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:

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!"

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:

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

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?

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

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.

VIVA LE LIZARD!!!

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. 

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.

MAN I AINT UPDATING THIS THING

You gonna have to wait until I have more jokes in me.

Off to madison for U23 tomorrow.

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!

TOAD: THE FINAL DAYS

Christ! Finally, it comes near to the end, in the sense that I can at least see it now. You know how a thing seems so long that it simply never completes? Like a unending tunnel of black. But happier. Okay, it's not a tunnel of blackness. But, I mean, the description serves my purpose. You will live if it is not totally apt.

So, here is what happened today.

TODAY, MORNING!!!!!!
I awoke, feeling once again like a human and not like a plugged-up nostril monster. I was joyous at this. I put on my cycle wear and readied for morning spin!! We did this, and then stopped at a coffee shop for DIRTY CHAI!!! I had not experienced the wily caress of caffeine in two days now, and this hit me like a good old fashioned punch in the teeth. That is to say, I enjoy and love being punched in the teeth. You know.

Promptly following this excursion, we went home to lunch. I worked on my book and listened to Heart of Courage by Two Steps from Hell on repeat. It is my new favorite song, I think. The strings!! THE STRINGS.

We ate lunch, and laid around a bit. I took two more emergen-c shots for good measure. You know, don't just get not sick; you have to grab sick by the throat, shake it a bit and then spit in its face. The insult is key. "YEAH SICKNESS. COME BACK AND TRY ME AGAIN FOOL." That kind of thing.

WHAT DAY IS IT? Later

We left for the race course. Diego put on "Pitbull Radio" on pandora. I am ashamed to say that I knew and loved every song that came on. DA LE.

EVEN LATER

Vanessa and I warmed up with the "colombian secret," prescribed by Diego. No, we will not tell you what the colombian secret is.

LATER STILL

The warming up and stuff was over. There was no inspirational self-talk today, because I was happy just to feel well enough to ride. It was a flat, four corner crit. Very orthodox. Very much what you would expect. The course offered little to narrow the field, and I enjoyed this.

They announced the first prime, and I went for it despite the lead-y feeling in my legs. Heck, why am I here? I have little faith in my finish, I might as well go for money. I jumped on the backside and chugged along in the tailwind going about 31-32.

I realized at the corner that I had superstar Debbie Milne and some other girl that I did not know on my wheel...MAYBE THEY WILL BE AS NICE AS SAM SCHNEIDER? Yeah, no chance of that. They sprinted around me like I was not moving. We hovered about 5-10 seconds in front of the peloton (if that) and I was somewhat pleased that I could even get that distance away.

I attacked once more at the $200 prime, but to no avail. I think scotti got that one. Bejesus!!! they so strong. I am humbled.

The rest of the race was uneventful; I spent the hour repeatedly moving up and slinking back, either top 5-10 or LAST. DFLLLLL. Idk man. It is rough stuff out there.

AFTER
The race ended, I was not entirely displeased with my performance considering the fact that I had spent the last two days swaddled in blankets, sniveling to episodes of Sherlock. It began to rain during diego's race, and he pulled himself. We went for dinner (a pizza which i consumed in perhaps 3 bites), and retired to the Hardman casa.

Tomorrow another criterium. I shall continue this egregious style of racing in which I attack repeatedly. REPEATEDLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HEART OF COURAGE IS PLAYING. I AM SO FULL OF HOPE, INTERNET.

Until later,
Lizard

THE LIZARD HAS BEEN CRUSHED BY TOAD: Well, mostly, but not quite.

HOT DIGGETY. Wow I haven't written for a good while. Well, audience, I do have an excuse. And a good one, too. Yes.

THE PLAGUE. THE PLAAAAAGUEEEEE. I told you that Lapars was dying, perhaps of dysentery? Well. I thought my body had repelled said illness. In fact, I was sure of it. I WAS WRONG.

WRONG. WROOOOOOOOOOOOOONG.

THE MORNING
You know. Who knows what day it was? I feel like I have lived in this basement my entire life.

 It began, I think, with Waukesha; that race really took the guts out of me. The whole time I felt something was...you know, horribly wrong. Other than the fact that I was dying, that is. I went to sleep that night feeling normal, and awoke with a dreadful feeling of doom.

I was advised by many to take the day off, but of course, I did not. The next day--Schlitz Park. Surely, I should take this race off! But alas, I did not. I raced this as well, if you can call what I did that morning racing. Let's just say...I was feeling somewhat less than my lizard prime. But what can you do.

I flatted my carbon tubular front wheel (OF ALL THE THINGS) just before the thing began, and was forced to try out a neutral support Zipp 404 (poor me). It did not postpone or ameliorate my sad performance, but I like to think that it helped.

After the race I met up with Amy and Laura, two amazing floridian racers who happen to be dominating the women's 3-4 racing up in the land of dairy and, apparently, respiratory illness. I told them of my wheel-related suffering, and they promptly offered to take it to their sponsor shop, Wheel and Sprocket, to give it some TLC. I, of course, accepted, flabbergasted by their niceness. They are perhaps the nicest ever. EVER? Yes, ever.

LATER
I went home from Schlitz park and made my way to the couch that has come to know me quite well. I laid down, and slept. And slept. And slept.

AND SLEPT. You get it, right?!

The morning came, but the lizard did not stir.

"Liiiiiz?" Diego and Vanessa prodded me, but I merely made a weird noise and rolled over in my stupor. "LIIIIIZ?"

Nothing worked. In fact, I have no memory of them even trying to wake me! I was officially, candidly, tritely, dead to the world. Jen remarked that I had been "hiding out in their basement like a teenage boy." Yes, maybe. IF I WERE A TEENAGE BOY DYING OF INFLUENZA.

I suffered in my dungeon like a little troll, watching an endless stream of Sherlock episodes. BENNYBLUB CANDLESNATCH. If you are Charlotte and you are reading this, then you get that joke.

So I did not race the next day. And then, the next. These were both road races and I felt like utter death the entire time, so I did not despair much over missing them. Because, really, I would have ridden like garbage. Also, I must consider the nationals that are happening next week. We'll need the lizard in her tip-top, yes? Yes.

I drank more packets of emergen-c than is probably healthful, and consumed cup upon cup of herbal tea. I was browbeating this illness back with homeopathy!! Or, that is what I told myself I was doing. gradually my demeanor improved. My throat felt less like a sand box littered with pinecones, and my brain pressure released. I began to feel again like a human being! Joy.

So, aside from the lovely barbecue we attended with Diego's teammates from Team Predator, none of us did much today. Tomorrow we ride again! Me, mostly because I need to wear my spider-man skinsuit in a race. You know, testing the waters and all.

I shall update you on the race tomorrow! GOODNIGHT YALL

A LIZARD IS NOT A TOAD: Sheboygan? SHE BOY, GAAAAAAAAWD

That title is a suggestion for Justin Bieber's next single. You're welcome, beebz.

Anyway, shall I get to it?!

MONDAY, 5:00 AM

I awoke in a flushed sweat, swimming in a blanket that was much too warm. I felt a general awful feeling. "GOD," I thought, "I WOULD GET SICK. I JUST WOULD." I threw the blanket away and tried to sleep. I succeeded, and slept. And slept. And slept.

I slept through what would have been our morning spin. I had a clusterous sniffle-feeling in my brain, and my throat felt like a sort of desert-y scene in a cowboy movie. You know, where the tumbleweed ambles wistfully across the screen, and some whistly music plays. It felt like that. But more awful.

MONDAY, 11:00
I went with Vanessa and Diego to a Latino supermarket called "El Rey," as I thought this may improve my temperament. I got a giant burrito, but my face and brain continued to hurt.

MONDAY, later.
I slept more. I pondered whether or not it was a good idea to race. Could I not race simply because I was sniffling?! I laid on the couch and snored for two more hours.

MONDAY, 2:00
It was time to depart. I still felt pretty gross, but resolved to at least start the race. I would go in, hold a good position until the first prime, and then drop out if I felt awful. That was the plan.

MONDAY, 4:00
After a good warm-up of redbull and Ke$ha, I went promptly to the start line. It was no longer NCC racing, and so the number of riders had thinned considerably. I secured a starting position at the front (finally) and awaited our start.

IT began, quite unlike I had imagined it would. The course, a flat rectangle, offered little to keep breakaways alive. The wind blew heartily down the long start/finish stretch and the turns were wide enough to pedal through. Of course, this does not mean people were pedaling through them.

When the first prime was called, it was only for $25.00. I was somewhat unimpressed. I held my position and waited. After a few moments the announcer called a $50.00 prime. I WANTED THAT THING!!!!!! ON the back side of the course I attacked. I was still standing up when I noticed someone on my wheel. "DAMN," I thought, "the point of this was that I cannot sprint." Now I had some fool on my wheel who could easily take my coveted dollars!

I stood up and pushed a heavier gear. The person behind me did not contest it, and I crossed the line first. Then, I looked back to see that it was Sam schneider on my wheel!!! I was all, "WHAT THE WHAAAAAA". She totally could have taken that from me. But she did not. So I am unsure what her thinking was in chasing me. But that was a cool moment of my life, I guess.

I was not too tired from this, but she did not seem interested in continuing (even though we had a gap). She sat up, and so I sat up and then we were recaptured.

The announcer called a $150.00 prime and this i wanted very much. I was fifth wheel or so and awaiting a moment to strike when Scotti wilborne went to the left. This was quite unfortunate for me. I tried to respond to the right but she had surprised me at just the correct moment, and some other girl was now on my wheel. I hesitated more--was it prudent to pull this girl up to scotti? even if i did catch her, i didn't think i could come around feeling as I did. So, I pulled off in the no-man's land and waited for the group to bring her back.

The rest of the race was uneventful. I was at the front with 5 to go, and somewhere in between then and the finish I somehow allowed myself to get pushed to the back and I ended up coming in like....last. So there's that. But I was happy to win money.


Anyway, I am tired now, and merely wrote this out of love for you my faithful audience. Until tomorrow!

A LIZARD IS NOT A TOAD: The definition of insanity

"My father says she was born lucky. He says I was lucky to be born. I don't need luck, though. I don't want it. I've always had to struggle and fight, and that's made me strong. It made me who I am."

This is an avatar the last Airbender quote. Zuko, a character defined by pride (and, simultaneously, shame) says it to everyone and no one in a moment of weakness. Or, it may have been a moment of strength. It is difficult to tell.

But anyway. Yes, an interesting segue. I have often told myself that my short reach has been of my own making. If I only believed I could do it--then I could! But the brain is my weakest muscle, and i remind myself of this often. Today was such a day.

SUNDAY, morning

We awoke, ate, and went for our spin. Vanessa made pancakes. PANCAKES!!!! Also, they were gluten free. This is an important distinction. After our ride we laid around and I had high hopes for the afternoon. This was a new day, after all! I told myself this daily and after every disappointment--there is always another race. There is the next race, or there is nothing at all. I don't leave myself much of a choice.

SUNDAY, 3:00

WE arrived at the course, somewhat later than I might have liked. I had that feeling, you know, the one that you've forgotten something. Or, that something isn't quite right. I don't know. Maybe I am retroactively adding this feeling. I don't think I am.

I warmed up, and remember thinking about how hot it was. GOD, was it hot! And I mean, I live in florida! WHAT IS MY EXCUSE!!!! I AM SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD AT HOT. I drank my obligatory redbull, and prepared for battle.

The start was a cluster of butts and spandex, a sweaty hell. I let Laura Van Gilder pass me to get her glorious call up, and some other girl promptly followed in LVG's wake and planted her ass directly upon my right brake hood. Really?! REALLY GIRL????? It was all the stupidity you come to expect from the start. I frowned and resolved to pass her quickly.

Anyway. It began. I hit my clip in (I am getting good at that), but the girl did not move. She simply did not! I almost shouted, "MOVE IT, SISTER!!" but I refrained of course, because I am a polite gentlewoman and what would this accomplish? Would my shouting move her butt from my path? Of course not.

Eventually she did get going, and consequently I did as well. We were promptly stopped by some somersaulting ladies in the first corner. "Wow," I thought, "this is going to be a great race." In my mind, there is sarcasm. But it doesn't translate to text, I guess.

So, I went to the gutter to hop around the bedraggled, fallen ladies. Whoop whoop! I was around. I looked up the road, and back. I was in the top 20! I took a forward moving wheel. Top 10!? I looked forward and saw nothing. This was a familiar sensation, except usually I am dropped and staring longingly at the empty road hoping to summon the strength to bridge back up at 35 mph.

Anyway. This went on for some time. Lap after lap, even in the front, the corners sucked and people were slowing a great deal for them. And then, there was the heat. Dear god! I don't know if it was because I was so tired, or what, but after about 30 minutes...I began to feel like a floppy piece of cardboard, saddled aboard this machine, flailing about trying to make it go. It was no error of position, it was a failing of my human body! MY STUPID BODY FAILED ME. How frustrating.

I saw vanessa behind me at several points, but at this moment she passed me once more and for the final time. I would not see her again. I was relegated to my usual last-place yoyoing, and after a time i could not continue.

So what is the lesson here? I was aggressive, as I thought I should be. And I should be! I did everything I told myself I had to in those first few moments--get up front, and stay there, and wait for the prime! Because that has been a goal. To win a prime lap. I don't care if it is $50 or $500 but I want one! I can do it, too! I was up front and ready but then I could not sustain. This is a weakness in my training, I think, and it is a thing I must address.

Anyway. I try harder tomorrow. For now, I am tired. GOODNIGHT

A LIZARD IS NOT A TOAD: Clever title derived from the day, except lizard does not know what day it is

This would be another edition of Lizard: Where the Eff Are We? if this were such a thing. Or, perhaps, its own lifetime movie. It would be called, Reptilian Dreams. Or, you know, something like that. Anyway, I'm going to cram two days into this entry, because I fell asleep last night before I could write.

It is hard when I am actually riding and not being a servant, because my brain is so tired. Over and over again I play the race, trying to pinpoint the moment I did not do what I should have. But anyway, I will do my prototypical chrono-blog now. Here it goes.

FRIDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We awoke, as we are wont to do, in the morning. Diego made us eggs because he is great. It poured rain....we bided our time, and awaited fairer skies. Then, we took to the streets for our morning ride. Just a short jaunt, really, but enough to stay loose.

FRIDAY, 12:00 pm
We returned to the Hardman home for lunchies and obviously more Portlandia. Is this blog boring? It seems boring. I am trying to make it funny.

FRIDAY, later
We set off for the race in East Troy. How do I know the name of this race? I didn't have to look it up! No sir!

It was a surburban sort of place, all the houses wood-paneled and similar-but-different in the sort of homey way you might imagine. We parked, and set about our business. Again with the wristbands; today, cowprint. Very appropriate.

Then, warmup--I listened to "Jimmy Iovine" on repeat and whispered, "CRUSH THEM!!!!!" to myself as I did spin ups. I think this is the key. You have to want to destroy people, in this sport. It has to be a fun thing for you, to take everything they think they are and crumble it into a ball. Each day I feel myself get a bit angrier, as I watch my bank account go from $300.00 to 126.00 to fifty. Not really "angrier". Maybe that is the wrong word. But it is a certain pressure. And this makes me happy, because I know the thing before me is something I can do. It is a certainty in my uncertain life.

The race just before ours suffered a chaotic crash with 20 to go; we had to wait for the poor man to be stabilized and transported away before we could stage. I sat staring at the course with a stupid look on my face; there are no nerves anymore.

When we finally began, I was, again, relegated to 70/70th position, sitting sadly last wondering how I could possibly move up from here. A girl's number was pinned incorrectly; we all waited as she repinned. The moments went by. The peloton sat silently, each hoping the worst for the other, each hoping this race held some new success in store.

The course was a punchy six corners. This makes things much more difficult for me, because I am good at hammering on a flat. I am less good at technical riding--but I improve all the while.

Anyway. It was a desperate need to move forward for sixty minutes. I saw Vanessa in 10th position and told myself, "you need to be there!" but the trouble is, sixty other ladies are also saying this. Damn them!

I was sloughed off in the final lap by riders pinging off the back (though I'd tried my best to move up, move up!) I pushed my hardest and caught only the very tail-end of the group. It was good for 32nd place. I remember looking up the road and thnking, "the race is up there." For all my effort, I was not even in the race.

FRIDAY, 5:00

Vdrigo and I met up to watch Diego's race. I was violently beamed with an ejected water bottle during this 90 minute period. Just throwing that out there.

Diego's race ended with another stupid UHC sweep (of course) and directly afterward we went out for dinner at a place where they served beer. WHEEEEEEEE

Golly this is exhaustive. My eyes are tired!

SATURDAY!!!!!!!!!!

That is today! The morning: breakfast, pre-ride, and lunch. And, of course, more portlandia. Anyway, the race. The race is what we should be interested in, isn't it? Yes.

It was a course that probably should have suited me. Wide turns, and a slight uphill to help me hold position! things should have been very good!

Anyway, it happened mostly as it always does. It began, I clipped in spectacularly, and we were off. I was turning as well as I could ever expect myself to, and the pace was not too difficult. I was moving up aggressively along any open line, and I even reached the very front of the group. A modest goal, yes. But I did it and that is something.

So, there was a large crash about halfway through the race. Nobody really knew what happened, but I did see a girl's front fork sheared off her bike with the wheel still attached. It was traumatic to see, but more traumatic because I was behind it and forced to chase for the next two laps. It was damnably bad luck, but something I allowed to happen by BEING TOO FAR BACK AHHHHHHHH. Curses.

There was another crash in the final corner, just in front of me. I whipped around to finish just behind the peloton. 34th, i think.

Tomorrow is another day. I fight them harder! I am tired of writing. I go sleep now. HAMMPPPPPPP

A LIZARD IS NOT A TOAD: Lizard Hood races through Sherwood Criterium

Lizard Hood! That made me laugh. Probably just because I am tired, and the idea of me giving money to poor people is hilarious. Also, the race isn't even called Sherwood. It's shorewood. I MAKE IT BETTER.

Anyway, I apologize for the lackluster entries past, hopefully I have some more gusto in me tonight!

Here we go.

THURSDAY, THE CRACK OF DAWN
Yes, again! These northern sunrises come early and have a knack for finding the exact path through the window and into my eyeballs. Even in our luxurious dungeon, I found myself wide awake at about 8:00 am--if you know me, you know that is preposterously early in Lizard hours. We stirred, and Diego fixed us a feast of eggies and toast; Kevin, our host, showed us how to use his mysterious Dutch coffee maker.

THURSDAY, later

We went out for a spin, which felt remarkably like a mountain bike ride thanks to the "rugged" roads of Wisconsin. I.e., you catch air every three to five feet from the sweet jumps.
After our little jaunt, we stopped at a nice cafe where Diego and I had tea; Vanessa sipped an 'Orangina.' Don't ask me what this is, because I can't even say the name without laughing.
While we were relaxing, I was surprised by a tribe of ragged little hoodlum girls, each with a longboard wrapped under a prepubescent arm. These little urchins threw my cervelo to the ground (perhaps by accident, but this is a distinction I am unwilling to recognize), laughed about it, and pranced away as if this were some trivial thing.
"WOOOOOOW," I cried, finding myself unable to summon the basic powers of speech. "JUST WOOOOOOOW."
The little girls tittered with more giggles, and scrambled away, clearly sensing my ungodly rage. That's right, little girls, you'd better run. RUN. CAUSE THE LIZARD TAKES NO PRISONERS.

THURSDAY, 12:00
We retired to la casa Hardman for lunchies and to watch a show that I consider to be like as the crack cocaine. It is called 'Out of the Wild' and it makes me chuckle. Basically, like fifteen strangers subject themselves to absurd tortures of nature for no prize other than knowing that they are the craziest people alive. I may or may not still be watching it now. I will never tell.

THURSDAY, 2:45
We piled into the car to leave for the first of eleven races. We had one errand before departing to the race; this was to collect a fellow racer, Kat Carr, from her host housing and deliver her to the course where her teammates would be. We did this, with much gusto.

On the way to the course we encountered (of course) the mighty fearless femme ladies cruising over a large bridge that did not look like it had ever expected to be graced with such cycling majesty. We honked, and waved, because we have no shame.

THURSDAY, later.
We arrived at the course, and went to registration. It was here that I learned that we would be forced to wear wristbands at each race, like little tweens who try to go out to nightclubs and illegally slurp alcoholic beverages.
"These are not aero," I cried, while strapping the starred-and-striped paper thing to my arm.
"They are patriotic," Vdrigo repied.

We took to our warmups: for me, redbull and some slapping of my own face and thinking about how poor I am. Also I rode around some. But what can you do.

THURSDAY, 5:00
The race was a paltry 20 minutes out, and I was taken with a feeling I had never felt before. It was a good feeling, certainly, a feeling that I could do well if only I used all of the knowledge that I knew I had. This knowledge, sometimes given and other times taken--this was what I needed for success! I

THURSDAY, 5:24
I awaited the whistle with my heart in my throat. Next to me was Mia Loquai, who had worn the White jersey for a bit at Nature Valley. I made a mental note that I had to beat her if I wanted the amateur jersey myself. Then, the whistle blew.

I clipped in right away, which filled me with both gleeful happiness and astonishment. Things never went this well! But there I was, and they were. I did not question it, and instead followed some wheel that seemed to be going forward.

The course was a circuitous mishmash of potholes and terror. Two elongated straights connected whippy turns. All the while divets and imperfections in the road set everyone's teeth on edge. The group was twitchy, nervous, and quiet.

The pace was not fast enough to check the flow of the group. When you moved up instantly there was some new wheel coming up beside you and pushing in. Egad! I thought, unceremoniously, how does Vdrigo stay up here?! I could see her, constantly perched just sort of ahead--3 wheels ahead, or four. But of course, this meant I was at least ten-to-fifteen positions back. My standards were not high enough. But the principle of my race was good, I think, and never did I find myself in my usual last-place yoyo slot.

 But, yes, it was a hectic, devilish swarm of ladies, and that is not even a good thing! This went on for quite some time, with primes being called but not really heard by anyone but the first few riders. I know this, because I confirmed it with basically everyone. EVERYONE.

With 3 to go, I was a big baby and let some girl push me toward the curb. I braked hard and lost a lot of positions. Stupid lizard! I should have pushed back, but I did not. Damn my good nature! I must be the size of two of her!!!!!! ALL I HAD TO DO WAS LEAN IN AND SCARE HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tomorrow I punch her in the teeth.

Jarred by this near miss, I hit a big pothole which dropped my chain, and then I took the final turn stupidly wide and lost 10 more positions. Vanessa, for some reason, was behind me and watched me take this graceless turn with much confusion.

"I just don't know what you were doing," she later told me. Neither do I, Vanessa. Neither do I.

I finished in a mediocre 40th. I was encouraged, though, by my ability to move through the peloton (somewhat) and by how great I felt during the race.

THURSDAY, 8:00
Vanessa and I settled in for Diego's race. I was given a free "soda" from the nice people in the giant Chrome hippy van parked near us. United Healthcare pulled all their usual tricks, 1-2 and 3 on the podium. OOH WHAT A SURPRISE. SOMEONE PICK MY JAW UP OFF THE GROUND AND REATTACH IT TO MY FACE

THURSDAY, later
Diego made a rice concoction! It had eggs in in. EGGGGGG. We ate it and it was good. WE are now still watching Out of the Wild, so I will depart now. Goodnight!!

A LIZARD IS NOT A TOAD: and thank god for that, because reptiles are better than amphibians

Do you know how close I was to just not writing this?! DO YOU EVEN KNOW!??

I am tired and really full of noodles. LOVE MEEEEE. Anyway, here you are.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 19 - The Crack of Dawn
Yes, I know I frequently refer to this time of day. But this time, it was literally that time. The very crack. So. Yeah.

 Lynette and Michael roused me before they had to leave for work, and poured me many coffees. We said our tearful goodbyes and I hugged Lynette (but not Michael, because he was feeling sick. He imposed a hug quarantine.) Michael gave me a copy of Leviathan by Paul Auster to borrow for exactly one year, until I can return to the twin cities to race in the granola plateau myself.

WEDNESDAY, 7:30

I packed up all of my belongings and hustled over to Vanessa's to drink more coffee (I need a quart in me before my heart starts going). We said more goodbyes to Melanie and Reese, and then hit the road.

WEDNESDAY, 8:00

We began the 5.5 hour drive to Milwaukee to collect Diego, who would be staying with us in the place of Lapars.

UGH I AM SO TIRED

Ok I think i am over that.

Anyway, we drove, with only one Starbuck stop mid-drive. The road was long and filled with perils but Vanessa and I navigated expertly.

WEDNESDAY, later

We arrived in Milwaukee, collected Diego, and then stopped at a local Thai restaurant for some SAUCY "Pud Thai". What is pud thai? Heck if i know. It was far too saucy. Saucy, and distrustful.

WEDNESDAY, the rest of the day
We arrived at the home of the Hardman's, where we would be staying, and settled in. It was and is a lavish palace. It took me about six hours to figure out how to operate their futuristic television. Vdrigo made us delicious pasta.

Ok literally I am too tired.
HMP HMMMP tomorrow I will write more I swearrrsssssss

A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: The sun also sets, contrary to the advice of Mr. Hemingway

I know. I did it again. I am a bad lizard. I have much to fill you in on, yes, and I did promise that tonight would be the night I updated. But I am tired and battling a possible illness of DOOM just before dairyland (maybe. it might also be psychological. BUT WHO CAN EVER TELL). So I will post the briefest of updates and leave much to your imaginations. I am certain they could use the exercise! So, you're welcome.

SATURDAY:
Menomonie! Another road race, this one shorter. 80-ish miles. I told both of my compatriots that I did not believe it in their best interest to ride. In fact, I all but forbade them. Actually, I may have literally forbidden them from riding. But they have noggins of steel and ride they did. What followed was a drudgery of horrid rain and hills like...I don't know, mountains! Everything was so steep. I cried driving up much of the course. And I say "driving up" because golly gee if I remember going down anything! I mean, I am sure I must have. Science, you know.

Anyway. The weather had taken its toll and Lapars took ill. If this were the oregon trail, she would probably be dying of dysentery right now. But thankfully this is only bike racing and she just got a cold. Vdrigo's immunities held and she recovered posthaste.

SUNDAY:
Laura worsened. I think I went on a bike ride. God, sunday was a long time ago! We definitely ate pizza. I suck at this.

MONDAY:
Yesterday...a foggier cloud. Who can tell? What is time? What is life? Lapars did decide on this day that she had to return to Miamers, as her constitution began to fail all the more heartily. I was deeply saddened, as I often depend on her life advice to navigate the perilous waters of adultolescence.

TODAY:
I drove Lapars to the airport and psychosomatically convinced myself that I was falling ill. I consumed probably more ginger, garlic, and lemon than is healthy and did all kinds of voodoo nonsense. I MUST RACE. I MUST RACE DAIRYLAND AND I MUST CRUSH. That is the only thing I can think of, as poverty strikes me and my book blinks incomplete on my word processor. I slept a lot...that is a thing i did.

I am obviously feeling better, as I am updating here, and this gives me hope. As I begin to race, I will publish here a sort of race journal, filled with the adventures of one lizard searching for her place in this strange world!

I must rest. Don't be the reason I fell ill, internet. Goodnight!

(Sorry this post is lame)

A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: Where is Billy Joel when you need him?

Can I just take this time to admit that I am lol-ing at my own Billy Joel-ke.

Okay, sorry. I promise I am done.

Here is the day:

FRIDAY, an hour I consider early but probably isn't really

I awoke, and found it too late to hang out with Lynette and Michael, but also too early for Lapars and Vdrigo to be awake. What a conundrum. I used the time to add pictures to my blog, and also consider that I may be entering stalker territory with some of my fangirling. Is it terrible to be appreciative of greatness?! It might be.


FRIDAY, 11:00
Lapars and Vdrigo finally stirred. Finally! I made my way over to them, and we set out for a light spin. I directed them through the course (as my managerial duties demand), and then Lapars headed home while Vdrigo and I stopped for a coffee. She told me several ticklingly brilliant stories of her cycling adventures and I felt it to be quite the perfect morning. A highlight: Vanessa and I were at a crosswalk, waiting for the green light, when another cyclist couple rolled up behind us. They were older, sort of grizzled. You know the kind.
"So," said the man to Vanessa, as he teetered to and fro aboard a jelly belly team edition bike with a belly and a head of gray hair, "which bike do you think is more expensive?" He nodded to the woman with him, who was on a cherry red cannondale. Vanessa indulged.
"I don't know," she said.
"WELL, THIS ONE WAS IN THE TOUR DE FRANCE!!!!!!" He was very proud.
"YEAH," The woman added, "IT'S NOT EVEN A REPLICA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I was sort of off in space, and only half listening to the conversation. What did they want? A pat on the head, and for us to tell them that their bicycles could give meaning to their dumb lives? We should have said, "Yes, whatever. BUT WHO CAN GO FASTER?" Vanessa would have dropped those fools so fast, they wouldn't know which way was France! Heck, I don't ever know which way france is.

FRIDAY, LATER
What did we do later? Did we do anything?

Oh, yes. I did laundry! That's why I don't remember. Uneventful! Bah. So, yeah. You're welcome, world, I will stink less now.

FRIDAY, 3:00
Vanessa offered to cook me some noodles; I of course accepted and sped over to her place as quickly as my little legs would allow. We watched arrested development (FOR BRITISH EYES ONLY) and consumed our power carbs. I met a very funny cat at this time, whose name, I discovered, was 'Kitty'. Very postmodern, kitty. Very, indeed.

This cat is not a cat. This cat is a dog.

FRIDAY, 4:30
Lapars came down from a slumbery nap and asked me to fetch her some items from a bike shop; I did this with much style and grace while she and Vdrigo kitted up and rolled out to the course. I selected expertly from a wide variety of guus, and then returned to the course.

The uptown atmosphere had a definite family flavor, and I felt weird walking around alone. I did not find Vanessa or Laura, but I did find Lynette and Michael, who brought me to a party on course where, apparently, I was to be a guest of honor. It was being thrown by their friend, Amy, who was once a school teacher and had held on to her knack for crafting. She presented me with a lanyard (my party access pass) and a cup of water. I was delighted.

FRIDAY, 6:15
The race began, with all the horror and madness I had come to expect from Nature Valley. These teams are filed equations of watts and rage! They produce such pain, from nothing! I still do not understand how they do this. I screamed for Lapars and Vdrigo, who took turns suffering and moving through the peloton to a better position. I wanted so badly for them to do well, and I still do! Because they are my people, you see!

STOP BEING SO GREAT

Kimberly Wells seems very sure of how amazing she is.

This girl is only 19. Where is the hope for my life?!

TAYLER WILES. 

There are two pictures of Tayler Wiles. You're gonna have to deal with it.

Jade kicks all the butts.

Golly, pro ladies, I wish I knew how to quit you.

Dear lord.

RAMSEN CRUSHES ALL

Colavita: sponsored by oil, but not fat. CONUNDRUM

t

This lululemon rider is filled with a smiley pain.

Don't mind me, I am just CRUSHING YOU

STOP IT. JUST STOP.

In case you forgot, we are optum and we are better than you.

Tibco was forced to chase hard and often.

Lindsay Bayer getting her suffer on.

GO SHANNON. GOOOOO.

Shelly olds be like, "DAT PRIME MINE." 

The peloton fights to stay alive.

Lapars, hero and inspiration of my life!

Wow, I have a lot of pictures of Ally Stacher, huh? Don't read into that.

Don't worry. That's a different lululemon.

THE FINAL SPRINT.

Wilcoxson be like, "LOL WUT."

Anyway, it was a damned hard race, and that was clear from the get-go. Optum was racing smart and shrewd, playing their cards almost smugly and watching the rest of the race react with gasps and pain. They strung Tibco up from the beginning, forcing them to chase and to work, and with 2 laps to go they ripped apart their train and secured the win for Jade Wilcoxson (Whose name, I have discovered, I have been spelling wrong all this time. Sorry!)

FRIDAY, later
I did not see Vanessa right away, but I did see laura, and I went over to see how she was feeling. She was of course a bit depressed about the evenings proceedings; I was moderately discouraged by this. If the masterful laura can be waylaid by nature valley, what hope is there for a mere lizard?! IS THERE ANY HOPE?! She is too strong to be beaten by one silly race, though, and I know this will not stop her ascent to greatness. Vanessa rode strongly, through her suffering, to a top-twenty placing. She is a miracle woman, and a testament to the power of mental game over a cycling race!

I went to fetch ice for ice baths, and we all ate dinner and discussed the race a bit. Plans were laid for tomorrow's feeds and travel itinerary. For now, we go on to fight Menomonie. After that--maybe, sioux falls. No matter what happens I am so proud to assist such iron-hearted ladies as these! No duties could bring me greater honor, truly. Because behind all the frills and whoop-de-doo they fight just as hard, and that gives me hope for the rest of my life! So thanks for that, ladies.

It is late now. Until tomorrow, my friends!