Albany and Chattanooga

            I offer you all a rare look into the heart and guts of a lizard on the eve of battle. The battle—USA Cycling Elite Nationals—is sure to test all of her lizard wiles. It is a prestigious thing, populated by Olympians and monster-legged crushers of souls. US PRO takes no prisoners, and makes no apologies. It does not pass go, and it does not collect two hundred dollars.

            My being able to do this event is the summative effort of about a million different people. Naples, you see, lies suctioned into the ocean at the very buttcrack of the world, seven or eight hours of driving separate the typical SoFla resident from any worthwhile place on earth. That being said, I did not hop into the car and bang out thirteen hours of driving all at once; rather, I ticked off two, three, four hours here and there and moved into my friends’ homes like some sort of elite hermit crab.

LAST WEEK:

            My plan had started out simply: go to Albany, race, and then go home. Alas, I walked into my work (the Naples Cyclery, for those of you who are unfamiliar) and saw the Chattanooga event’s poster gleaming on the countertop.

            “Oh this,” I said to my co-worker and homie, Josh, “I was supposed to go to this. But I don’t think I qualify because I’m not a one.” This too had been a plan of mine: go to speed week, crush, and then become a badass category 1 racer. We all know how speed week went for the lizard—the best laid plans, you know.

            “You should do it,” he said, as simple as that.

            “Well,” I said, “I’m convinced.”  

            I rode home and made for my desk, and began to compute in sweaty bib shorts. Nationals! Was this prudent? I logged into USA Cycling and pulled up the event. I was, apparently, qualified. ADD TO CART. WHERE IS MY COMMON SENSE? It must have died, I think, with the sense of dignity that kept me from parading around metropolitan areas in pink spandex body suits.

            The plan changed. I signed up for the Albany criterium, this year part of the new Southeast Regional Series, and I paid USA Cycling one hundred dollars for the esteemed pleasure of seeing my name on the same start list as Evelyn Stevens’.

            “Giggity,” I said, while secretly feeling a crushing poverty and wondering why I could not work on my book. Exercise! All this exercise is not conducive to creative activity.

FRIDAY, MAY 24:

First stop, Gainesville. Team Kenda’s Chelsea Factor and I were to be travel buddies; she let me sleep at her house with two schnausers and a very large cat.

SATURDAY, MAY 25:

Lizard genius moment number one: while sitting in the driver’s seat of my father’s Hyundai, I removed the keys from the ignition, clicked the lock button, and then placed the keys into the cupholder. I then exited the vehicle and slammed the door. I imagine the look on my face was quite hilarious.

            Chelsea peaced out because she had to make the men’s category 3-4 race; I sat in the driveway and doodled pictures of muscle guys punching each other in the face while I waited for the towing folks to come to my rescue.

            And rescue did come, in the form of a slight little man named Francis; he was bald and smiley and he unlocked my car with much panache. Thank you, Francis, thou automotive gem! I set off, only an hour later than expected.

             Albany was, according to Siri, a three and a half hour drive. The lizard made it in three (don’t drive with me if you value your life.). The criterium course snakes through the quaint little downtown area, wide and fast. While warming up I was both thrilled and surprised to find my teammate, the indomitable Vanessa Drigo warming up. There would, it appeared, be two Rosebandits out crushing on this fine Saturday.

The Lizard, pre-race.

            Vanessa got into a break of four riders, which I somehow missed—I am uncertain as to how this happened, and awaited a chance to do something. On the second-to-last lap, I thought  I heard the announcer say, “tweny dollar prime.” I turned to Chelsea and said, “I’m going to lead you out for the prime!” Later, I found out that she had mistakenly heard, “Look at what I’m going to do!” I punched it hard into the third corner and got a gap; I scooped up the prime and gave a look back. They were pretty far off. “Heck,” I thought, “I will keep going.” If anything, I would be leading out the sprint, which is fine with me. I came either third or fourth across the line, which got me fifth place as I was a lap down from the breakaway group. Does this count as winning the bunch sprint?

            After the race, I headed off to Athens, another three and a half hour jaunt, to stay with my lovely friend Kira. We took ice baths, ate pasta from pots of trough-like proportions, and slept sound sleeps.

SUNDAY, MAY 26
Kira awoke early to get some riding in; I slumbered on like a wee babe. Around ten, we set off toward chattanooga--an easy two-and-a-half hour drive. We disregarded Siri's advice and took an uncomfortable detour through what I like to call, "the dirty, dirty south." We looked at one another in terror and did an aggressive donut-style turn around mid-street.
We drove with a fearful anticipation, as the previous week had been filled with much teasing about my hotel choice. I mean, really, how can you see a hotel called “The Chattanooga Choo Choo” on the hotel search and NOT pick it?
We arrived and found it to be lovely, and having something of a timidly racist Asian theme. E.g., pagodas and rice paper-style paintings everywhere. What was this a reference to? HECK IF I KNOW. Mulan would dig it.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent on logistics: we were starving, and had to hunt for the exactly one restaurant (Sugar’s BBQ) that was open on a Sunday in this biblical south. I had to pick up my numbers. I had to stare awkwardly at the Specialized Lululemon team on the street. We accomplished these things and set out to pre-ride a bit.
Throughout the afternoon, officials made a point of making feel like a foolish noob on several occasions. While picking up my numbers, one lady gave me the saddest, most knowing frown when I told her, “No, I don’t have a race car…do I need one?!” Later, an official asked me to take a corner at speed and I almost got hit by a car. He giggled at me.
We are now back in the hotel, awaiting an evening of snacks and rest!

MONDAY, MAY 27
The day had arrived. THIS. THE DAY OF DAYS. I had an excellent feeling, a feeling of strength and vigor. These were just ladies. Ladies! I could finish the race, surely, and finish well. I drank a lot of redbull and went through all the pre-race motions.
We rolled to the course with thirty minutes to go, and I felt my nerve endings through my fingers. What the hell was I doing here?! Who was I to be here?! But I was here.
I rolled to the line. Twenty minutes until the gun. My hands were shaking; I wrung them and gripped my handlebars.
Suddenly I saw a flash of black and white, I turned from my spot on the left-most side of the start/finish and about died when I realized that I was recognizing the Specialized-Lululemon Squad rolling up. Oh my god. OH GOD. IT WAS EVELYN STEVENS. AND ALLY STACHER. AND CARMEN SMALL.
I began to hyperventilate. WHY!!!!!! WHY WAS I HERE!!!!!!!!
I reminded myself that these were ladies, merely ladies. They were ladies just as I was a lady and they could not frighten me! Then, Mara Abbott appeared from the depths of the crowd, flushing through the stacking of bicycles to her unspoken place at the front. My mouth fell open.
Don't stare, I told myself, as I stared. My mouth was completely agape. STOP STARING!!! I snapped my head forward and locked onto the wheel in front of me. Yes. A nice, tame, wheel. Rubber and spokes. No social graces required.

The announcer said some words that did not compute in my brain and a girl wailed the national anthem. One minute to go. I was filled simultaneously with a feeling of horror and utmost joy. I never wanted this moment to be over.

But minutes end, and moments cannot last. Before I could catch my breath the gun was firing, a quick, taut snap, and seventy-seven women were catching cleats in pedals and launching forward. I hardly knew what to do. What was there to do but go? And so I went.

It began like any other criterium I had ever done--except that this was a road race. I was horrified. Calm down, I thought. I sipped my bottle, and remembered that I had filled it with red bull. My heart rate, after exactly thirty-eight seconds of racing, was 170. This was a terrible sign.

I pedaled in the same way that I have for thousands of miles, hundreds of hours. This is what you do, I told myself. See? You're doing it.

I looked to my right and nearly fell over. Evelyn Stevens was there, simply riding next to me, as if this was a normal thing. As if she was a normal human, just riding next to me in a race! THIS WAS EVELYN STEVENS. WHY WAS SHE THERE?! She also seemed to notice that this, the sorriest, back-most section of the race was not the place to be. She was escorted to the front by her kick-ass teammate, Carmen Small, and I followed. I FOLLOWED. I simply hopped on Evelyn Stevens' wheel and went forward, as if this was not the most spectacular thing I had ever done in my entire life. I was smiling the most idiotic smile, and pedaling quite hard.
"Relax," I said to myself, "three short laps to go." And we went through the short laps as we would have done a speed week criterium, fast, punching through the corners. I was devastated to admit that I was already suffering, at the back, desperately sticking on like a terrible barnacle.
YOU CANNOT DROP, I said to myself, YOU LITERALLY ARE NOT ALLOWED. We finished the third short lap and began the trek toward Lookout Point.

The thing that typically happens to me in races happened again--I was too far back, like an idiot, and a girl opened a gap. I whirled around and began to pedal furiously down the straight that I had told myself I should be resting on. "CATCH THEM NOW, LIZARD." That is what I said. And I did catch them, just after the left turn onto Tennessee Avenue. I knew this was not ideal, because I had driven this section of the course just yesterday. The mountain loomed before us.

We swung through the streets, for the final time a solid wall of riders punching through the course, and we hit the climb. Like a gunshot we were obliterated into tiny groups--three here, five there. I was alone at the very back, stricken with panic.

Would it have made any difference had I been further up? Would it have mattered? Tennessee threw its best into my path and my legs did their best to tick over my easiest gear. I watched the riders disappear, and I suffered.

It was not the hardest climb I have ever done. It was not the longest, or the steepest. It was not the loneliest and it was not the most depressing. It just was. It was a mountain, it was in my way, and I had to go over it.

So, yeah, I was dropped. I don't really feel like writing about this anymore. Does it really matter?

Life Confusion

This, 'Life Confusion', has become an operative term in my vocabulary. I define it as follows:

Life Confusion (/līf/ /kənˈfyo͞oZHən/)

Noun. 
1. An unending state of adultolescent uncertainty and/or panic. The fundamental breakdown of all understanding.
2. A chaotic, flailing search for meaning.

You see, I am a sort of wishy washy girl. I like many things and I feel many life directions tugging at me. I feel often like a leaf that will simply bramble in whichever direction has the most momentary purpose.

My question to you, dear readers, is how, with a million, million things, do you choose simply one thing? My question is, why? My questions are numerous and unwavering. My questions are a ceaseless barrage against my brain that I cannot answer.

For a time I believed cycling to be the answer to these questions, the same way I believed running, or comedy, or Lady Gaga; but I see I put too much store by these things. Because in the end, they are only things. And that is my problem. This blog is supposed to be about cycling, it was supposed to be a way to connect different parts of my brain in a way that would allow them to make sense of one another and become friendly. Because the cycling and the writing are divergent things, one feeling and the other cold--but who can say which is which? You see, the more I cycle and the further I go down this path, the more I see I am unlike these people I meet, the wonderful, dedicated, strong people who are so sure of this thing they are meant to do. I am not like them. I am not sure of anything.

So, this is a hard thing, the uncertainty, it is like floating in a bathtub in the middle of the ocean and wondering what direction to begin paddling this porcelain dinghy, how, where, why! WHY! For now, I cup my hands and continue to float.