It seems only yesterday I was dropping off my studly rental Toyota Corolla, wrangling Don Pedro from the back seat, and flailing off down Vanderbilt Beach Road toward my place of wayward employment. Normally, I would say something like, "I was determined to crush after the misery of last weekend!" Or, "my misfortunes brought me a fiery new resolve!" But alas, this is not true. I am a wet noodle, all the protest wrung from my bones.
I departed Naples again on Wednesday morning for another day of TSA butt pats and dehumanization. My bicycle was in a sad, sad state--not unlike a race horse with broken knees. You know that book, The Red Pony? Well, I am Jody, and Don Pedro is Gabilan. I am slowly watching him die and maybe it is turning me into a real adult WITH NO SOUL OR JOY.
Upon our arrival in Sin City, I was thinking little of crap shooting, and more of allen keys and handlebar torque. Who was I to act like this was going to go well?! I look back at my smug little face in my memories and I want to slap it.
"WHO ARE YOU," My retroactive self screams, "WHAT IS THIS CONFIDENCE!!!!!!!"
Anyway. Upon arrival, I built my bike and found the shifting to be ALL KIND OF JACKED UP. That is a common occurrence when all 140 lbs of you land crushingly on your derailleur hanger, and I was sure I could adjust it to some kind of semblance of working order. I called my older sister, the meemo, and had her explain to me how to adjust the cable as she is a real life mechanic and is qualified to aid me in my equipmental failures.
After a bit of tinkering, I set out into the streets of Las Vegas to do a sort of pre-ride and some openers (well, one opener). As I spun, a man in cargo shorts and a sweat-stained man shirt lurched out into the street to grab me. He made a sound like, "HMMNNGGHHHH." I think this translates to, "Help! Vegas gave me too many free white russians!" I veered into traffic and avoided his stinky embrace.
The gears seemed to be okay now, and after about an hour I made my way back to the hotel room for refreshening. When I had sufficiently un-stunk myself, I made my way to the lobby for dinner with the entire Gerrity family, who had come to Vegas to watch me race (and also, to play poker. But semantics, I guess.)
We wandered around a bit, and then retired for the night.
THE NEXT DAY!!!!!
The dawn came and I awoke. The current mission: collect race number from Mandalay bay! The window was between 9:00 and 1:00; I figured it surely shouldn't take more than a few minutes to walk down to the tram! I remembered the perils of travel from my last Vegas visit, with Mr. Jack Attack Tomassetti: you must fight through like eighteen casinos before getting where ever it is that you are trying to go. It is the law of Vegas. If Vegas was a scientist, his (her?) law would be, "An object in a casino tends to stay in a casino until murdered, or alcohol poisoned."
This is the law of the land. THEY TRAP YOU INSIDE. They set up blinky lights, and dingy noises! A flurry of human flesh, and jaunty short-skirted waitresses! IT IS ALL A GAME TO VEGAS.
We left Harrah's at approximately 9:25 AM, and took to the streets. We wound through the casinos. We kept to the carpeted path, resisted the lights and smells of chocolate-wastedness. But even so, we did not get to Mandalay Bay until ALMOST ONE. ONE PM. I kid you not.
We burst through the doors, my family/entourage struggling to keep up with my psychotic clip, and I whirled around. There was a flood of Interbike-badged humans coming from the north; I deemed this the right path and we soldiered on. There were a number of condescending hashtagged signs hung in strategic places that said things like
#youaretotallycrushingthiswalkrightnow
I snorted in a pedestrian defiance. BOO. BOO, INTERNET HUMOR.
Finally I saw the familiar face of fellow racer Kat Carr and I knew I must be at least in the vicinity of correctness. And I was. There, just beyond the hallowed Arch of Interbike was the registration table. I hurried over in a caffeinated glee to collect my numbers--which, I was both disturbed and delighted to discover, bore my name!
"Great," I said, "Now when I do something stupid they will be able to find where I live." Always the optimist, this lizard.
I had found the trek of the morning quite taxing and retired to the room post haste for relaxation.
5:00 PM
It was time to head to the course--the previous events of the day had shown me that getting to the course might as well be the race itself, considering the level of difficulty/amount of sweat I produced. We hailed a cab and stuffed both me and the bike into the back seat. What had taken two hours on foot was a scant ten minutes in a car. Maybe we cyclists are doing it wrong. Should we be doing drag racing!?
Upon arrival I produced my numbers to be let into the course, and I took a couple laps. I was aghast. Surely this was wrong. I flagged down a man in a yellow shirt.
"Excuse me sir," I said, "This isn't the course, is it? The course for tonight?"
"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING," the man yelled. I made a face and then yammered away for my own safety.
It was a god-forsaken circular DOOM. There were no turns, really, just a whippy, winding corkscrew that wound the whole kilometer lap. I guess you could call two of the bends "turns," but it was more like a sweeping thing. The barricades were only about ten feet apart in spots (maybe twenty. I never said i was a cartographer.) BUT SUFFICE IT TO SAY, that junk was narrow as hell. The feet of the barricades reached out with eager metal fingers for wheel! I was filled with horror.
After the 6:00 pm race began, I went to the Saris tent to ride a trainer for awhile, and a man came over to set me up on a CycleOps. He told me of his exploits organizing crowd primes for the Tulsa Tough race back in june.
"Thanks," I told him, "YOUR PRIMES DESTROYED ME." He told me I was welcome.
Then, I did something amateurish. The man looked at the bend in my derailleur cable and decided it looked wrong and bent down to adjust it. Now, it had been fine (read: passably okay) up until this point but I did not really know enough to tell him that he was wrong in his diagnosis. And so, like an idiot, I let this strange man I had never met before touch my bicycle.
6:59 PM
We were a small field, all of us lined up, and every racer there was someone whose name I knew and feared.
When Chad Andrews sent us off, I dove forward and scraped my foot across my pedal. My cleat refused to catch. Looking down I saw that I had chipped off a piece of the part that catches the pedal. I frowned and resolved to...well, think about it? I don't know, what can you really do about that?!
The first bunch of laps were fine. Good, even! The lack of textbook "turns" suited me quite well because the race lacked that punch out of the corners that really makes me die. The whole middle there was no pedaling, merely because you were leaned so far that to do so would surely mean a pedal strike.
We went! Whip whap! Around and around. The punches came after the corkscrew, and after the turn leading into the finish. I was admittedly too far back, and did not feel terribly confident in the corkscrew. But I held my line and did not kill anyone, so I will award myself a C+ for effort.
A bit into the race, the primes began and the spike out of the final corner became harder. I stood up and really put pressure on the pedals, and the gears lurched. I cursed, loudly, and gave up a few bike length gap, but I made it back in.
Then, it happened again in the same spot. And then, again. And again.
After the fifth time I could not reconnect, and after a lap by myself I was pulled. I think back and wonder: what should I have done?! There is no free lap for such a thing as I was experiencing. Perhaps, like pensacola, I was doomed before I ever started. Even as I write these words, I know they are the same things I always say!!! Is it only an excuse!? IS IT EVEN SOMETHING I CAN FIX? Or am I too right brained for this, too clumsy and uncalculating?
Sam Schneider took the W so that is neat. Little skylar led her out and I was like, damn this fifteen year old is showing me up pretty hard. But, in a good way! It is nice to see s
Now, as I sit here, I can think only of next year and how I can not feel like this again. What training I must do, what new skills I must perfect. And these thoughts make me laugh, because I was filled with the very same ones this time a year ago. But you know, it is like Joan Benoit said: "My philosophy on running is, I don't dwell on it. I do it."
I am a notorious dweller. I am an attributer of false meaning. I believe in everything and nothing at the same time and this is why, I think, I do poorly. Of course the gears on the bike did not work! Of course! Was I expecting the SRAM fairy to make them work!? What is wrong with me!?
Anyway. I am not disheartened. Rather, I am...realistic. This season was filled with racing and experience, and entering it, that was the goal! I did not think that I was going to win. OF COURSE!! Of course I did not defeat the schneiders. I came from a background of collegiate binge drinking and sadness! I wore underwear beneath my spandex and thought that was okay! Look at the fluff!
That is the detail. That is the missing middle of the book. It is easy to forget that it exists there, in the slobbery mouth of old times, but it does! It is there! And it gets fainter with each new day that goes. But I can't forget, and I won't.
Thank you all for being here with me this season. Thank you for putting up with me when I pouted, when I bumped you in crit races, when I did not hold my line. Because all in all, I am very proud of the things I have been a part of. I am proud of the people I have raced against! I am proud to say that we do the same thing, because I am in awe of most of you!
Thank you especially to Laura, Amy, Meaghan, Vanessa for the honor and pleasure of racing with you! And thank you, thank you to all the rose bandit ladies for your support and encouragement! Thank you Heather and Duffy for everything you did for us this year!! I AM FILLED WITH THANKS.
Thank you especially to Laura, Amy, Meaghan, Vanessa for the honor and pleasure of racing with you! And thank you, thank you to all the rose bandit ladies for your support and encouragement! Thank you Heather and Duffy for everything you did for us this year!! I AM FILLED WITH THANKS.
VIVA LE LIZARD!!!
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