There are certain things in life that are easy. It is easy, for example, to forget all the things you have ever done and think yourself a swaddling baby child. It is easy to slide backward in a criterium. It is easy to let your nose fill with water as your head bobs just above the surface.
There are easy things, and there are difficult things, and discerning the threshold at which one becomes the other is like finding the sliced end of the tape when it sticks to the roll, slick and gloss, thin.
How easy to write that I am trying my best! How easy to say that I began the week with a cold, that I am allergic to cats, that I stand at a counter forty hours a week. But these things don't matter. The easy things never matter. It is the impossible moment that defines what we are, and all too often cycling insists that I am soft, jiggly, like hospital tapioca. What is life but a boot at your throat always, and when cycling stops being a means of escape, is it just an extension of the life we have made so taxing?
What is important? What is really important? These races are like holding desperately to a rope. Your knuckles whiten and your brow furrows. You do not want to give up. But as your fingers peel, and you readjust for what is to come, you wonder: is it too late? Was it ever early enough? Why afterwards are we so sure we could have stuck when in fact we did not?
I'm not sure there is even really a way to explain what you feel as you start a race like these, knowing that most of the real "big guns" are not even present, that these other ladies' horsepower is sufficient to lay you flat and sad. Is there a way to tell what it is to be thick with rainwater, the road between your teeth, watching for manhole covers buried beneath miniature lakes?
All of this is probably superflous, and that is probably where my problems come from. There can be nothing but your foot on the pedal and your sweat in your eyes, I guess. I will try harder tomorrow!
Monday, April 29, 2013
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Sunny King and Cycling and Pain and the Philosophy of a Little Lizard
The
human spirit, on some level, relishes pain. Cycling thrives on this. It draws
this type of person—the sufferer. On some level, I think, we all create our own
pain and we create pain for others. It isn’t an intentional thing in all
respects but it is a human thing and it is a thing we revel in. We love it. We
just won’t admit it. Or, maybe we can’t.
When
a rider goes down, it is almost formulaic: there is that plasticky clack, the
metallic twang of spoke lattices popping. There are shouts and curses. But
above all, there is a feeling of blood and guts and flesh. You are suddenly
aware of your skin and the way it holds you together; you feel your bones
knitted beneath your muscle and maybe there is a bit of fear. Is that what this
sport is? Are we just looking for new ways to feel a thing? Are these just
little lampposts peppering the black outside our bedroom windows?
This
is what we do--this is what so many people do. But the more and more I do it,
the more I wonder why. It is not a question of love, of hate, of health or
performance; it is one of thrill. It is expectation, and the question of our own
ability to meet that expectation. It is the triumphant swoop that comes when we
dispel our own doubts.
I
don’t know. In that hour, are we all the best we are ever going to be? I am
just one character printed on the bottom of some page somewhere and all the
while there are books upon books upon books.
I
say all this mostly because the weekend gave me many prompts to weird thoughts
and you are the only ones I can tell, internet, and maybe you can understand.
Right?
Do you get it? There is never really any answer when you shout into the
internet, so maybe not.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Charlotte, Presbyterian, and my yet unending Adultolescence
I write today not from a place of utter despair, because that would be dumb. SO, I am not doing that. I am not in despair. But I will warn you, I will unabashedly talk of feelings in this post so don't say I didn't warn you CAUSE I DID.
Okay then.
Over the weekend, the lizard ventured to Charlotte, North Carolina for the renowned Presbyterian Hospital Criterium. Here are some things I heard about this race before I could even wrap my brain around the fact that I would be doing it:
"It is fast."
"It is really, really fast."
"IT IS THE FASTEST RACE EVAR OOOOOMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG."
Etc., Etc., in an unending variation of permutations. I heard these people. It wasn't that I didn't believe them. Maybe it is like that DailyGrace youtube video. THAT ONE! The word fast had essentially ceased to mean anything. What is fast? Fast fast fast fast fast. How many times can you type a word before your brain forgets what the characters mean?
But yeah. I will begin, as things should (or so I am told): with the beginning. At least, standardized testing and an english degree have led me to believe this. But, ya know. English degree.
So. The all powerful RB squadron (one lizard and one laura) were to depart Fort Lauderdale airport at 6am Friday morning. I worked Thursday, and upon completing my workerly duties, I retired to complete one last set of vo2 intervals. This took me until about eight. I got home and remembered that I possess the mechanical skills of a furry rodent, and set to the task of breaking down my bike for travel with much panache and wherewithal.
I swore. I shook my fist at the sky. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. I mean, really, it's not even that hard, right?! It's not!! I blame my sausage hands. Sausage fingers?!
So by the time that was done, it was almost ten. Rather than drive to Miami at a reasonable hour, as a sensible human might have done, I decided to simply "nap" from about 11-3. This, I thought, would be brilliant and limit my exposure to cats to those of the nap variety. Here is a point-by-point replay of my trip. YOU ARE WELCOME.
2:50 AM, FRIDAY.
I awoke from a dream about canoeing with a flaily gasp and promptly realized my error in judgement. The world was a saucy mishmash. The road was twisty and devious. Survival, I realized, was tantamount here; my driving was like that of a weird drunken uncle. I drank 3 large red bulls and blared needly dubstep songs, but even these measures could not keep me from driving basically on the rumble strips for 110 miles. BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO.
4:45 AM, FRIDAY.
I engaged in all the gobsmackingly fun activities airports have to offer: mean old people!!!!!! long lines!!!!!! TSA agents stealing treats!! WAITING OF EVERY POSSIBLE FASHION!!! In this six hour period, lp regaled me with much knowledge and I discovered that many of the pillars of my life are actually lies. LIES!!
11:00 AM, FRIDAY.
We arrived at Charlotte to find that it felt something like 5pm despite the fact (Siri said so) that it was earlier than noon. I was taken with the yawns. BUT, we were pleasantly surprised by our Charlotte-based teammate, Vanessa, and her boyfriend diego! Yes! We had thought that we would need to catch a mysterious green bus, but Vanessa and Diego rescued us with a Honda Odyssey (! ) What classy people! Truly. There was more talk of the race and the crushing that would occur there. I felt less and less like a participant in this sport and more like a baby bird abducted from its nest and thrown into a fishbowl.
12:40 PM, FRIDAY.
I ate a pita pit. It was pita-licious.
3:00 PM, FRIDAY.
Laura and I ventured out into the wilds of charlotte for some pre-race openers. When I say "we" and "pre-race openers," I actually mean that I followed laura stalkerishly through the streets of Charlotte and tried to keep her within seeing distance as she did some sprinting things. Fun fact: we have seen probably every industrial park in/near vicinity of the city of Charlotte. God, we are so pro. On our way back into town we happened upon a bikeshop (I think it was called Uptown Cycles, but these details escape me), and the nice people there gave us free water and made laura's bike shift better! Good samaritans! Y'ALL GOOD! Also, the girls from NOW Novartis from MS were present at said shop; I do not know this because I recognized them, as I was not wearing my glasses, but because 1) laura said it was them and 2) the lady captaining the register area of the shop told me so. So there.
We then hit up trader joes, where we were told that bikes are NOT allowed inside (that is racist!) and also a vitamin shoppe, where a new dad helped laura select the most economical beta alanine.
7:00 PM (maybe?) FRIDAY.
We agreed that we had accomplished much wandering; with this, I was pleased. Like in the bible. 'Let there be wandering,' and all that. We hungered, and set out to find sustenance. The end result: delightful enchiladas, and a nice waiter who brought me many water refills. I send that guy many internet thanks.
9:30 PM, FRIDAY.
By this point, it felt like I had been awake for my entire consecutive life. We discovered things that I forgot (pajamas! toothbrush! etc.) and laura marveled at my unwordliness. This was a theme of the day, actually; laura would discover a dumb thing that I do and then go "LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZ!!" This happened when I told her that I ride my tubulars at 140 psi, and when I told her that I thought sunscreen caused cancer. She face-palmed many times. The day ended with my face in a nice pillow.
8:30 AM, SATURDAY.
This was it. The day. THE BIG DAY. The day I presumed to be at least partially mine. We got up and went for a recovery ride. You know, for the muscles! Then, we headed to registration to meet up with Vanessa and collect our numbers and race bible. I saw Ashley T., from whom I abducted a timing chip (accidentally...) at Delray beach and she was quite forgiving. We also saw laura van gilder, who is super pro and awesome. She had just come from the airport, and had yet to assemble her crushin' machine. So....pro.
12:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The rest of the day was spent in convulsive torment. I found the start list on Facebook and out of the 73 names penned, about five had been in the Olympics and another ten were major badasses. The rest were just regular bad asses.
There was a lot of sighing, I remember. I thought I should try breathing a lot, but this did not help. I imagined the race in my mind; I played it and played it going well. I recalled feelings of suffering I have felt and I told myself that it is not necessarily a bad feeling. I felt a compulsive need to half-cry and half-throw up for much of the day.
I decided that not smothering these feelings would probably lead to an epic freakout, and so I set to compartmentalization. I watched Miranda Sings, and giggled. I felt better.
5:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The course opened for lady warm-up time, and so down we went to do just that. I was very pleased to be able to ride on the course before actually racing it, and as we wound around, I saw many faces I recognized--some friends, and some acquaintances, and some people that I think probably hate me...I asked people repeatedly whether they had done the race before or not; I received a variety of answers. Well. Not a variety. Just yes or no. YA DIG!!
I made a point of watching people I knew would do well (lp for one) take the corners. Though her wisdom regarding tubular pressure certainly had helped, I still felt a lack of confidence while doing this. How hard can it possibly be!? You just look somewhere and the bike goes there, right?! ISN'T THAT HOW IT WORKS.
It was surreal. I felt like I had never raced before in my life. I was like a little cycle baby swaddled in someone else's jersey and left out to dry. The throw-uppy feeling persisted and I rolled through the dumbbells of the course for the next forty minutes or so.
5:40 PM, SATURDAY.
With 20 minutes until the start, I decided it would be a good idea to line up. Maybe. Is it better to start closer to the front, or start a bit warmer? I cannot say.
Row by row, jerseys I recognized filled the street. Imagine just muscles, all over the place. Muscles, saturated with an overall feeling of taut anticipation masked with this weird bravado that seems to possess many cycle ladies. I will not lie; intimidation had begun before I even got to the line. "They are just ladies," is what I told lp; unfortunately, I sort of suck at taking my own advice. I started next to cari higgins for the love of god!! THE BICEPS!!! ALL THE BICEPS, OKAY?!??!??!? That is all.
5:55 PM, SATURDAY
The announcers fiddled with a microphone and 80 something ladies all wiggled around with their bicycles and helmet straps and water bottles. There were twenty-five call ups (some of whom didn't know they were getting called up, this was good fun watching them wheedle their way through the million ladies). This placed a substantial number of ladies in front of an already large number of ladies starting in front of me. When you are going 35 on a straightaway, moving up is difficult, and i had been told repeatedly that the back was not the place to attempt to race this, the fabled Presby crit.
I think I talked myself out of anything before I even tried. Which is weird, because as George Hincapie (what) blew the horn and the washed out whine of spokes flooded the air, my only thought was a question, and the question was a simultaneous "What?" and "why???" I had read that the things that demand the greatest performance from a human were pain, fear, and ambition. Why then, with the lizard filed narrow with fear and what I thought to be ambition, did I punk out so utterly?
The first fifteen seconds of the race were enough to finish any hope I had of completing it. I had been told to drill the first five laps, but truthfully, I think I was afraid. We wound through the first corner and screaming carbon spit a sour smell into the air, and it did not quite register. But now, I am sure: I was afraid, not so much of hurting myself, but moreso of hurting another person. And this earnest thing crippled me--the thinking. Too much thinking.
I slung through the third corner still on, probably in about fifty-fifth or sixtieth place; I pedaled and I set up the fourth turn. Then, suddenly, there was a gap. it looked to be only ten feet, I moved forward to close it--and it just never happened. One by one, a few of us who had been at the back honeycombed into a little group and we rotated for about a lap before being pulled. Nobody said anything.
I was filled with a familiar misery. Again, I had done this idiot thing. Again. What am I!? What is my life if not the bicycling!??!!? HUH!?
Honestly, I wallowed. I smacked my head against a wall. I aired my shame on facebook (and then decided it was lame and retracted it.) I watched the pro 1-2 men's race as they blinked through the dark, and I felt taken with sense of regret. A sense of the hours I have spent, of the dollars sent to line registers somewhere in the retail ether. I thought of the stories people told about riders who are lame or un-good and I wondered--is that me? Is that what people think of me? I thought about going back to work tomorrow. I thought about facing all the people (real, or imagined) who consider me nothing. In summation, I had a lot of thoughts. THOUGHTS. IS ANYONE STILL READING AT THIS POINT. I have life confusion, basically. I cried with much sorrow.
The nature of this sport, I think, gives one rider glory and another this despair and that to me is very disheartening. Even in success, you achieve only comparative success. I write this and there are others who didn't even get listed on the results sheet--does my reaction to my performance demean theirs? I think it does, but that doesn't change the way I feel. And the more I talk to other, stronger, more accomplished riders, the more I find this feeling pervasive through the minds of these ladies. There is a cutthroat thing that lives inside us, and the thing hungers for the blood of others. I did not feed the thing this weekend--but, I wonder, will it grow hungrier? Or will it shrivel, and die?
I am certain now that this thing I am doing, whatever it is, is not enough. There are things boxed and unopened somewhere and I must seek them. This does not mean quitting; rather, a reinvigoration, a new angle, another outlook, another day.
Okay then.
Over the weekend, the lizard ventured to Charlotte, North Carolina for the renowned Presbyterian Hospital Criterium. Here are some things I heard about this race before I could even wrap my brain around the fact that I would be doing it:
"It is fast."
"It is really, really fast."
"IT IS THE FASTEST RACE EVAR OOOOOMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG."
Etc., Etc., in an unending variation of permutations. I heard these people. It wasn't that I didn't believe them. Maybe it is like that DailyGrace youtube video. THAT ONE! The word fast had essentially ceased to mean anything. What is fast? Fast fast fast fast fast. How many times can you type a word before your brain forgets what the characters mean?
But yeah. I will begin, as things should (or so I am told): with the beginning. At least, standardized testing and an english degree have led me to believe this. But, ya know. English degree.
So. The all powerful RB squadron (one lizard and one laura) were to depart Fort Lauderdale airport at 6am Friday morning. I worked Thursday, and upon completing my workerly duties, I retired to complete one last set of vo2 intervals. This took me until about eight. I got home and remembered that I possess the mechanical skills of a furry rodent, and set to the task of breaking down my bike for travel with much panache and wherewithal.
I swore. I shook my fist at the sky. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. I mean, really, it's not even that hard, right?! It's not!! I blame my sausage hands. Sausage fingers?!
So by the time that was done, it was almost ten. Rather than drive to Miami at a reasonable hour, as a sensible human might have done, I decided to simply "nap" from about 11-3. This, I thought, would be brilliant and limit my exposure to cats to those of the nap variety. Here is a point-by-point replay of my trip. YOU ARE WELCOME.
2:50 AM, FRIDAY.
I awoke from a dream about canoeing with a flaily gasp and promptly realized my error in judgement. The world was a saucy mishmash. The road was twisty and devious. Survival, I realized, was tantamount here; my driving was like that of a weird drunken uncle. I drank 3 large red bulls and blared needly dubstep songs, but even these measures could not keep me from driving basically on the rumble strips for 110 miles. BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO.
4:45 AM, FRIDAY.
I engaged in all the gobsmackingly fun activities airports have to offer: mean old people!!!!!! long lines!!!!!! TSA agents stealing treats!! WAITING OF EVERY POSSIBLE FASHION!!! In this six hour period, lp regaled me with much knowledge and I discovered that many of the pillars of my life are actually lies. LIES!!
11:00 AM, FRIDAY.
We arrived at Charlotte to find that it felt something like 5pm despite the fact (Siri said so) that it was earlier than noon. I was taken with the yawns. BUT, we were pleasantly surprised by our Charlotte-based teammate, Vanessa, and her boyfriend diego! Yes! We had thought that we would need to catch a mysterious green bus, but Vanessa and Diego rescued us with a Honda Odyssey (! ) What classy people! Truly. There was more talk of the race and the crushing that would occur there. I felt less and less like a participant in this sport and more like a baby bird abducted from its nest and thrown into a fishbowl.
12:40 PM, FRIDAY.
I ate a pita pit. It was pita-licious.
3:00 PM, FRIDAY.
Laura and I ventured out into the wilds of charlotte for some pre-race openers. When I say "we" and "pre-race openers," I actually mean that I followed laura stalkerishly through the streets of Charlotte and tried to keep her within seeing distance as she did some sprinting things. Fun fact: we have seen probably every industrial park in/near vicinity of the city of Charlotte. God, we are so pro. On our way back into town we happened upon a bikeshop (I think it was called Uptown Cycles, but these details escape me), and the nice people there gave us free water and made laura's bike shift better! Good samaritans! Y'ALL GOOD! Also, the girls from NOW Novartis from MS were present at said shop; I do not know this because I recognized them, as I was not wearing my glasses, but because 1) laura said it was them and 2) the lady captaining the register area of the shop told me so. So there.
We then hit up trader joes, where we were told that bikes are NOT allowed inside (that is racist!) and also a vitamin shoppe, where a new dad helped laura select the most economical beta alanine.
7:00 PM (maybe?) FRIDAY.
We agreed that we had accomplished much wandering; with this, I was pleased. Like in the bible. 'Let there be wandering,' and all that. We hungered, and set out to find sustenance. The end result: delightful enchiladas, and a nice waiter who brought me many water refills. I send that guy many internet thanks.
9:30 PM, FRIDAY.
By this point, it felt like I had been awake for my entire consecutive life. We discovered things that I forgot (pajamas! toothbrush! etc.) and laura marveled at my unwordliness. This was a theme of the day, actually; laura would discover a dumb thing that I do and then go "LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZ!!" This happened when I told her that I ride my tubulars at 140 psi, and when I told her that I thought sunscreen caused cancer. She face-palmed many times. The day ended with my face in a nice pillow.
8:30 AM, SATURDAY.
This was it. The day. THE BIG DAY. The day I presumed to be at least partially mine. We got up and went for a recovery ride. You know, for the muscles! Then, we headed to registration to meet up with Vanessa and collect our numbers and race bible. I saw Ashley T., from whom I abducted a timing chip (accidentally...) at Delray beach and she was quite forgiving. We also saw laura van gilder, who is super pro and awesome. She had just come from the airport, and had yet to assemble her crushin' machine. So....pro.
12:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The rest of the day was spent in convulsive torment. I found the start list on Facebook and out of the 73 names penned, about five had been in the Olympics and another ten were major badasses. The rest were just regular bad asses.
There was a lot of sighing, I remember. I thought I should try breathing a lot, but this did not help. I imagined the race in my mind; I played it and played it going well. I recalled feelings of suffering I have felt and I told myself that it is not necessarily a bad feeling. I felt a compulsive need to half-cry and half-throw up for much of the day.
I decided that not smothering these feelings would probably lead to an epic freakout, and so I set to compartmentalization. I watched Miranda Sings, and giggled. I felt better.
5:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The course opened for lady warm-up time, and so down we went to do just that. I was very pleased to be able to ride on the course before actually racing it, and as we wound around, I saw many faces I recognized--some friends, and some acquaintances, and some people that I think probably hate me...I asked people repeatedly whether they had done the race before or not; I received a variety of answers. Well. Not a variety. Just yes or no. YA DIG!!
I made a point of watching people I knew would do well (lp for one) take the corners. Though her wisdom regarding tubular pressure certainly had helped, I still felt a lack of confidence while doing this. How hard can it possibly be!? You just look somewhere and the bike goes there, right?! ISN'T THAT HOW IT WORKS.
It was surreal. I felt like I had never raced before in my life. I was like a little cycle baby swaddled in someone else's jersey and left out to dry. The throw-uppy feeling persisted and I rolled through the dumbbells of the course for the next forty minutes or so.
5:40 PM, SATURDAY.
With 20 minutes until the start, I decided it would be a good idea to line up. Maybe. Is it better to start closer to the front, or start a bit warmer? I cannot say.
Row by row, jerseys I recognized filled the street. Imagine just muscles, all over the place. Muscles, saturated with an overall feeling of taut anticipation masked with this weird bravado that seems to possess many cycle ladies. I will not lie; intimidation had begun before I even got to the line. "They are just ladies," is what I told lp; unfortunately, I sort of suck at taking my own advice. I started next to cari higgins for the love of god!! THE BICEPS!!! ALL THE BICEPS, OKAY?!??!??!? That is all.
5:55 PM, SATURDAY
The announcers fiddled with a microphone and 80 something ladies all wiggled around with their bicycles and helmet straps and water bottles. There were twenty-five call ups (some of whom didn't know they were getting called up, this was good fun watching them wheedle their way through the million ladies). This placed a substantial number of ladies in front of an already large number of ladies starting in front of me. When you are going 35 on a straightaway, moving up is difficult, and i had been told repeatedly that the back was not the place to attempt to race this, the fabled Presby crit.
I think I talked myself out of anything before I even tried. Which is weird, because as George Hincapie (what) blew the horn and the washed out whine of spokes flooded the air, my only thought was a question, and the question was a simultaneous "What?" and "why???" I had read that the things that demand the greatest performance from a human were pain, fear, and ambition. Why then, with the lizard filed narrow with fear and what I thought to be ambition, did I punk out so utterly?
The first fifteen seconds of the race were enough to finish any hope I had of completing it. I had been told to drill the first five laps, but truthfully, I think I was afraid. We wound through the first corner and screaming carbon spit a sour smell into the air, and it did not quite register. But now, I am sure: I was afraid, not so much of hurting myself, but moreso of hurting another person. And this earnest thing crippled me--the thinking. Too much thinking.
I slung through the third corner still on, probably in about fifty-fifth or sixtieth place; I pedaled and I set up the fourth turn. Then, suddenly, there was a gap. it looked to be only ten feet, I moved forward to close it--and it just never happened. One by one, a few of us who had been at the back honeycombed into a little group and we rotated for about a lap before being pulled. Nobody said anything.
I was filled with a familiar misery. Again, I had done this idiot thing. Again. What am I!? What is my life if not the bicycling!??!!? HUH!?
Honestly, I wallowed. I smacked my head against a wall. I aired my shame on facebook (and then decided it was lame and retracted it.) I watched the pro 1-2 men's race as they blinked through the dark, and I felt taken with sense of regret. A sense of the hours I have spent, of the dollars sent to line registers somewhere in the retail ether. I thought of the stories people told about riders who are lame or un-good and I wondered--is that me? Is that what people think of me? I thought about going back to work tomorrow. I thought about facing all the people (real, or imagined) who consider me nothing. In summation, I had a lot of thoughts. THOUGHTS. IS ANYONE STILL READING AT THIS POINT. I have life confusion, basically. I cried with much sorrow.
The nature of this sport, I think, gives one rider glory and another this despair and that to me is very disheartening. Even in success, you achieve only comparative success. I write this and there are others who didn't even get listed on the results sheet--does my reaction to my performance demean theirs? I think it does, but that doesn't change the way I feel. And the more I talk to other, stronger, more accomplished riders, the more I find this feeling pervasive through the minds of these ladies. There is a cutthroat thing that lives inside us, and the thing hungers for the blood of others. I did not feed the thing this weekend--but, I wonder, will it grow hungrier? Or will it shrivel, and die?
I am certain now that this thing I am doing, whatever it is, is not enough. There are things boxed and unopened somewhere and I must seek them. This does not mean quitting; rather, a reinvigoration, a new angle, another outlook, another day.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Winter Garden
I know. I know.
I am a really bad blogger.
You see, internet, though cycling does make me very happy, there are times when it also makes me very sad. I want this blog to be funny and happy, and so when I have the depressive funkies, I don't really feel much like posting. Deductive reasoning would lead one to believe that I have much depression, as there are no posts in here for like....months....but i mean don't get me wrong, I am also kind of lazy and I like naps.
SO, I am not saying like YEAH I RESOLVE TO WRITE FOREVAAAAAA POST POST POST 10000000XXXXX!!! But I am saying that I will do my best darn it! Whatever that is.
SO. THE RACE.
Yeah, we went to a race this weekend! In winter garden. Not to be confused with Winter Haven, or the actual season of winter because by jove it was hot as bunk out there this weekend. Nope. Winter Garden. Believe it.
The Rose Bandits (is it one word or two?) fielded a squad of six riders plus an honorary Kyle who drove up with me in my minivan. I strongly feel that this is indicative of our team style and I wish other regions could figure out how to make this happen. I mean, I think we sometimes get heckled for being half the field, but hey other teams can do the same thang! We could have fields of 50 ladies....it would be cool man.
Anyway, the criterium was Saturday morning; the course, a sort of squashed-circle-lookin thing with a long section of brick. When I say long, I mean it was like 1/4 mile. MAYBE. I am a terrible judge of distance.
But, anyway, again, yeah, Criterium! 11 am! We awoke and everyone went to iHop except for me and Kyle, I think, but we drank hotel coffee and ate publix bagels, so that's cool. Yeah. We went to the course where instead of warming up, I slammed a red bull and stood in the registration line for thirty minutes. (I am so pro.) ((but really though i am self sabotaging help me)).
The race began, and after two or three laps I attacked because heck it seemed like a good idea at the time and there was a tailwind. By the time I had really thought about it, I was already doing it--this is sort of indicative of my life and also the way I ride a bicycle. It is like writing--what is wrong with your writing is what's wrong with you, right? So maybe, what's wrong with your riding is what's wrong with you as well. So like...how do I become a logical human being?
But yeah. Attacking. I did that. So I went and I was about to hit the next corner (third corner?) when I heard something behind me. I was ostensibly startled because I was expecting to just do that and then probably get caught, but no! It was my teammate, Amy, saying something like "help," or "I am going to help," or something like that. I was like "oh that's neat!" and so we kept going.
The group remained with in a reasonable sort of distance for a little bit but we really started putting time into them after a few laps. I started really tasting red bull and feeling like I was going to die. I was cornering somewhat poorly (per usual, how do I improve this) and I began to feel like my bike was full of lead. This is ridiculous because Don Pedro is a stallion and only goes one speed (MADD FAST YO HOLLA).
So anyway, I kind of gave up and threw up on myself and I have a healthy sense of shame about that because this is a thing that I sometimes do in my life. When things get hard, I want to throw my bicycle away and take up curling. But this is stupid and this is not a good way to be. And so I write this down as evidence of my public shame. This blog will be my scarlet letter. Literature. As a sort of penance I did the 4 race and continued doing many of the things that make me do poorly rather than practicing new good habits, I am an idiot.
So, back in the race (metaphysical blog space time jump!), I was suffering solo and amy was crushing me and I was looking for the peloton around every corner because I was pretty sure they were going to catch me at that point--but they did not. So that was good for me. I think amy had like 1 minute on the field/lapped a group of 3-4 women which is absurdly cool. RB resident crushers laura and meaghan took 3rd and 4th. So that was a RB podium that day, which is neat.
The road race played out sort of how I thought it might, except also not at all how I thought it might. We were lumped with the 60+ men's category because apparently TopView thinks that ladies suck at life and that 60+ men are ladies. The announcer said something like "YEAH LET'S SEE IF A GIRL WINS OR A GUY!" I instantly thought, "oh great, that is awesome announcer. way to be." because for the remainder of the race, a bunch of those guys took on the role of super domestiques and chased every time a girl did anything. thanks guys. thanks.
So while I tried attacking a couple times, I decided that resistance was futile and that everyone was just kind of sitting on while I tuckered myself out. This hardly seems like good strategy. And so I stopped.
Near the end of the race, I kind of thought it was over twice, and in my premature excitement I burned up many (all?) of my matches. At this point I was thinking how I could best help my teammates, as the idea of an uphill bunch sprint sort of just makes me giggle. Unfortunately I really could not think of any helpful ideas, and so I kind of just wiggled around and tried to stay sort of close to the front.
It came down to the last little bend and I was like "OH YEAH IT'S OVER YEAH!!" and i went. Then, I saw a continuing stretch of uphill road and I my legs were like "GOOD ONE LIZ. THAT IS JUST GREAT." I tried to regroup a little bit but at that point I had kind of spent my last nickel if you know what I mean! (is that a thing? did I invent an old-timey saying?)
i was too far away to really see what really happened BUT I know that nobody died and so that is good, yay us. I think that I like to negatively color the events of races even when I do well because I just do that, and it is a think that I must temper and break with. Because man is it ever depressing! For example, after the criterium I was sure that the peloton must have just stopped going because how could they not catch me?! But I realize this is bad, and this cheapens the efforts of everyone involved. I often instinctively think bad things about myself, but in this situation those thoughts aren't just mine or about me, they reflect on the performances of people I like and want to do well. And so I guess I recognize this and I will try to not do that. It is a weird thing: I mean, does someone else doing well mean that I suck? That is highly comparative and probably damaging to my psyche. Which is fragile. Hmp.
In summation, I have a lot of lizard feelings. bicycles. sunburn? I will post all the things. I WILL TRY.
Next race is Presbyterian, which is rumored to have a lot of shebang and whip-whap. Also next week I begin doing some mad vo2 crushin efforts. Though I am filled with anxiety over these things, I will do my daily lizard affirmations (I am a good lizard! I will do my best! etc etc etc) and I will conquer them!!!! Excessive number of exclamation points! Wish me luck, if you want, or wish me ill, I guess that is your prerogative. I am hungry. GOODBYE!
Love,
Lizard
I am a really bad blogger.
You see, internet, though cycling does make me very happy, there are times when it also makes me very sad. I want this blog to be funny and happy, and so when I have the depressive funkies, I don't really feel much like posting. Deductive reasoning would lead one to believe that I have much depression, as there are no posts in here for like....months....but i mean don't get me wrong, I am also kind of lazy and I like naps.
SO, I am not saying like YEAH I RESOLVE TO WRITE FOREVAAAAAA POST POST POST 10000000XXXXX!!! But I am saying that I will do my best darn it! Whatever that is.
SO. THE RACE.
Yeah, we went to a race this weekend! In winter garden. Not to be confused with Winter Haven, or the actual season of winter because by jove it was hot as bunk out there this weekend. Nope. Winter Garden. Believe it.
The Rose Bandits (is it one word or two?) fielded a squad of six riders plus an honorary Kyle who drove up with me in my minivan. I strongly feel that this is indicative of our team style and I wish other regions could figure out how to make this happen. I mean, I think we sometimes get heckled for being half the field, but hey other teams can do the same thang! We could have fields of 50 ladies....it would be cool man.
Anyway, the criterium was Saturday morning; the course, a sort of squashed-circle-lookin thing with a long section of brick. When I say long, I mean it was like 1/4 mile. MAYBE. I am a terrible judge of distance.
But, anyway, again, yeah, Criterium! 11 am! We awoke and everyone went to iHop except for me and Kyle, I think, but we drank hotel coffee and ate publix bagels, so that's cool. Yeah. We went to the course where instead of warming up, I slammed a red bull and stood in the registration line for thirty minutes. (I am so pro.) ((but really though i am self sabotaging help me)).
The race began, and after two or three laps I attacked because heck it seemed like a good idea at the time and there was a tailwind. By the time I had really thought about it, I was already doing it--this is sort of indicative of my life and also the way I ride a bicycle. It is like writing--what is wrong with your writing is what's wrong with you, right? So maybe, what's wrong with your riding is what's wrong with you as well. So like...how do I become a logical human being?
But yeah. Attacking. I did that. So I went and I was about to hit the next corner (third corner?) when I heard something behind me. I was ostensibly startled because I was expecting to just do that and then probably get caught, but no! It was my teammate, Amy, saying something like "help," or "I am going to help," or something like that. I was like "oh that's neat!" and so we kept going.
The group remained with in a reasonable sort of distance for a little bit but we really started putting time into them after a few laps. I started really tasting red bull and feeling like I was going to die. I was cornering somewhat poorly (per usual, how do I improve this) and I began to feel like my bike was full of lead. This is ridiculous because Don Pedro is a stallion and only goes one speed (MADD FAST YO HOLLA).
So anyway, I kind of gave up and threw up on myself and I have a healthy sense of shame about that because this is a thing that I sometimes do in my life. When things get hard, I want to throw my bicycle away and take up curling. But this is stupid and this is not a good way to be. And so I write this down as evidence of my public shame. This blog will be my scarlet letter. Literature. As a sort of penance I did the 4 race and continued doing many of the things that make me do poorly rather than practicing new good habits, I am an idiot.
So, back in the race (metaphysical blog space time jump!), I was suffering solo and amy was crushing me and I was looking for the peloton around every corner because I was pretty sure they were going to catch me at that point--but they did not. So that was good for me. I think amy had like 1 minute on the field/lapped a group of 3-4 women which is absurdly cool. RB resident crushers laura and meaghan took 3rd and 4th. So that was a RB podium that day, which is neat.
The road race played out sort of how I thought it might, except also not at all how I thought it might. We were lumped with the 60+ men's category because apparently TopView thinks that ladies suck at life and that 60+ men are ladies. The announcer said something like "YEAH LET'S SEE IF A GIRL WINS OR A GUY!" I instantly thought, "oh great, that is awesome announcer. way to be." because for the remainder of the race, a bunch of those guys took on the role of super domestiques and chased every time a girl did anything. thanks guys. thanks.
So while I tried attacking a couple times, I decided that resistance was futile and that everyone was just kind of sitting on while I tuckered myself out. This hardly seems like good strategy. And so I stopped.
Near the end of the race, I kind of thought it was over twice, and in my premature excitement I burned up many (all?) of my matches. At this point I was thinking how I could best help my teammates, as the idea of an uphill bunch sprint sort of just makes me giggle. Unfortunately I really could not think of any helpful ideas, and so I kind of just wiggled around and tried to stay sort of close to the front.
It came down to the last little bend and I was like "OH YEAH IT'S OVER YEAH!!" and i went. Then, I saw a continuing stretch of uphill road and I my legs were like "GOOD ONE LIZ. THAT IS JUST GREAT." I tried to regroup a little bit but at that point I had kind of spent my last nickel if you know what I mean! (is that a thing? did I invent an old-timey saying?)
i was too far away to really see what really happened BUT I know that nobody died and so that is good, yay us. I think that I like to negatively color the events of races even when I do well because I just do that, and it is a think that I must temper and break with. Because man is it ever depressing! For example, after the criterium I was sure that the peloton must have just stopped going because how could they not catch me?! But I realize this is bad, and this cheapens the efforts of everyone involved. I often instinctively think bad things about myself, but in this situation those thoughts aren't just mine or about me, they reflect on the performances of people I like and want to do well. And so I guess I recognize this and I will try to not do that. It is a weird thing: I mean, does someone else doing well mean that I suck? That is highly comparative and probably damaging to my psyche. Which is fragile. Hmp.
In summation, I have a lot of lizard feelings. bicycles. sunburn? I will post all the things. I WILL TRY.
Next race is Presbyterian, which is rumored to have a lot of shebang and whip-whap. Also next week I begin doing some mad vo2 crushin efforts. Though I am filled with anxiety over these things, I will do my daily lizard affirmations (I am a good lizard! I will do my best! etc etc etc) and I will conquer them!!!! Excessive number of exclamation points! Wish me luck, if you want, or wish me ill, I guess that is your prerogative. I am hungry. GOODBYE!
Love,
Lizard
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)