomed to find blog posts claiming that "Women should not have self-esteem," and shudder. For no reason other than some horrible biological luck, we are doomed to hear the same horrible joke about sandwich making again and again until we either get tired and make the sandwich, or die.
I ask you this, internet: How are we supposed to value ourselves when the world shouts from every direction, "YOU ARE A SANDWICH MAKING PAIR OF BOOBS."
Let's be real--the woman wearing the Stradalli cycling kit is not a cyclist. is She doesn't know the difference between a watt and a tire lever. She is a high heeled fake. I look at this woman and know that this product is not intended for me. Do I imagine myself driving that car, or fucking that woman? Of course not. But advertisements are not crafted by accident, and that is the reaction Stradalli seeks.
I also wonder: what is this bicycle overcompensating for?
Well, internet, I believe it was the original Will.I.am who said "WHAT IS IN A NAME," so there.
This weekend was the ninth annual Everyone Rides event. Basically, it is a heapish pilgrimage of cyclists from all over the place to sunny South Florida for the chance to ride with some of the brightest names in the sport, present and past: Phil Gaimon, Tom Danielson, Brad Huff, Franky Andreu, and Greg Lemond all made appearances.
The other thing making appearances was the Stradalli Cycles brand. Oh, appear they did indeed! Tons of riders sported various makes and builds--including Greg himself. Yes, the man who bought Time USA rode Saturday's VIP ride on a Stradalli.
This is fine. Great! I don't want to talk about small businesses, or competition, or any of that. I want to talk about respect.
Let's talk about actions. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. SCIENCE FACT!
Let's talk about Greg Lemond, one of the greatest, most decorated riders in cycling history, climbing aboard a bicycle that chooses to promote itself with images like these:
 |
| I don't even see a bike in this picture. oh wait it's being swallowed BY THE BOOTY |
 |
| "If I'm really good, I get to wear pants!" |
Look at another picture:
The Stradalli bike stands in front of an obscenely expensive car. A prototypically "sexy" woman grasps the saddle and pouts.
Guess what? This says something. It means something. For Stradalli, a woman and a luxury car serve the same purpose: they are aesthetic. They provide the air they want their bike to breathe; they give it a "man's man" character.
Oh, so manly. But SURPRISE. THEY ARE WEARING CLOTHES. Oh, how weird! My eye is not being drawn to their sexual organs, like so:
 |
| OOOOOPS MY JERSEY JUST JUMPED RIGHT OFF ME or OOOH HOLD ON WHILE I ADJUST MY SEXY, SEXY HEART RATE MONITOR or OOOOOH MY SPORTS BRA HAS SOOOOOOO MUCH SUPPORT MY BACK FEELS GREAAAT |
1) FEMINIST RAGE,
as you can see demonstrated now by the lizard. I will not elaborate.
2) APATHY:
AKA, "Sex sells, that's just how things are."
3) POSITIVE?
I guess someone might say, "they are not being sexualized, they are being sexual." Maybe? But this is pretty clearly some male-gaze stuff. Is this femininity? Is it really?
Now, with Stradalli sponsoring the Colavita Pro Women's cycling team, I cannot see how this can be ignored. You are taking a team of elite, kick-ass women who fight on the daily for respect and forcing them to ride bikes that don't consider women capable of riding them. But if they want to strip and rub their cleavage on the bikes, OH BY ALL MEANS.
But really, this is hardly a new opinion in cycling. This is a sport that paid Chris Froome roughly $600,000 for his victory in the Tour De France, and then threw Giro Donne victor Mara Abbott $630 and told her to GTFO. As a woman, you really can be the best! You just also have to be homeless.
IT IS OFFENSIVE. In an era where women's sports make up somewhere between .5 and 1.5% of sports coverage, (depending on who you ask) this boggles my mind. It is the ultimate of horrible ironies. I lay awake at night for injustices such as these. Nobody asked to be whatever gender they are! Roughly half just happened to have the misfortune of being ladies. For that reason, we are doomed to find blog posts claiming that "Women should not have self-esteem," and shudder. For no reason other than some horrible biological luck, we are doomed to hear the same horrible joke about sandwich making again and again until we either get tired and make the sandwich, or die.
I ask you this, internet: How are we supposed to value ourselves when the world shouts from every direction, "YOU ARE A SANDWICH MAKING PAIR OF BOOBS."
Let's be real--the woman wearing the Stradalli cycling kit is not a cyclist. is She doesn't know the difference between a watt and a tire lever. She is a high heeled fake. I look at this woman and know that this product is not intended for me. Do I imagine myself driving that car, or fucking that woman? Of course not. But advertisements are not crafted by accident, and that is the reaction Stradalli seeks.
I also wonder: what is this bicycle overcompensating for?
Friday, September 20, 2013
Viva Las Lizard: USA Crits Finals
As I recall, I left you with some philosophical garbage about the state of life as a metaphysical vacuum of some kind. Sorry. Sometimes, I just can't hold it in.
It seems only yesterday I was dropping off my studly rental Toyota Corolla, wrangling Don Pedro from the back seat, and flailing off down Vanderbilt Beach Road toward my place of wayward employment. Normally, I would say something like, "I was determined to crush after the misery of last weekend!" Or, "my misfortunes brought me a fiery new resolve!" But alas, this is not true. I am a wet noodle, all the protest wrung from my bones.
I departed Naples again on Wednesday morning for another day of TSA butt pats and dehumanization. My bicycle was in a sad, sad state--not unlike a race horse with broken knees. You know that book, The Red Pony? Well, I am Jody, and Don Pedro is Gabilan. I am slowly watching him die and maybe it is turning me into a real adult WITH NO SOUL OR JOY.
Upon our arrival in Sin City, I was thinking little of crap shooting, and more of allen keys and handlebar torque. Who was I to act like this was going to go well?! I look back at my smug little face in my memories and I want to slap it.
"WHO ARE YOU," My retroactive self screams, "WHAT IS THIS CONFIDENCE!!!!!!!"
Anyway. Upon arrival, I built my bike and found the shifting to be ALL KIND OF JACKED UP. That is a common occurrence when all 140 lbs of you land crushingly on your derailleur hanger, and I was sure I could adjust it to some kind of semblance of working order. I called my older sister, the meemo, and had her explain to me how to adjust the cable as she is a real life mechanic and is qualified to aid me in my equipmental failures.
After a bit of tinkering, I set out into the streets of Las Vegas to do a sort of pre-ride and some openers (well, one opener). As I spun, a man in cargo shorts and a sweat-stained man shirt lurched out into the street to grab me. He made a sound like, "HMMNNGGHHHH." I think this translates to, "Help! Vegas gave me too many free white russians!" I veered into traffic and avoided his stinky embrace.
The gears seemed to be okay now, and after about an hour I made my way back to the hotel room for refreshening. When I had sufficiently un-stunk myself, I made my way to the lobby for dinner with the entire Gerrity family, who had come to Vegas to watch me race (and also, to play poker. But semantics, I guess.)
We wandered around a bit, and then retired for the night.
THE NEXT DAY!!!!!
The dawn came and I awoke. The current mission: collect race number from Mandalay bay! The window was between 9:00 and 1:00; I figured it surely shouldn't take more than a few minutes to walk down to the tram! I remembered the perils of travel from my last Vegas visit, with Mr. Jack Attack Tomassetti: you must fight through like eighteen casinos before getting where ever it is that you are trying to go. It is the law of Vegas. If Vegas was a scientist, his (her?) law would be, "An object in a casino tends to stay in a casino until murdered, or alcohol poisoned."
This is the law of the land. THEY TRAP YOU INSIDE. They set up blinky lights, and dingy noises! A flurry of human flesh, and jaunty short-skirted waitresses! IT IS ALL A GAME TO VEGAS.
We left Harrah's at approximately 9:25 AM, and took to the streets. We wound through the casinos. We kept to the carpeted path, resisted the lights and smells of chocolate-wastedness. But even so, we did not get to Mandalay Bay until ALMOST ONE. ONE PM. I kid you not.
We burst through the doors, my family/entourage struggling to keep up with my psychotic clip, and I whirled around. There was a flood of Interbike-badged humans coming from the north; I deemed this the right path and we soldiered on. There were a number of condescending hashtagged signs hung in strategic places that said things like
#youaretotallycrushingthiswalkrightnow
I snorted in a pedestrian defiance. BOO. BOO, INTERNET HUMOR.
Finally I saw the familiar face of fellow racer Kat Carr and I knew I must be at least in the vicinity of correctness. And I was. There, just beyond the hallowed Arch of Interbike was the registration table. I hurried over in a caffeinated glee to collect my numbers--which, I was both disturbed and delighted to discover, bore my name!
"Great," I said, "Now when I do something stupid they will be able to find where I live." Always the optimist, this lizard.
I had found the trek of the morning quite taxing and retired to the room post haste for relaxation.
5:00 PM
It was time to head to the course--the previous events of the day had shown me that getting to the course might as well be the race itself, considering the level of difficulty/amount of sweat I produced. We hailed a cab and stuffed both me and the bike into the back seat. What had taken two hours on foot was a scant ten minutes in a car. Maybe we cyclists are doing it wrong. Should we be doing drag racing!?
Upon arrival I produced my numbers to be let into the course, and I took a couple laps. I was aghast. Surely this was wrong. I flagged down a man in a yellow shirt.
"Excuse me sir," I said, "This isn't the course, is it? The course for tonight?"
"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING," the man yelled. I made a face and then yammered away for my own safety.
It was a god-forsaken circular DOOM. There were no turns, really, just a whippy, winding corkscrew that wound the whole kilometer lap. I guess you could call two of the bends "turns," but it was more like a sweeping thing. The barricades were only about ten feet apart in spots (maybe twenty. I never said i was a cartographer.) BUT SUFFICE IT TO SAY, that junk was narrow as hell. The feet of the barricades reached out with eager metal fingers for wheel! I was filled with horror.
After the 6:00 pm race began, I went to the Saris tent to ride a trainer for awhile, and a man came over to set me up on a CycleOps. He told me of his exploits organizing crowd primes for the Tulsa Tough race back in june.
"Thanks," I told him, "YOUR PRIMES DESTROYED ME." He told me I was welcome.
Then, I did something amateurish. The man looked at the bend in my derailleur cable and decided it looked wrong and bent down to adjust it. Now, it had been fine (read: passably okay) up until this point but I did not really know enough to tell him that he was wrong in his diagnosis. And so, like an idiot, I let this strange man I had never met before touch my bicycle.
6:59 PM
We were a small field, all of us lined up, and every racer there was someone whose name I knew and feared.
When Chad Andrews sent us off, I dove forward and scraped my foot across my pedal. My cleat refused to catch. Looking down I saw that I had chipped off a piece of the part that catches the pedal. I frowned and resolved to...well, think about it? I don't know, what can you really do about that?!
The first bunch of laps were fine. Good, even! The lack of textbook "turns" suited me quite well because the race lacked that punch out of the corners that really makes me die. The whole middle there was no pedaling, merely because you were leaned so far that to do so would surely mean a pedal strike.
We went! Whip whap! Around and around. The punches came after the corkscrew, and after the turn leading into the finish. I was admittedly too far back, and did not feel terribly confident in the corkscrew. But I held my line and did not kill anyone, so I will award myself a C+ for effort.
A bit into the race, the primes began and the spike out of the final corner became harder. I stood up and really put pressure on the pedals, and the gears lurched. I cursed, loudly, and gave up a few bike length gap, but I made it back in.
Then, it happened again in the same spot. And then, again. And again.
After the fifth time I could not reconnect, and after a lap by myself I was pulled. I think back and wonder: what should I have done?! There is no free lap for such a thing as I was experiencing. Perhaps, like pensacola, I was doomed before I ever started. Even as I write these words, I know they are the same things I always say!!! Is it only an excuse!? IS IT EVEN SOMETHING I CAN FIX? Or am I too right brained for this, too clumsy and uncalculating?
Sam Schneider took the W so that is neat. Little skylar led her out and I was like, damn this fifteen year old is showing me up pretty hard. But, in a good way! It is nice to see s
It seems only yesterday I was dropping off my studly rental Toyota Corolla, wrangling Don Pedro from the back seat, and flailing off down Vanderbilt Beach Road toward my place of wayward employment. Normally, I would say something like, "I was determined to crush after the misery of last weekend!" Or, "my misfortunes brought me a fiery new resolve!" But alas, this is not true. I am a wet noodle, all the protest wrung from my bones.
I departed Naples again on Wednesday morning for another day of TSA butt pats and dehumanization. My bicycle was in a sad, sad state--not unlike a race horse with broken knees. You know that book, The Red Pony? Well, I am Jody, and Don Pedro is Gabilan. I am slowly watching him die and maybe it is turning me into a real adult WITH NO SOUL OR JOY.
Upon our arrival in Sin City, I was thinking little of crap shooting, and more of allen keys and handlebar torque. Who was I to act like this was going to go well?! I look back at my smug little face in my memories and I want to slap it.
"WHO ARE YOU," My retroactive self screams, "WHAT IS THIS CONFIDENCE!!!!!!!"
Anyway. Upon arrival, I built my bike and found the shifting to be ALL KIND OF JACKED UP. That is a common occurrence when all 140 lbs of you land crushingly on your derailleur hanger, and I was sure I could adjust it to some kind of semblance of working order. I called my older sister, the meemo, and had her explain to me how to adjust the cable as she is a real life mechanic and is qualified to aid me in my equipmental failures.
After a bit of tinkering, I set out into the streets of Las Vegas to do a sort of pre-ride and some openers (well, one opener). As I spun, a man in cargo shorts and a sweat-stained man shirt lurched out into the street to grab me. He made a sound like, "HMMNNGGHHHH." I think this translates to, "Help! Vegas gave me too many free white russians!" I veered into traffic and avoided his stinky embrace.
The gears seemed to be okay now, and after about an hour I made my way back to the hotel room for refreshening. When I had sufficiently un-stunk myself, I made my way to the lobby for dinner with the entire Gerrity family, who had come to Vegas to watch me race (and also, to play poker. But semantics, I guess.)
We wandered around a bit, and then retired for the night.
THE NEXT DAY!!!!!
The dawn came and I awoke. The current mission: collect race number from Mandalay bay! The window was between 9:00 and 1:00; I figured it surely shouldn't take more than a few minutes to walk down to the tram! I remembered the perils of travel from my last Vegas visit, with Mr. Jack Attack Tomassetti: you must fight through like eighteen casinos before getting where ever it is that you are trying to go. It is the law of Vegas. If Vegas was a scientist, his (her?) law would be, "An object in a casino tends to stay in a casino until murdered, or alcohol poisoned."
This is the law of the land. THEY TRAP YOU INSIDE. They set up blinky lights, and dingy noises! A flurry of human flesh, and jaunty short-skirted waitresses! IT IS ALL A GAME TO VEGAS.
We left Harrah's at approximately 9:25 AM, and took to the streets. We wound through the casinos. We kept to the carpeted path, resisted the lights and smells of chocolate-wastedness. But even so, we did not get to Mandalay Bay until ALMOST ONE. ONE PM. I kid you not.
We burst through the doors, my family/entourage struggling to keep up with my psychotic clip, and I whirled around. There was a flood of Interbike-badged humans coming from the north; I deemed this the right path and we soldiered on. There were a number of condescending hashtagged signs hung in strategic places that said things like
#youaretotallycrushingthiswalkrightnow
I snorted in a pedestrian defiance. BOO. BOO, INTERNET HUMOR.
Finally I saw the familiar face of fellow racer Kat Carr and I knew I must be at least in the vicinity of correctness. And I was. There, just beyond the hallowed Arch of Interbike was the registration table. I hurried over in a caffeinated glee to collect my numbers--which, I was both disturbed and delighted to discover, bore my name!
"Great," I said, "Now when I do something stupid they will be able to find where I live." Always the optimist, this lizard.
I had found the trek of the morning quite taxing and retired to the room post haste for relaxation.
5:00 PM
It was time to head to the course--the previous events of the day had shown me that getting to the course might as well be the race itself, considering the level of difficulty/amount of sweat I produced. We hailed a cab and stuffed both me and the bike into the back seat. What had taken two hours on foot was a scant ten minutes in a car. Maybe we cyclists are doing it wrong. Should we be doing drag racing!?
Upon arrival I produced my numbers to be let into the course, and I took a couple laps. I was aghast. Surely this was wrong. I flagged down a man in a yellow shirt.
"Excuse me sir," I said, "This isn't the course, is it? The course for tonight?"
"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING," the man yelled. I made a face and then yammered away for my own safety.
It was a god-forsaken circular DOOM. There were no turns, really, just a whippy, winding corkscrew that wound the whole kilometer lap. I guess you could call two of the bends "turns," but it was more like a sweeping thing. The barricades were only about ten feet apart in spots (maybe twenty. I never said i was a cartographer.) BUT SUFFICE IT TO SAY, that junk was narrow as hell. The feet of the barricades reached out with eager metal fingers for wheel! I was filled with horror.
After the 6:00 pm race began, I went to the Saris tent to ride a trainer for awhile, and a man came over to set me up on a CycleOps. He told me of his exploits organizing crowd primes for the Tulsa Tough race back in june.
"Thanks," I told him, "YOUR PRIMES DESTROYED ME." He told me I was welcome.
Then, I did something amateurish. The man looked at the bend in my derailleur cable and decided it looked wrong and bent down to adjust it. Now, it had been fine (read: passably okay) up until this point but I did not really know enough to tell him that he was wrong in his diagnosis. And so, like an idiot, I let this strange man I had never met before touch my bicycle.
6:59 PM
We were a small field, all of us lined up, and every racer there was someone whose name I knew and feared.
When Chad Andrews sent us off, I dove forward and scraped my foot across my pedal. My cleat refused to catch. Looking down I saw that I had chipped off a piece of the part that catches the pedal. I frowned and resolved to...well, think about it? I don't know, what can you really do about that?!
The first bunch of laps were fine. Good, even! The lack of textbook "turns" suited me quite well because the race lacked that punch out of the corners that really makes me die. The whole middle there was no pedaling, merely because you were leaned so far that to do so would surely mean a pedal strike.
We went! Whip whap! Around and around. The punches came after the corkscrew, and after the turn leading into the finish. I was admittedly too far back, and did not feel terribly confident in the corkscrew. But I held my line and did not kill anyone, so I will award myself a C+ for effort.
A bit into the race, the primes began and the spike out of the final corner became harder. I stood up and really put pressure on the pedals, and the gears lurched. I cursed, loudly, and gave up a few bike length gap, but I made it back in.
Then, it happened again in the same spot. And then, again. And again.
After the fifth time I could not reconnect, and after a lap by myself I was pulled. I think back and wonder: what should I have done?! There is no free lap for such a thing as I was experiencing. Perhaps, like pensacola, I was doomed before I ever started. Even as I write these words, I know they are the same things I always say!!! Is it only an excuse!? IS IT EVEN SOMETHING I CAN FIX? Or am I too right brained for this, too clumsy and uncalculating?
Sam Schneider took the W so that is neat. Little skylar led her out and I was like, damn this fifteen year old is showing me up pretty hard. But, in a good way! It is nice to see s
Now, as I sit here, I can think only of next year and how I can not feel like this again. What training I must do, what new skills I must perfect. And these thoughts make me laugh, because I was filled with the very same ones this time a year ago. But you know, it is like Joan Benoit said: "My philosophy on running is, I don't dwell on it. I do it."
I am a notorious dweller. I am an attributer of false meaning. I believe in everything and nothing at the same time and this is why, I think, I do poorly. Of course the gears on the bike did not work! Of course! Was I expecting the SRAM fairy to make them work!? What is wrong with me!?
Anyway. I am not disheartened. Rather, I am...realistic. This season was filled with racing and experience, and entering it, that was the goal! I did not think that I was going to win. OF COURSE!! Of course I did not defeat the schneiders. I came from a background of collegiate binge drinking and sadness! I wore underwear beneath my spandex and thought that was okay! Look at the fluff!
That is the detail. That is the missing middle of the book. It is easy to forget that it exists there, in the slobbery mouth of old times, but it does! It is there! And it gets fainter with each new day that goes. But I can't forget, and I won't.
Thank you all for being here with me this season. Thank you for putting up with me when I pouted, when I bumped you in crit races, when I did not hold my line. Because all in all, I am very proud of the things I have been a part of. I am proud of the people I have raced against! I am proud to say that we do the same thing, because I am in awe of most of you!
Thank you especially to Laura, Amy, Meaghan, Vanessa for the honor and pleasure of racing with you! And thank you, thank you to all the rose bandit ladies for your support and encouragement! Thank you Heather and Duffy for everything you did for us this year!! I AM FILLED WITH THANKS.
Thank you especially to Laura, Amy, Meaghan, Vanessa for the honor and pleasure of racing with you! And thank you, thank you to all the rose bandit ladies for your support and encouragement! Thank you Heather and Duffy for everything you did for us this year!! I AM FILLED WITH THANKS.
VIVA LE LIZARD!!!
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
DOOM at Pensacola: PART TWO
Okay, sorry about that. Destroying things is an expensive hobby. Where was I?
Oh, yes. The time trial! Right. The sun was on the horizon and people were lined up along the edge of the parking lot, waiting for their turn to enter the starting tent. I felt a weird premonotory calm. Yes! This was what I worked so hard for! For this, I slobbered and hurt most days of the week!
I consumed two red bulls and suited up in Kyle's clothes: a Flying Fish bib, a USF jersey, and some FSU shoe covers. You know, for the aero.
The time to begin came quickly and I remembered Kyle's advice: "Just put it into the 11 or 12 and hammer it." That seemed straight forward enough. There were no tricks or wayward ladies to knock me on the ground. ONLY THE MASHING OF THE PEDALS. The little man holding me up was kind enough not to comment on my outfit as the official counted down from ten.
The man said, "One." and I took that number and shooed off, away down the beachy road. It was windy, but not nearly as horrible as I remembered it being last year. My power meter zone said, "7!!!!!!!!!" and my watts were like, "ERMEHGED WHAT U DO TO ME."
I blinked incoherently and slobber ran down my lizard jowl. SAND!!! ROAD!!! The girl ahead of me was getting closer. I twisted my little mitts around the aero bars and geared down. ELEVEN!!!!!! ELEVEN FIFTY-THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Just as quickly as it began, it was over. I rolled through the line just after my 30 second girl and knew that I had gotten her. So, that's good.
UPON THE NIGHTFALL
Kyle, Danny and I were finished with our races and debated what exactly to do with me. They hadn't brought the bike rack, so it would be an acrobatic feat to fit all our bikes and bodies inside...I contacted the ladies, and they agreed to let me stay the night with them.
We prepared ice baths in the style of Lapars and then set out to eat a food. We hunted vigorously, finding most options too be either too crowded, too drunk, or too crowded and drunk. It is a perilous life we lead.
We decided on Shaggy's, a touristy open-air place on the beach. There were splashes of pink and blue everywhere, and the scent of chicken wings. Elegant! The weather was suspiciously good and I pondered what hell awaited me next.
"I wonder what will happen tomorrow," I said, whilst stuffing a cheeseburger in my face. Down in my little lizard heart, I hoped it had to be something good. HOW COULD SOMETHING ELSE BAD EVEN HAPPEN? There are such things as statistics, and I was currently defying all of them with my unfailing misfortune. But, I mean, I do have working legs. Maybe I could handle a little discomfort. OR MAYBE NOT.
We returned to the Holiday Inn (where I was crestfallen to find the lazy river closed), and went to sleep.
SUNDAY!!!!!!
We awoke with the little birdies and creatures of the wee morning hours. Laura J announced that she was going to get coffee; I instantly leapt from bed and announced that I would be joining her. Because, you know, coffee.
On our elevator ride down, LJ informed me that she had been second in the TT to Jackie Crowell's first (but i mean duh) and I had come 3rd! Well--technically 4th, since a cat 4 beat me....derp. But what can you do. I was all, "Giggity!" At least we know that my failures are not on account of a lack of watts.
We made our way to the crit course, and we all shuffled around getting ready. I was in the same mismatched, busted get-up from the TT but my dignity could handle it.
The course was the same from the previous two years: several turns, but wide open. The field was small compared to most of the races we have done this year. I rode to a gas station, guzzled two cranberry red bulls, and prepared for battle!!!
THE RACE
We got underway about five minutes late. I jumped immediately from the line because it seemed to work pretty well for Ally Stacher when she tried it at French Broad....so WHY NOT ME!?
I did get a pretty large gap, and I turned to find LJ next to me about halfway through the lap. We went for a bit, but the group was still motivated to chase. And they got us! Womp.
I sat there for a moment, regaining my respirations. Nobody was doing much. I can't remember exactly what we did, but I attacked a couple times, and Lapars, Meaghan and J-Crowell countered a few times. Nothing ever looked very dangerous.
...UNTIL!!! I stepped on the gas out of the second to last corner. Whapow! So I went some, and then I heard a strange noise. It was like, "WHING WHING WHING WHING." I looked down and knew that I had broken a spoke. This was when it became indisputable that I was truly cursed, because these are some beefy freakin wheels. They have had the junk beaten out of them on the regular and never failed me. BUT TODAY. ON THIS DAY. For no real reason, I had spokes coming out of my ears. Like I said, cursed. Don’t stand near me! I will probably be crushed by a falling ice cream truck.
SO, I rolled up to the wheel pit, even though I had destroyed my entire wheel quiver in these past two days.
"I NEED A WHEEL!" I cried. I looked around with a manic glint in my eye. "WHERE IS THE OFFICIAL!!!!!" There were no officials, anywhere. Anywhere!
I guess I looked crazy enough to get someone to feel bad for me, because a nice man said, "Here, take my wheel!" He ripped that thing right off his bike.
"I THANK YOU SIR." All dialogue from this weekend was in caps-lock.
I rolled over to the trailer where the race people were stationed and flailed, yelling, "SEVENTY-SEVEN!!!! SEVENTY-SEVEN!!!!!!!!" They made a sort of hand gesture and I jumped back into the race, not really knowing whether I would be counted a lap down or not. Oh, well.
The laps were winding down. I attacked a couple more times, but could not get away. I found myself near the front with two to go, with LJ beside me.
"Take over!!" She said. "I'll do the last lap!!" Well, it looked like we would be leading out Lapars. I was all, YES, I WILL DO IT. And so, I started going. Nobody came up near me, so I think it was successful. Except, I did peel off after like maybe 3/4 of the lap. I was not mark renshaw, that is for certain. But I TRIED. SO MUCH TRYING HAPPENED.
To make a long story short, the Crowell Crusher prevailed and took first place yet again. Laura got second though, so that is still good! I think LJ even hung on for third which is disgustingly good considering she did much more leading out than I did. Giggity!!!!!!!!!!
LATER
Though the race weekend was winding down, a number of other misfortunes happened. Yes! I could not believe there was more misfortune to be had. But there was.
Had the officials given me last place finisher's time in the road race as we were promised, I WOULD HAVE BEEN THIRD IN GC. I was promised fervently by three different officials that this would be the case. The TT decides the GC, and since I took third in that...well, you get it. It is unfortunate, because it is unlikely to be corrected. Bad luck. Bike racing. I tried for awhile to correct the things--but alas, the sun was beating down. Every authoritative person wore a grimace, and sweat dotted all of our faces. Jackie Crowell had long since gone; when you are the champion there is little reason to scrabble over podium pictures and whatnot. And so, I gave up, and ate a sandwich. Sandwiches are the foundation of moral goodness.
With the day draggling on, Daniel, Kyle and I knew the road ahead of us was long. We loaded our items and made for the highway to get through the forever in that yet-unfailing heap of metal that we lovingly called a car. ONWARD!!!!!!
It was nearing midnight when we arrived in Tampa...my dear sister Meem agreed to transport me to the airport, as my logistical idiocy had ensured that my way home was all but impossible. I rented a car--Toyota Corolla! FANCY!--and set out for the final leg of my perilous journey. They sky was black and the air thick with wet; I rolled the windows down and scream-sang "DECISIIIIIOOOOOOOONNNNNSSSS, BUT I WANT IT ALLLLLLLLLLLLL. I WANNA EAT THE WHOLE CAKE." I just love swedish people.
The night wound on, fed through time like a film through the reel! It was simply going, and I was there. I have found much of life to be like this, the act of existing as though indignant to what the world really is. I mean, why do I get on a bicycle and ride it around in aggressive circles? Why? I drove twenty hours and endured much suffering for this purpose. But in the time trial, I think, there was this clarity of perspective. This was a thing! It was a thing, and I was doing it. I had followed the path, and it brought me there. Maybe that is all we can hope for. Maybe that is what life is. Maybe I am bad; maybe I do the wrong things. Maybe we are doomed to awkward encounters with our ghosts.
You know, I think I am only trying to not feel nothing. And so, maybe this is why the unending nights and the broken skin and cracked helmets must happen. Is it working? I am not sure. And so, on and on and on I go.
ANYWAY. I am on another plane, this time bound for VEGAS! My bike is battered and my brain is weary. John, my co-worker and friend let me borrow his Reynolds wheels as mine were crushed beneath the busty weight of three flying ladies. I am forever indebted to him! But onward I go, again to do this thing. With this race done, I will have socked away the majority of my 2013 season and as I look back, I see the expanse of my travels. I see the spectrum of the world that this sport has given me, and I feel much confusion. In my mind, there are two dots. I was a disillusioned runner astride a Wal-Mart bike, and now here I am, talking about wattages, flying across the country for an hour-long race. Am I missing something!? Where is the fluff? Where is the detail? It is like the first and last page of a book, with all the rest ripped out and fed to a dog somewhere.
Well. What can you do.WHATEVER CAN YOU DO. I shall comment on the tribulations of the Vegas, and keep pedaling.
Monday, September 16, 2013
DOOM in Pensacola: PART ONE
You know, they say there are four horsemen of the apocalypse. They say this. But I did not see a single horse last friday afternoon--not one foreboding pony to tell me that the trip to race in Pensacola Beach was DOOMED. There were, however, signs. Yes, I will be the first to admit--I missed the metaphorical signs. I don't know how this is possible, given my starving-artist-writer-blogger profession--but it happened.
It began Wednesday evening...I was leveling up my sneak skill. Don't judge me.
DING, went the lizard phone. I wavered to pick it up, and I had been right to--my ride fell through and I had to find a new one. What to do!? I quickly finagled other arrangements. This was the first sign. Surely the first sign! But I thought it inconsequential.
This part of the story is boring, and it is 4am so I am trying to get to the good part. Is the good part the bike riding, or my quirky rambling? I suppose that is for the world to decide.
So. The good part. I was collected from my work at approximately 9pm on Thursday and delivered to my sister Meemo's home in Trampa. This seemed relatively not awful. I was making it work! Werk! Twerk! Kyle, the renowned cat-4 muscle man from USF and Danny, a cat 1 with Florida Velo were to be my travel buddies. We would be rollin' in Danny's stylish station wagon (i alliterate you, POW).
Now, this station wagon was a thing to behold. This was a work of art. The pinnacle of beauty. It was a once-purple-now black crested plume of majesty sitting atop the Chevrolet mantle. To close the passenger door, you must slap the door handle while you are tucked inside the car. It burnt oil and drank gas. But, god damn it, it went, and so we were going in it.
Our planned departure time was noon. We spent a careful half-hour arranging the bikes just so on the trunk rack--tying this down here, tightening that there. It requires finesse, you see. Like ballet. Only without Natalie Portman. Promptly upon deciding that our noble steeds were secured, we piled into the car.
Danny shifted into reverse. Yay! Our adventure begins! Then, we lurched backward. That crunching sound--WHAT WAS THAT CRUNCHING SOUND!? Time was a thing. It was not that slow motion thing you see in movies. No, this was a more distilled form of horror that struck us three on that afternoon. Every mouth froze in a terrible O. We had backed into a concrete planter with three bikes strapped to the trunk rack.
"No--it wasn't my bike. It was some other bike." This was my first thought, and clearly i was in some sort of accelerated bereavement process. My brain turned back on and I leapt from the car while it was in the half-space between moving and not.
"Oh," I said. My bike looked fine. Fine! Can you believe it? It had been crunched against concrete! But the other bikes were not fine. My bike is kind of an asshole, you see. It sheared kyle's fork and busted the derailleur hanger from Danny's time trial bike. Kyle's first response was laughter; this immediately made me feel less like the world had ended and that we were all going to die.
CRISIS AVERSION MODE. Everyone leapt from the car with a saucy determination. WHAT TO DO! WHAT TO FIX!!!!! It became clear that my midget-y proportions were what spared my bike; it pushed into the concrete and then lifted over without resisting too much. Also, by some act of god, it seemed that I had left the tubular empty of air--had it been full, it probably would have exploded.
We began to google, text, and call furiously, scanning the earth and internet for a fork that could accommodate Kyle's gangly proportions and the weird derailleur hanger that fit Danny's motobecane. Danny found his part pretty quickly; they had something that would work at University Bicycle Center just down the road from the location of our carbon fiber massacre-melee. Despite our best efforts, the only fork we could find that would work on Kyle's BMC was his coach's; we drove backwards forty minutes and slapped it on. CAKE.
It was now after five and we had traveled forty miles in the wrong direction. WE HAD ACTUALLY MADE THE TRIP LONGER. But I was sure this race would be worth it! Yes! SO WORTH IT!!! We settled in for the drive. We drove, stopping only to dump oil into the engine and to eat cheeseburgers. Cheeseburgers are important.
LATER
We arrived in Pensacola around 1 AM. Thanks to the magic of time zones, this was actually 2 AM. But you know. Greenwich and all that. Our hotel was the Days Inn in Historic Downtown. No. I did not stutter. IT IS HISTORIC. We unloaded, and listened to the crazed wailing of the patrons of the New Orleans-themed bar attached to the lobby. In the immortal words of kyle, "LAY OFF THE METH. IT IS FOUR AM." I think I will have that quote monogrammed on towels.
DAWN!!!
Kyle and Daniel's races were both around 8:30; a forty-five minute drive out to the start gave us a six AM wake up call. YAY. I helped them load up and then went back to sleep--my race began at noon, and I thought i would be considerate to everyone else and get more beauty sleep.
LATER!!
I was collected by Laura, Laura, and Meaghan. WE SET OUT. This part is also boring, because it is more driving. BUT IT HAPPENED. They brought me red bull, which filled my heart with joy/palpitations.
EVEN LATER.
We arrived at the race course. I had consumed two redbulls and felt disgustingly good, especially considering the DOOM of the previous day. I saw many Tallahassee friends before the start, so that was nice. We did the pre-race things. It came time to begin, and all the ladies, category 1 through 4, lined up. There were maybe thirty people starting.
We went along, as gingerly as one might expect a local yokel sort of race to go. Everything was good! Great, even! The weather was nice, I was on a bicycle, and I was not in Naples. There are few more criteria for my happiness.
At the seventh mile, though, I was to be bitch slapped again by the wispy lords of fate. We took a right turn and Laura J did a little jump. It was a good jump! Very jumpy. The ladies responded. I was on the wheel of the mighty J-Crizzowell and I followed in her draft as she accelerated. Then, like the fist of god, some girl was plowing into me. I remember thinking, "WHY. WHYYYYY" and then twirling through the air still attached to my bicycle. The sailing through the air--it is becoming quite common, no? Is that how racing is supposed to work!?
I hit the ground and sort of mashed into my bike; my foot punched through my carbon wheel and got stuck in the spokes. The asphalt ate the ass off of my bibs and shredded my jersey. I looked around. There were four or five of us, I think, dominoed up on the side of the road with our carbon carnage. Someone else's tubular exploded with a shot. Zoe, a nice little racer for Exergy 2016, was screaming. Someone ran up and flipped her over. "HAVEN'T YOU EVER SEEN GREY'S ANATOMY!!!? WHY ARE YOU MOVING HER?!?!?" is along the lines of what I thought, but aloud, the only words that came out of my mouth were NON-G-RATED EXPLETIVES. A girl claimed responsibility, saying, "Sorry, guys--oh, look!" She pointed to the white of her forearm bone poking through her skin. Then, I said, "ARE THE GOING TO MOTOR PACE US?!???" Everything that came out of my mouth was either sailor swearing or a shrill, demanding yell. I am sure it was very annoying.
The officials told us that we could not, in fact motorpace back on and that we would have to chase. Wow. WOW. Remarkably, my bike did not look broken upon first glance. I whipped up and hopped back on and began to do the watts. The men's 5 race had just gone by--they were sure to catch the ladies, as they had only one lap and we had two. I caught them, with much fervor and whatnot, and made it to their wheel truck. I sat behind it going about 27. YES. EVERYTHING IS FINE. I touched my side and was alarmed to find a sticky wetness. Blood!?
No, it was guu. The sheer force of the impact had exploded three guu packets in my pocket.
Just as everything seemed fine, an official dropped back on his motorcycle.
"Get off that truck," he said.
"But...I was in a crash," I told him.
"That's nice," he said. He was gruff and bearded. I stared at him.
"FINE," I said. I got off and began to haul butt past the men's 5 field and my front wheel promptly exploded.
I was beginning to think maybe I should have been a carpenter, or perhaps a rodeo clown. This bike racing was thankless and I had just gone through a thousand dollars' worth of equipment in about three minutes.
"HA HA." This was the sound of the men's 5 peloton laughing at my either my misfortune or my fully exposed butt.
After this I was told by several officials that we would get last place finisher's time, but that I had to finish the whole race. SO I DID. I went. It was long.
I finished and the girls seemed surprised to see me. I think they thought I was dead or perhaps having tea somewhere. I was tended to by the nice paramedic man, and then I retired to the car. We set off immediately for the time trial--we all started in just about two hours' time, and it was almost an hour drive. WHAT A FUN HOBBY WE DO. IS THERE STILL TIME TO BE GOOD AT MATH?
LATER!!!!
We arrived back at the hotel. I promptly boarded my bicycle and departed for the course, while the ladies went upstairs to make ready for their own races. I had to go find kyle and see if I could borrow some bibs that still had a butt in them.
Kyle's time trial had already happened; he had arrived too late to really warm up or even attach his aero bars but he still put down his personal best time for a 3 mile distance. Yay, kyle! He let me borrow a kit and some aero bars and I began to warm up. I felt a sloughy doom what with the wounds and all, but my legs still felt pretty good! I drank two more redbulls, and I told the story of the epic happenings that afternoon to everyone that asked, and before I knew it, it was time to start.
TO BE CONTINUED!? No, really, I have to go to work and tell them why my Naples Cyclery kit no longer has a butt in it.
It began Wednesday evening...I was leveling up my sneak skill. Don't judge me.
DING, went the lizard phone. I wavered to pick it up, and I had been right to--my ride fell through and I had to find a new one. What to do!? I quickly finagled other arrangements. This was the first sign. Surely the first sign! But I thought it inconsequential.
This part of the story is boring, and it is 4am so I am trying to get to the good part. Is the good part the bike riding, or my quirky rambling? I suppose that is for the world to decide.
So. The good part. I was collected from my work at approximately 9pm on Thursday and delivered to my sister Meemo's home in Trampa. This seemed relatively not awful. I was making it work! Werk! Twerk! Kyle, the renowned cat-4 muscle man from USF and Danny, a cat 1 with Florida Velo were to be my travel buddies. We would be rollin' in Danny's stylish station wagon (i alliterate you, POW).
Now, this station wagon was a thing to behold. This was a work of art. The pinnacle of beauty. It was a once-purple-now black crested plume of majesty sitting atop the Chevrolet mantle. To close the passenger door, you must slap the door handle while you are tucked inside the car. It burnt oil and drank gas. But, god damn it, it went, and so we were going in it.
Our planned departure time was noon. We spent a careful half-hour arranging the bikes just so on the trunk rack--tying this down here, tightening that there. It requires finesse, you see. Like ballet. Only without Natalie Portman. Promptly upon deciding that our noble steeds were secured, we piled into the car.
Danny shifted into reverse. Yay! Our adventure begins! Then, we lurched backward. That crunching sound--WHAT WAS THAT CRUNCHING SOUND!? Time was a thing. It was not that slow motion thing you see in movies. No, this was a more distilled form of horror that struck us three on that afternoon. Every mouth froze in a terrible O. We had backed into a concrete planter with three bikes strapped to the trunk rack.
"No--it wasn't my bike. It was some other bike." This was my first thought, and clearly i was in some sort of accelerated bereavement process. My brain turned back on and I leapt from the car while it was in the half-space between moving and not.
"Oh," I said. My bike looked fine. Fine! Can you believe it? It had been crunched against concrete! But the other bikes were not fine. My bike is kind of an asshole, you see. It sheared kyle's fork and busted the derailleur hanger from Danny's time trial bike. Kyle's first response was laughter; this immediately made me feel less like the world had ended and that we were all going to die.
CRISIS AVERSION MODE. Everyone leapt from the car with a saucy determination. WHAT TO DO! WHAT TO FIX!!!!! It became clear that my midget-y proportions were what spared my bike; it pushed into the concrete and then lifted over without resisting too much. Also, by some act of god, it seemed that I had left the tubular empty of air--had it been full, it probably would have exploded.
We began to google, text, and call furiously, scanning the earth and internet for a fork that could accommodate Kyle's gangly proportions and the weird derailleur hanger that fit Danny's motobecane. Danny found his part pretty quickly; they had something that would work at University Bicycle Center just down the road from the location of our carbon fiber massacre-melee. Despite our best efforts, the only fork we could find that would work on Kyle's BMC was his coach's; we drove backwards forty minutes and slapped it on. CAKE.
It was now after five and we had traveled forty miles in the wrong direction. WE HAD ACTUALLY MADE THE TRIP LONGER. But I was sure this race would be worth it! Yes! SO WORTH IT!!! We settled in for the drive. We drove, stopping only to dump oil into the engine and to eat cheeseburgers. Cheeseburgers are important.
LATER
We arrived in Pensacola around 1 AM. Thanks to the magic of time zones, this was actually 2 AM. But you know. Greenwich and all that. Our hotel was the Days Inn in Historic Downtown. No. I did not stutter. IT IS HISTORIC. We unloaded, and listened to the crazed wailing of the patrons of the New Orleans-themed bar attached to the lobby. In the immortal words of kyle, "LAY OFF THE METH. IT IS FOUR AM." I think I will have that quote monogrammed on towels.
DAWN!!!
Kyle and Daniel's races were both around 8:30; a forty-five minute drive out to the start gave us a six AM wake up call. YAY. I helped them load up and then went back to sleep--my race began at noon, and I thought i would be considerate to everyone else and get more beauty sleep.
LATER!!
I was collected by Laura, Laura, and Meaghan. WE SET OUT. This part is also boring, because it is more driving. BUT IT HAPPENED. They brought me red bull, which filled my heart with joy/palpitations.
EVEN LATER.
We arrived at the race course. I had consumed two redbulls and felt disgustingly good, especially considering the DOOM of the previous day. I saw many Tallahassee friends before the start, so that was nice. We did the pre-race things. It came time to begin, and all the ladies, category 1 through 4, lined up. There were maybe thirty people starting.
We went along, as gingerly as one might expect a local yokel sort of race to go. Everything was good! Great, even! The weather was nice, I was on a bicycle, and I was not in Naples. There are few more criteria for my happiness.
At the seventh mile, though, I was to be bitch slapped again by the wispy lords of fate. We took a right turn and Laura J did a little jump. It was a good jump! Very jumpy. The ladies responded. I was on the wheel of the mighty J-Crizzowell and I followed in her draft as she accelerated. Then, like the fist of god, some girl was plowing into me. I remember thinking, "WHY. WHYYYYY" and then twirling through the air still attached to my bicycle. The sailing through the air--it is becoming quite common, no? Is that how racing is supposed to work!?
I hit the ground and sort of mashed into my bike; my foot punched through my carbon wheel and got stuck in the spokes. The asphalt ate the ass off of my bibs and shredded my jersey. I looked around. There were four or five of us, I think, dominoed up on the side of the road with our carbon carnage. Someone else's tubular exploded with a shot. Zoe, a nice little racer for Exergy 2016, was screaming. Someone ran up and flipped her over. "HAVEN'T YOU EVER SEEN GREY'S ANATOMY!!!? WHY ARE YOU MOVING HER?!?!?" is along the lines of what I thought, but aloud, the only words that came out of my mouth were NON-G-RATED EXPLETIVES. A girl claimed responsibility, saying, "Sorry, guys--oh, look!" She pointed to the white of her forearm bone poking through her skin. Then, I said, "ARE THE GOING TO MOTOR PACE US?!???" Everything that came out of my mouth was either sailor swearing or a shrill, demanding yell. I am sure it was very annoying.
The officials told us that we could not, in fact motorpace back on and that we would have to chase. Wow. WOW. Remarkably, my bike did not look broken upon first glance. I whipped up and hopped back on and began to do the watts. The men's 5 race had just gone by--they were sure to catch the ladies, as they had only one lap and we had two. I caught them, with much fervor and whatnot, and made it to their wheel truck. I sat behind it going about 27. YES. EVERYTHING IS FINE. I touched my side and was alarmed to find a sticky wetness. Blood!?
No, it was guu. The sheer force of the impact had exploded three guu packets in my pocket.
Just as everything seemed fine, an official dropped back on his motorcycle.
"Get off that truck," he said.
"But...I was in a crash," I told him.
"That's nice," he said. He was gruff and bearded. I stared at him.
"FINE," I said. I got off and began to haul butt past the men's 5 field and my front wheel promptly exploded.
I was beginning to think maybe I should have been a carpenter, or perhaps a rodeo clown. This bike racing was thankless and I had just gone through a thousand dollars' worth of equipment in about three minutes.
"HA HA." This was the sound of the men's 5 peloton laughing at my either my misfortune or my fully exposed butt.
After this I was told by several officials that we would get last place finisher's time, but that I had to finish the whole race. SO I DID. I went. It was long.
I finished and the girls seemed surprised to see me. I think they thought I was dead or perhaps having tea somewhere. I was tended to by the nice paramedic man, and then I retired to the car. We set off immediately for the time trial--we all started in just about two hours' time, and it was almost an hour drive. WHAT A FUN HOBBY WE DO. IS THERE STILL TIME TO BE GOOD AT MATH?
LATER!!!!
We arrived back at the hotel. I promptly boarded my bicycle and departed for the course, while the ladies went upstairs to make ready for their own races. I had to go find kyle and see if I could borrow some bibs that still had a butt in them.
Kyle's time trial had already happened; he had arrived too late to really warm up or even attach his aero bars but he still put down his personal best time for a 3 mile distance. Yay, kyle! He let me borrow a kit and some aero bars and I began to warm up. I felt a sloughy doom what with the wounds and all, but my legs still felt pretty good! I drank two more redbulls, and I told the story of the epic happenings that afternoon to everyone that asked, and before I knew it, it was time to start.
TO BE CONTINUED!? No, really, I have to go to work and tell them why my Naples Cyclery kit no longer has a butt in it.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
MAN I AINT UPDATING THIS THING
You gonna have to wait until I have more jokes in me.
Off to madison for U23 tomorrow.
Off to madison for U23 tomorrow.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
TOAD: SOME SORT OF TITLE!! WORDS!!!!
Again a day ends. The race, it happened, there were wheels and primes and spandex-clad ladies. What more is there to say? Surely something.
Tonight's race was the Iscorp Downer Classic, a nice little sort-of rectangle plagued with wind and winter-weathered Wisconsin roadways. DANG LOOK AT THAT ALLITERATION.
Ahem.
So, yeah. We departed later than usual, fought traffic tooth and nail to reach the course, and I suited up. Today I would be wearing my spiderman skinsuit, because damnit, I DO WHAT I WANT. I knew instantly what a good decision I had made. I had people cheering for me the entire length of the course. "GOOOOOO SPIDER-GIIIIIIRL." This was the theme of the evening. Plus, I was sure at least one person was going to buy me beer.
I rode aggressively right away, perhaps overplaying my hand in terms of sheer watts--but, considering where I am in the omnium, what do I care? I'm more concerned with seeing myself up there doing things. I mean, it is important to hold position in the last lap, yes. Maybe this is just my way of making myself feel better--but the truth is, finally I don't feel sad after finishing a race. Because 1) I know I am strong enough to finish and 2) I am doing things! I am making the suffering!! Or, at least, I think I am.
From the whistle, it was the same game we'd all come to expect--not terribly fast, and so it became a whole different sort of game. Who was stupid enough? Who can take the greatest risk? That, I think, is what TOAD is. Because to win, you have to be willing to risk everything. What did Jade Wilcoxson do at Nature Valley? She put it all on the line; she gambled her body and she lost. That is the sport we play.
So. Anyway. I was unconcerned with placing, or points, or anything. I was thinking about position and primes because this is where I still stood to gain.
The announcer called out some sort of merchandise prime in the middle of the race; I thought I heard that it was for a powertap and I attacked on the left. I looked down and I saw a wheel, but I had gapped it a bit and I pushed harder. But then! I realized it was Cari Higgins on my wheel, and she came around me with a huge burst that I could not match. We were far from the field at this point and she continued. I gripped my handlebars and followed. She seemed content to hover just up the road. Suddenly, an Iscorp rider and a Colombian rider jumped up to us; I caught back on and we were four.
At this point, Cari seemed unmotivated to work anymore (it had been a couple laps). I did one more big pull (though, I probably should have just attacked them all--but I was weary) and nobody would come around me. I resolved to be caught.
Much sketchiness ensued. A girl cut swaths across the road with her bike, seemingly looking for the forward-moving swarm; another chopped me in the turn and scrubbed my front wheel. I like to think of creative things to yell in these instances but, unfailingly, the only thing I can muster in my panic is a crass "HEY WHAT THE FUUUUUUU MAN!!" There are so many better insults! "WHAT IS THIS!? TIDDLYWINKS???" or "I DON'T REMEMBER SIGNING UP FOR FULL CONTACT RUGBY," or even "YOU HAVE A BIG OLD FAT BUTT."
I think it is still important, even given the spirit of the race, to be nice. I mean, there is a difference between racing and just being a big old bag of dicks. This is a thing that should make us feel happy--look at everything we invest into it. If it is only an outlet for all of our rage, then--well, I could do better robbing banks or pyromaniac-ing, I think.
I did feel quite good in this race; the two days off while I was nursing my sick wounded self seem to be paying me dividends. But--for all my strength I am not there in the finish. I am so far back! It is one thing to say, "you have to fight," but it is entirely something else to actually do it. I don't know. If I win, I want to win because I am the strongest; not because I chopped some person and closed their line to steal a few positions. That is not how Marianne Vos wins. That is not how the people I respect win! It is something to think about, truly.
Our race finished and we cheered for Diego; while this went on I met a very nice lady and her niece from Idaho and they bought me beer. They were quite friendly, and I don't know if they will read this but I thank them for their niceness and conversation!
Diego was caught in a crash with only two or three laps to go; his race ended in a stroke of bad luck. But that is the nature of the game. We loaded the minivan and went on back to Wauwatosa.
Tomorrow is the final day! I can hardly believe it. I feel a different sort of person when I am here. It is a very simple existence and I am so happy to do it. I will be sad when I have to think again on the bigger mysteries of my life, about the purpose of the lizard and so on and so forth. But--I will think on that when it is here. Tomorrow I race again like a lizardy demon, aggressive to the point of foolishness. For that is my style, I think.
Anyway. Until then!
Tonight's race was the Iscorp Downer Classic, a nice little sort-of rectangle plagued with wind and winter-weathered Wisconsin roadways. DANG LOOK AT THAT ALLITERATION.
Ahem.
So, yeah. We departed later than usual, fought traffic tooth and nail to reach the course, and I suited up. Today I would be wearing my spiderman skinsuit, because damnit, I DO WHAT I WANT. I knew instantly what a good decision I had made. I had people cheering for me the entire length of the course. "GOOOOOO SPIDER-GIIIIIIRL." This was the theme of the evening. Plus, I was sure at least one person was going to buy me beer.
I rode aggressively right away, perhaps overplaying my hand in terms of sheer watts--but, considering where I am in the omnium, what do I care? I'm more concerned with seeing myself up there doing things. I mean, it is important to hold position in the last lap, yes. Maybe this is just my way of making myself feel better--but the truth is, finally I don't feel sad after finishing a race. Because 1) I know I am strong enough to finish and 2) I am doing things! I am making the suffering!! Or, at least, I think I am.
From the whistle, it was the same game we'd all come to expect--not terribly fast, and so it became a whole different sort of game. Who was stupid enough? Who can take the greatest risk? That, I think, is what TOAD is. Because to win, you have to be willing to risk everything. What did Jade Wilcoxson do at Nature Valley? She put it all on the line; she gambled her body and she lost. That is the sport we play.
So. Anyway. I was unconcerned with placing, or points, or anything. I was thinking about position and primes because this is where I still stood to gain.
The announcer called out some sort of merchandise prime in the middle of the race; I thought I heard that it was for a powertap and I attacked on the left. I looked down and I saw a wheel, but I had gapped it a bit and I pushed harder. But then! I realized it was Cari Higgins on my wheel, and she came around me with a huge burst that I could not match. We were far from the field at this point and she continued. I gripped my handlebars and followed. She seemed content to hover just up the road. Suddenly, an Iscorp rider and a Colombian rider jumped up to us; I caught back on and we were four.
At this point, Cari seemed unmotivated to work anymore (it had been a couple laps). I did one more big pull (though, I probably should have just attacked them all--but I was weary) and nobody would come around me. I resolved to be caught.
Much sketchiness ensued. A girl cut swaths across the road with her bike, seemingly looking for the forward-moving swarm; another chopped me in the turn and scrubbed my front wheel. I like to think of creative things to yell in these instances but, unfailingly, the only thing I can muster in my panic is a crass "HEY WHAT THE FUUUUUUU MAN!!" There are so many better insults! "WHAT IS THIS!? TIDDLYWINKS???" or "I DON'T REMEMBER SIGNING UP FOR FULL CONTACT RUGBY," or even "YOU HAVE A BIG OLD FAT BUTT."
I think it is still important, even given the spirit of the race, to be nice. I mean, there is a difference between racing and just being a big old bag of dicks. This is a thing that should make us feel happy--look at everything we invest into it. If it is only an outlet for all of our rage, then--well, I could do better robbing banks or pyromaniac-ing, I think.
I did feel quite good in this race; the two days off while I was nursing my sick wounded self seem to be paying me dividends. But--for all my strength I am not there in the finish. I am so far back! It is one thing to say, "you have to fight," but it is entirely something else to actually do it. I don't know. If I win, I want to win because I am the strongest; not because I chopped some person and closed their line to steal a few positions. That is not how Marianne Vos wins. That is not how the people I respect win! It is something to think about, truly.
Our race finished and we cheered for Diego; while this went on I met a very nice lady and her niece from Idaho and they bought me beer. They were quite friendly, and I don't know if they will read this but I thank them for their niceness and conversation!
Diego was caught in a crash with only two or three laps to go; his race ended in a stroke of bad luck. But that is the nature of the game. We loaded the minivan and went on back to Wauwatosa.
Tomorrow is the final day! I can hardly believe it. I feel a different sort of person when I am here. It is a very simple existence and I am so happy to do it. I will be sad when I have to think again on the bigger mysteries of my life, about the purpose of the lizard and so on and so forth. But--I will think on that when it is here. Tomorrow I race again like a lizardy demon, aggressive to the point of foolishness. For that is my style, I think.
Anyway. Until then!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)