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?

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!

A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: When it rains, it pours on your head as you do 400 watts in a time trial.

EGAD, another day and again I must tell the tale of what happened! This is an exhausting circle, as it feels like I am living everything twice. I am filled with sleepies, and write only out of duty to you, my attentive audience, and so you all must be sure to yammer me with requests for entries and/or unending praise so that I do not get tired and stop writing!

WEDNESDAY, the crack of dawn

I awoke, and saw 5:55 on the LED clock near my bed. A tiny heart attack struck me--FIVE FIFTY FIVE?! HAD I SLEPT THROUGH THE TIME TRIAL?! I blinked several times and realized that it was 5:55 AM  rather than PM and I had not, in fact, missed the prologue of Nature Valley. It gets sunny here at a disgustingly early hour! My servitude was not yet a total failure. I stirred, and Lynnette and Michael gave me coffee and cereal to fuel my lizard self. POWER CARBS.

Vanessa and Lapars arrived just after seven, and we took off through the hellish morning traffic of St. Paul (or, I think that is where we is. I thought we were in Minneapolis at first. But who can ever tell.)

I navigated to the course with all the skill and delicacy of minced ginger. Is that a thing? It is now. We parked, and promptly set to business. I noticed the Lululemons across the parking lot and fainted at least six or seven times; Laura used her feminine wiles to secure trainers for warm up. I suppose this duty falls under a managerial jurisdiction; however, I am not one for wiling.

The skies, gray since I'd rolled from my dusty slumber, opened up in a sort of non-committal rain. It was like, "Well, I guess I could rain on you. Whatever." This was quite rude, as it intensified as the time trials went along. I huddled, in my soaked hoodie, and fangirled over various cycling superstarlets.

Vanessa was set to go off at 8:56; Laura, 9:03. Laura gave me a bit of a scare, as she somehow sneaked past me and got into the bike check without me seeing her--so, at 9:01, I was staring down the road, scouring desperately for pink, trying to postpone conniptions. Eventually she yelled and got my attention. "I thought you weren't going to make it," I told her.

"I race in one minute," she said, flabbergasted, "Where else would I be?!" Touche. This management business is hardly the cakewalk they make it out to be. Who makes it out to be that? I may have just made that up.

WEDNESDAY, 9:16
AT this moment in time, both Lapars and Vdrigo, as I will lovingly refer to them from now on (unless I feel like using a less ridiculous moniker--but for now, these suit me!), were on course presumably crushing everyone. At least, I hoped it was as such. I huddled beneath a tent and taught a volunteer how to use twitter. "Yes," I told him, "now, this is called a 'hashtag'."
"Fascinating," he said. I am the ambassador of my generation.

WEDNESDAY, later.
Vanessa and Laura rolled off the course, rain-drenched, and cursing the discipline of time trial. I did not blame them, and nor did I envy the task of setting out to time trial with Jade Wilcoxen (sp?!) as a two-minute woman. I have done just this, last year at elk grove, only to have the obnoxious orange Optum car pass me in a turn. "REALLY," I called after them, "You'd better kill me to make sure I won't beat you IN THIS FIVE MILE TIME TRIAL IN WHICH I RIDE ROAD BIKE AND HAVE NO AERO EQUIPMENT." Maybe I did not say this, but wouldn't it have been funny and satisfying if I did? LET'S MAKE BELIEVE.

I collected my athletes and transported them to Trader Joes, for nutrients. Then, back to HQ, for napskies.

WEDNESDAY, noon?

A ride for lizard, lest the team manager get too fat. It rained on me.

WEDNESDAY, 3:45
We met at our designated time and I transported the ladies to downtown St. Paul. It is the sort of downtown I imagine grandparents like, in that there is nothing really going on and it is calm enough to almost nap in the middle of the street median. The prerace necessities happened, and I found a spot along the start/finish to watch (aka, tweet obnoxiously). I felt a crushing nervousness despite the fact that I was not even kitted up; I am not sure if this is because I care or because I am a wet noodle of a human being.

IT BEGINS!!!!!

WEDNESDAY, 6:15

The race began with all the firepower I had feared and hoped for. The first few laps (at least, from a sidewalk perspective) were lit up. Vanessa and Laura dug through it, and I screamed like a giddy little teddy bear each time they passed by. I hope that my falsetto was motivating. I also engaged in a brutish text/tweet bombardment of the internet, for which I apologize. I was excited....

Q: What do laura and vanessa do when they are not kicking butts?

A: NOTHING. THEY CONSTANTLY KICK ALL THE BUTTS.

WEDNESDAY, 7:14
IN a twist of dramatic proportions, the race unfolded in the last five laps. It went from a controlled Tibco-train of five riders leading Shelly Olds (another olympian) to a chaotic flurry spearheaded by two orange Optum helmets. With one to go, the tibco lead out was demolished. It was anyone's race.

I was not surprised to see the orange of optum come grilling down the line, Lauren Hall first in their team one-two with Jade Wilcoxen; Shelly Olds took third with a disappointed (I thought) shake to her head. Carmen Small was downed in the last corner, and got 49th. HA! THIS IS THE SORT OF PLACING I GET. FEEL MY PAIN.

Just kidding. Now, for a jersey update: Jade Wilcoxen had secured enough time bonuses to negate Small's disgustingly good time trial. She moved into yellow with a two second cushion. Tayler Wiles lost white--and I may or may not have cried about this--to Denise Ramsden of optum. Kimberly Wells wore blue (is anybody surprised), and Brianna Walle held onto the Jelly Belly jersey. Mia Loquai dons best amateur!

I recovered my riders, and we departed, another battle in our belts.

WEDNESDAY, later

We peaced out and I set to some erranding; I deposited Laura at whole foods, vanessa at home, and myself at a gas station. We noshed some whole foods noms, and then I took off on my bicycle for bed.



I am so tired. Tomorrow, the ladies shall take on the horrors of the Cannon Falls Road race--93 miles, with only a lizard for support, no team car, no mechanic, NOTHING! I shall do what I can for them, but send them some speedy thoughts. MORE LATER

A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: Nature Valley, reptilian style.

So, friends, a hiatus for you yesterday. A day with no reading--this is a gift to you! You're welcome. I will offer a brief recap of Monday's adventures, as it was largely a day of travel.

MONDAY, 9:00
I awoke early after being thoroughly beat down by crybaby hill and drinking Margaritas with the Plotkin family, my new favorite people in the world. I had decided, on a whim, that I would in fact not return home to the hideous cavern of humidity that calls itself south florida. I would, instead, act as sovigneur to my teammates Vanessa and Laura. Though I am only a lizard, and incapable of very technical support, I would provide what I could, if only because I am bored and have nothing else to do with myself.

It was Laura's birthday, giggity! She spent the morning hustling around Tulsa after rental cars and other bicycling business; Vanessa and I attended to matters of our own (inside joke: How many rose bandits does it take to do laundry? Answer: all of them.) We all met back up around two.

MONDAY, 2:00
 The remainder of this day was spent driving, as this is the prudent thing to do when eleven hours separates you from the glory of Nature Valley. Being the servant for the trip, I knocked out many of the hours myself. After about four, we stopped at a Whole Foods where we got to see a bearded Shaman give a lengthy anecdote about shaving a "beautiful, long-haired cat" and purchase dinner. I spent $34.70 on a food trough of couscous, some tiger balm, and an americano. FRUGAL!

MONDAY, 11:00
We could go no further. Laura fought through an impossible phone reservation with a Days Inn employee, and we ceased travel for the evening.

The first thing we noticed when we pulled into the hotel were youngsters--and not just youngsters, mind you. RUFFIANS! Limarita guzzling, cigarette smoking, hotel-parking-lot-loitering RUFFIANS!!!!!!! Laura and I were immediately miffed.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," a particularly friendly ruffian asked Lapars and I. "UH...Traveling," she replied. A good, vague answer if I ever heard one! We retired to our room which sported beds that would make a four-foot-tall child giggle, and watched a movie where Cher slaps Winona Ryder in the face. Then, BED TIME.

TUESDAY, 9:00

I can say with confidence that this was the earliest we had ever arisen at a race--at least, at the same time. I was propelled by my natural need for sustenance, and so leapt from my tiny, tiny bed and sponge-lump pillow with hunger. Vanessa and laura followed, in time! We departed for the twin cities, but only after a visit to Starbucks. Necessities, you see.

TUESDAY, 9:30-2:00

More inane driving commentary. I would spare you this, but it is such an essential part of the lifestyle cycliste. Laura made us stop no fewer than twenty-six times, and I piloted the mini-van with all the precision of a surgeon. Well, a plastic surgeon.

TUESDAY, later.

We visited a local bike shop in St. Paul, Omnium Cycles, and they hooked Laura up with a cassette change and some bottles. From there, we promptly took off for the time trial course for a brief ride before my TEAM MANAGER MEETING at 6:30. Yes, you read that right. I, Lizard, am a team manager. I manage.

We did some light riding and Laura gave me some sprint pointers, as my current form rivals that of a dying ostrich. The ladies compared pacing strategies, and I listened intently while wishing I was racing! Though, I would be happy to manage if only I were given some sort of hat.

TUESDAY, 4:45
We completed our pre-ride and loaded the van. We discovered that driving across St. Paul was not unlike piloting a canoe around the port of New Orleans. My grandmother-ish driving was not enough to ensure our timely arrival, and so Laura took over.

We arrived at the Bloomington Holiday Inn fifteen til six. I burst through the double doors and shouted, "WHERE IS THE PACKET PICK UP!" The baffled front-desk ladies gave a timid gesture down the hallway, and I meandered off in search of my papery quest.

I found what I sought, directly down the hall and to the right, as the nice woman had directed me. Imagine! I sat down with all the style and grace I imagine a team manager should have, and said, "Yes, I would like to pick up for my athletes." I almost laughed at these words as they came out of my mouth, but refrained.

 The volunteers were lovely and helpful. I only had to run outside once to complete the process, but I imagine my cover as super-pro Team Manager stands. Or, I hope it does.

TUESDAY, 6:30
Directly following the packet pick-up was the "Manager's Meeting," an event to which I was of course invited as I am a stunningly organized and professional manager. I was delighted to discover that Paul, head honcho for Team Kenda was in attendance as well! We sat together and I took notes on the things that he took notes on; this was a good gauge for what was probably important and what was not. I jotted on a holiday inn sticky pad, and nodded furtively as the speakers went through their talking points.

TUEDAY, later.
We retired from the hotel to our arrangements. Laura and Vanessa would be staying with John and Melanie, who made us a delicious pasta dinner and fed me far too many chocolate dipped bananas. I would be down the street with Lynette and Michael, who are also probably two of the greatest people I have ever met. I bade Laura and Vanessa adieu and spent the evening chillin' with my hosts. This included learning that they have in fact seen my blog (proof that someone reads it besides me), watching Chelsea Lately, and an epic quest to discover the WiFi password so that I could post this.

THE ADVENTURES!!! they are endless. TOMORROW, Vanessa and Laura will tackle two stages--a 7.7 mile riverfront time trial, and a criterium later in the evening. Send them fast vibes and thoughts! Meanwhile, I will document their every move for your enjoyment!


Until tomorrow,

DA LIZARD

LIZARD TAKES TULSA: The lizard seals the deal.

So, friends, I am back. When I left you, it was the morning of my twenty-second birthday. I had just discovered my potential as a spinster/lightly employed road cyclist. The future was bright and terrifying.


So, I think i left you saturday morning. HERE WE GO AGAIN.

SATURDAY, 10:00

It was my birthday, as you know. I was practicing my spinster habits, as I would never be much a cat lady because 1) I am allergic and 2) I am more of a dog person. We all have our struggles. I left my hotel room with much suffering due to the previous evening of crashing and horror, and made my way to the other Tulsan Holiday Inn. Because, you know, one isn't enough.

Amy and Laura presented me with a birthday beet juice (IS THERE ANY BETTER GIFT?!) and we went for a pre-race spin. I felt like death, what with the spinal injury, but all in all things seemed all right!

SATURDAY, later.

We hung around, and Amy and Laura decided that they needed naps. I retired to the casa de Crescenzo, aka Lauren, Team Kenda member and collegiate cycling homie of the lizard. This poorly written sentence means that I forwent Laura's advice to go back to the Holiday Inn express and take a nap, and instead rode to Lauren's to crash the Team Kenda team meeting and put my feet into a swimming pool. When in Tulsa, you know. We lounged, and I tried not to hear too many of the Kenda team tactics so as not to give myself an unfair advantage.

SATURDAY, 4:00
Lauren and I prepared for battle. Kits, helmets, funny socks, and boa fasteners. Check, check, check and check.

SATURDAY, 5:00
Lauren and I set out for the course. Warm up, and advice from lauren's super pro coach were achieved. WE WERE READY.

SUNDAY, 6:00
The race began! Lauren and I found ourselves next to one another, in a sort of okay starting spot. The course itself was an "L" in shape, with a gradual hill and a 90 degree turn at the bottom of said hill. The peloton did its typical game of weaving haphazardly in and out of turns, gunning out of every corner, and so on. But for a time, this did not destroy the lizard. No! I gained spots on the hill, occasionally perhaps in a less-than-orthodox manner of riding (read: I am sketch ball). But I was near the big guns. I tried to stay on the wheel of colavita, the godly Jackie Crowell, or any Fearless Femme riders. I did my best. About halfway through the race, I turned and realized that my middle-ish position was no longer in the middle, and that all those behind me had conceded defeat. The carnage was immense, almost thirty were out.
But still, I had hope! I saw vanessa and laura just in front of me, and the remaining riders were strong crushers. Perhaps it would smooth out? Simmer down?
But this was not to be. Monster crusher Allison powers made her way to the front and threw the hammer down, and the speed ratcheted up to 29+ mph as fearless femme began to chase to set up the win for Theresa Cliff-ryan. The lizard was slung this was and that, and eventually, the wheel I was on popped off and I was left with another gap I could not close.
I finished in 49th place.

SATURDAY, 8:00?
We did our post race finagling, and then set out for dinner with the lovely and fabulous Plotkins (Brenda and Teri)! I drank probably too much beer, and was regaled with cake (!!!), a shirt, and a darling hair bow from anthropologie! I could not believe they bought me presents. These are truly the best people perhaps ever.

SATURDAY, 11:00
Amy, Laura, Teri, and Brenda retired. I, the Lizard, was sleepless, and took to the streets of Tulsa on my bicycle. Where would I go? surely not back to the holiday inn? I rode instead to Lauren's host house, closer than my hotel, to watch 11 minutes of an arrested development episode and then fall asleep on myself.

SUNDAY
We awoke at the crack of 11:00 am and realized with much dread, "Oh god! We race in three hours!" I discovered that Laura had textually invited me to second breakfast and I set out for the Holiday inn, posthaste. However, upon arrival, I discovered that breakfast had ended and that it was too late to really eat alot anyway. So, they provided me with a cliff bar and assured me that this would be sufficient.

SUNDAY, 1:00
I departed alone for the course, riding aimlessly along the bike path searching for the race. Where was it?! It took me a good half-hour to even find the darn thing! I suppose this is good, as it forced me to have a luxurious warm up.

SUNDAY, 2:15 PM
Again we were set to depart. ALL ABOARD THE PAIN TRAIN. POPULATION, ALL OF US. We are at least together in that.
My starting position was horrible, per usual, but I was confident that I could move up an get around many of the riders early if I hit my clip-in correctly. This is a large "if," so my plan B was to merely accept as many Beer Feeds as possible up Crybaby hill and forget that I had ever attempted this race.

But the if was to be! I started quite well, hitting the hill with confidence and panache. The thing I was to experience I was unprepared for, not in the riding sense, but in the sense of the crowd, the atmosphere. It was a wall of sound. It was a crushing crescendo of voices, beer, and water spray. It was glorious. I had never felt so invigorated. Pedal, yes! This was the only thing to do! Pedal down, pedal hard! I geared up and pushed harder. For that moment, I was in it.
But it unwound as quickly as it began. We hit the downhill and a shot rang out--a tubular rolled, and a girl sailed into the curb. She did not stir.

I was gapped, and I pushed hard to catch the group again. There was a long flat between me and the hill. This was the place to get them. Now or never.

And I did! I did catch them. I was quite pleased with myself, as I had never succeeded in this catching-back-on thing. I was on the hill and connected. BUT THEN, of all the accursed things, a girl directly in front of me dropped her chain. I cried out, "WAUGHHHHHHH," the exhalation of all of my frustrations and unhappiness. HOW COULD MY LUCK BE THIS TERRIBLE? Is it luck, or is it me, attracting this misery? Anyway, I slammed on my brakes and went around, but at this point the damage was done. There was a 10 meter gap and my legs burned with shameful death.

The officials let me go through for several more laps, and there were a few instances in which it looked as if I may catch back on a second time--I was drilling the flat as best I could, but any time I made, I lost quickly on the climb and false flat. I resigned myself eventually to my fate. A Crybaby reveler held out a PBR, I grabbed it and dumped it down my throat. This was my race. I was awarded 45th place, out of 76 riders.

SUNDAY, 7:00
We, the rosebandit crew (Amy, Lizard, Vanessa, Laura, Brenda, Teri, and Laura) went for team dinner in honor of Laura's birthday. I drank several margaritas and gave Laura a card that I drew. At dinner, we decided that I would in fact NOT return home, and instead assume the role of servant for Laura and Vanessa at Nature Valley. They needed a Lizard, and a lizard appeared! How lucky for them! How lucky also that I am an irresponsible vagabond with a profound appreciation of cycling.

And so, I shall remain in the north for the remainder of the month. I will drive cars and hand bottles until the 20th, at which juncture I shall begin Tour of America's Dairyland and race my lizard heart out in pursuit of the young rider jersey.

I will be updating along the way! You all should remind/nag me to do this as well as I feel it is cathartic and probably a positive presence in my brain!

ON AND ON WE GO!!!!!!!!!!!

Love,

Lizard

LIZARD TAKES TULSA: A wounded lizard rides on!

Since I left you, dear readers much has happened. I became 22! I again catapulted through the air and collided with asphalt, happily accepted several free laps, and watched champions fall face first into the ground. I fill you in now:


SATURDAY, continued.

5:00: I took once again to the bike trail to reunite with teammates Amy and Laura post-napskies. It was time to register and consume a lot of red bull. We met up, kitted up, and rolled out. In the time between then and the starting whistle, I accomplished many things. Here is a brief list: 1) have a mechanic tell me that my pedal would in fact not kill me 2) pin numbers 3) squeal in giddy excitement 4) warm up. Warming up takes a long time so that makes the other things all the more impressive.

6:50: We watched the men's 3-4 race end with a yellow jersey-ed man snapping off the peloton at the last corner and taking a solo victory. I rolled up to the start line to find (to my surprise) A GAUDY THRONG OF LADIES. I mean, i was expecting fifty entrants at the most....but 75 started. It was going to be a shit fight. Pardon my language, but there are no synonyms for what was about to happen in the next hour. I was thrilled to see my Team Kenda Teammates, Beth, Lauren, Gwen, and Amity and the start line as well, because 1) they are cool awesome folks and 2) they are all good strong riders and I could follow them around the course without fear of death!

7:00: BADABING. The whistle sounded, as it always does, and we were moving. To my surprise, things were going well! The speed was up, but the course flowed smooth and fast, and the turns were wide open. The wind kept us moving quickly on most of the course, with only a small straight before the finish line really feeling gusty at all.

But suddenly, things were not going so well. We went through the start finish, ten minutes' time in our pockets. I must have been at least forty riders back and looked to move up through the second turn. I had taken the first turn wide, and not found myself pinned to the inside. Then--crash. In a split second I saw at least four riders down, tangled in bikes. My brain froze and I pulled hard on my brakes but it was too late, and I was going forward over the bars in a familiar arc. I smacked my head into the ground, cracking my helmet, and felt a shifter jam into my back. I leapt up and whirled around; Amy was there directly to my right.

"HURRY, LIZ." she said. I did not argue. She pedaled and I waddled, pushing my bicycle, over to the SRAM tent and we were quickly sent back into the race.
The riders droned by and we popped off after them. I connected about two turns later to the very back, feeling a tight pull through my back. I ignored this and tried to focus on pedaling. I WAS STELLA. I WOULD FIND MY GROOVE, DAMNIT.

And so, singing a little song, I followed the wheels and tried not to be last. The pack had thinned enormously, and I felt the danger of this. We crossed the line again at about thirty minutes--and again, riders fell, ON THE STRAIGHT, for no reason I could discern. I jammed on the brakes, ready this time, and whipped my foot down. I stopped the bike and then heard someone behind me going, "WOOOOAH." It was a girl, on a bicycle. Imagine! I held out my hand, and kept her up. We looked down and saw monster crusher Kimberly Wells curled into a ball at our feet. I did not think much on this; I merely carried my bike over her and ran back to Sram. They were becoming familiar with me, and waved me over. I shifted back into the big ring and launched off again.

More and more riders sloughed off the back and I was picking through them. I saw Laura and Vanessa just in front of me, not more than three riders separating us on each side. I felt a gleam of confidence! IF THEY WERE SO CLOSE, I WAS DOING GOOD!! I dangled dangerously in the worst possible position, feeling unable to move through really anywhere, lazily sitting last and hoping this would somehow serve me differently than it had in every race OF MY LIFE. Of course, it did not. A Primal rider took a turn hot and slid to the ground, maybe six riders ahead of me, and the rubberband snapped. There was a gap of maybe ten-to-twenty meters before me, and my legs burned. I gripped my bars hard and pedaled, but there was not enough juice in them. I looked at the clock as I went through: Forty minutes, thirty eight seconds. I had made it that far only to fail!

I rolled off the course to find Lauren and Beth, and we reveled one another with tales of our race-time miseries. I was interviewed for some sort of documentary, and then we rolled off to cool down a bit. I found Amy, and then we returned to the hotel to find Laura. Then, we all went downstairs to find food. Amy's delightful mother, Brenda, bought us dinner and then we went to ice bath. By now, i was finding it difficult to walk or rotate in any way, and so the cold was quite amenable to me.

11:00: I set off back to the Holiday inn express. I discovered that the bike path ran directly next to some sort of correctional facility and I pedaled faster in spite of the searing in my back. I got to my bed, watched some Arrested Development, and tried to sleep.

SATURDAY

9:00: I AWOKE, with pain and joy, to find myself an old spinster. 22! We race again at 6:00 pm. MORE LATER, MY READING ENTOURAGE.

Until then,

Crippled lizard

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?