TODAY!
What a day, great in the way that puppies are great, or a sandwich is. You know
that feeling of starvation—the glucose levels are crying, and then that savior
sandwich slides down your esophagus.
A
strange metaphor, but yes, that was today.
I
had not raced a bicycle since the Brevard Criterium, a soul-crushing affair.
But this was a new day, a new race, with (some) new bicyclers. ‘Twas time to
crush.
Dear
old dad picked me up from my dorm this morning, and we hit the road around 10
am. The drive went quickly; stopping for charming diner food didn’t hurt,
either.
We
checked into the Fairview Hotel in Commerce, GA (slightly out of the way, but
this place is a glorious palace) and headed to the racecourse around five
o’clock. I drank hotel coffee and prepared for glory.
The
amateur finals were going off just as we parked; it did not take long to
discover that most of Athens was more enamored with booze and funnel cakes than
they were with chiseled, hairless man-legs and the thrum of Madfiber wheel
sets. Fools!
I
made my way to registration—more trying than it might sound, since most of the
spectators seemed like they had been pregaming for Terrapin Twilight since
birth. I discovered that I had not been registered…like the reject that I am.
But no matter. I killed them with politeness. AND THEY OBEYED. I was number
260.
By
now, it was nearly six. My race was to begin at 7:45. I decided it was as
appropriate a time as any to begin the pre-race scurrying. The first order of
business: spandex. Put that junk on. Check. Next, dowsing. It is truly absurd
that these high-calibre races supply beer more readily than water. I was forced
to break into the Hilton Garden hotel, fully-kitted, bicycle in hand.
“Hello,
hello,” I said, squeezing past patrons. “Don’t mind me.”
They
did mind—but the trick is to smile and run to the water fountain before they
can summon a burly man to kick out of the building. I did this like the
stunning, lime green professional that I am.
My
warm-up consisted of riding up a parking garage for about thirty seconds, and
then descending the same length back to the ground floor. 7:25, now. I gave
faithful dad my second bottle to hold after drenching most of my head. 7:30.
My
Kenda comrades were aligned in the staging area that had been arbitrarily
decided by the various riders mulling about. We were one of the largest teams,
putting six riders into the mix. I must become stronger, so I can be a better
work slave for them. BUT
I DIGRESS.
So
it was the six of us, hanging about. I recognized several friendly collegiate
faces, including the lovely Pepper Palace ladies and Steph from King…joy! I
felt less like a lone warrior. Which may or may not be a good thing. Some
official men then announced that we all HAD to go sign in at the Muscle Milk
Tent SO HELP US GOD; I was filled with dread as there were only eight (eight!
how paltry!) minutes until we were to begin. I wailed as I rode next to the
Olympians running their Terrapin mile (and 5k!). Let me tell you, it was the
most frantic sign-in of my life. Perhaps, of all time. I am not one to judge
such matters. I scribbled LIZ GERRITY in an empty block (because, of course, I
was not registered and thus had no actual space) and then picked my bicycle up
and ran back through the barricades.
By
now, everyone was stacked along the starting line. I chose a humble spot on the
inside, anticipating the first turn. Call ups happened, I cheered obnoxiously
for the big names of Ladies cycling (including Kenda’s own Kathryn Clark!).
The
announcer, the same from Delray Beach, said something along the lines of
“GOOOOOO LADIES!” and we all vaulted forward. My foot caught pedal at first
try—an excellent sign. And then, we were off. The goal was to ride
conservatively, smoothly. I remembered the redline sufferfest I put myself
through at Delray, braking at every turn. This time, Don Pedro carved through
those apexes like a knife! A SHARP, SHARP KNIFE.
I
dangled sort of near then end, that point of the race where you turn around and
realize you’re the back of the peloton and you’d best not dillydally, sunshine.
I refused to brake through the turns. I pedaled like the leggy beast that I am.
It was turning out splendidly.
Riders
were being trimmed each lap, like fat from some unfortunate Thanksgiving turkey.
I could see three teammates upfield, and knew I should be there too.
Manuvering, though….is so hard….I mentally ticked through things I could
improve: Cornering, bike handling,
sprinting, acceleration, tactics and now teamwork. I am supposed to be a super domestique…or at least, that
is how my collegiate friends insult me when I attempt to sprint. Today I
behaved like Mark Cavendish. Sit in. Do ...very little.
Riders
between me and the superstars (Erica Allar, Debbie Milne, etc. etc.) began
exploding, some in the fashion of fireworks displays, others, IEDs. I realized
at this moment I had not ridden aggressively enough through the halfway mark.
The wheels I’d be following would slow, and I’d have to jump through. Girls
would break through the corner, then another jump. There was a slight incline
after corner two; this was where I finally stuck to the back of the “main”
peloton.
Aerobically,
muscularly, I felt fine. I could hear the announcer, reach leisurely (okay,
maybe not leisurely) for my bottle.
The announcer called three to go, and it was time to jockey for position.
I
began doing just that, moving closer to the front (as close as I could, with
all the turn-braking that was going on). There was a prime on the
second-to-last lap, I shot through the turn and held onto the wheel in front of
me. We glided through turns one and two, and launched up the slight incline on
the backside for a fortieth time. But I was doing it! I was moving up! And then…ON
THE LAST LAP several riders clattered to the ground.
“EEEEK.”
I cried, rather unheroically. I swerved, unclipped, squealed some more. I saw
my teammate Melissa on the ground. To stop blinked through my mind momentarily,
but to do so safely was not an option. I remounted, trying to preserve
momentum.
I
was about the last rider safely through the residual gap, but I monster crushed
for the benefit of my lizard pride.
In
the end, I finished 25th, feeling like I had a lot more matches left
to burn. The difference between Sampson, god rest his soul, and Don Pedro is
truly ridiculous. Or maybe I have just been riding more consistently. Either
way, I felt like a leggy stallion.
On
that note, I leave you, faithful blog followers. EXPECT UPDATES ALL WEEK!!!
with love,
your bicycle lizard
