A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: Cannon falls? More like...can you not falls ALL OVER THE PLACE

AUGH. MORE I WRITE. And all for you people!! I am excited anyone even reads this, really. I should not complain.

So anyway. Here we go:

THURSDAY, wee morning hours

I had planned to wake up early, because--as team manager--I decided that we should get on the road off toward Cannon Falls at promptly 1:15. Why this arbitrary time? Well, everyone knows that the quarter hours are used only by the suave and professional. Hence, 1:15.

My alarm went off at 7:30, which had sounded reasonable the night before, but in the grim light of day I knew that there was no way I was getting up. I slept two more hours.

THURSDAY, later.

I finally dragged myself from my luxurious lizard nest and into the kitchen. "Coffee," I said, to no one, as Lynette and Michael are real people with jobs, "I need coffee." I taught/reminded myself quickly to use a french press, partly via the magic of youtube. The result was a glorious punch in the mouth.

I waited a few minutes for the caffeine to start my heart beating again, and then donned stretchy pink lycra for some quick morning suffering.

THURSDAY, 12:30

Ride over. I showered and got everything I could possibly think of that one might need in a road race--extra guus, extra bottles. I generally just brought anything I had duplicates of, just in case there might be some foreign need for it. Toothpaste? Check. Drawstring bag? Check. CHECK. ALL THE CHECKS.

I rode over to Laura and Vanessa's accommodations and we discussed the order I was to hand them bottles in. Water, for example, was to be given first, unless there was some sort of split-second communication in which I would be told to give NOT water, and hand something else instead.. Or something like that.

It was a harrowing experience, and I was filled with anxiety about these handoffs. They happen so fast! I, a humble lizard, am the only barrier between the rosebandit warriors and an unquenchable thirst! I don't care who you are, that is some responsibility. I was atlas, with a thirsty globe upon my back. THIRST.

I went to the store for ice, water, and a coke to feed Vanessa after she had suffered sufficiently in the race; once I had accomplished these things, we were ready to depart.

THURSDAY, 1:30

I drove the ladies, thanks to siri, to Cannon Falls, all the while driving like an idiot because I was thinking so intently about how I would accomplish bottle handoffs to two riders with only myself and my lizard wiles to aid me. I think I got the adrenaline flowing, maybe.

THURSDAY, 2:30

We arrived at team parking and set about readying the ladies for war!!! WAR!!!! All that pre-race nonsense, you know. We agreed on a firm bottle-giving schedule, and this gave me some degree of solace and comfort in that I would not ruin the race for them by accident.

Once I was certain VDrigo and Lapars were prepared, I returned to our valiant Dodge Caravan and sallied forth to feed zone one. Once there, I commenced the waiting. The waiting. And the waiting. Feed zoning, it seems, is like millwork. It is an awful boring job. MUSICAL THEATRE JOKE. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

So, I sat there, and played Ke$ha loudly and was stared at by the entire volunteer squadron--which seemed to be comprised solely of high school boys. They did handstands in the street, and offended a farmer on a 4-wheeler. When the farmer came over to my car to take a picture of the license plates of all of our cars, I tried to yell, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I'M NOT WITH THEM!" But he was unconcerned with this distinction.

After this excitement, the men came through. I was giddy with happiness, as this meant that the women would soon come through, and that meant that I would get to leave this vacant field in The Middle of Nowhere, Minnesota. Though, its piggy smell had begun to grow on me. Alas.

The group slinked up the incline toward the feedzone, a compact peloton against the winds (which were blustery, I must say). I handed Laura her bottle without issue, though some other girl tried to take it (!!!!); VDrigo opted for no fluids at this time.

I BEEZ IN THE TRAP, BEEZ, BEEZ IN THE TRAP!

THURSDAY, Mile 30 (ha! I used something besides time! I DO WHAT I WANT)

Once the girls were beyond me, I jumped back into the car and gunned it after the caravan. Sitting very, very last, after a couple sharing a moped (WHY?), I felt almost part of the proceeding! How joyous for me. During my time "in" the caravan, I noticed a Kowalski/Collegiate all-star rider girl changing a flat and then jumping back after the peloton. I must mention her, as I wanted so much to motor pace her back up the the peloton! Isn't that the point of a team car?! Hers just abandoned her and sped back up to the group, leaving her! A poor lonesome college starlet! I am not sure if this is the rule, but I was forced to watch her doggedly chasing for several moments, facepalming, and screaming through my closed windows "HELP HERRRRRRR."

THURSDAY, Mile 72

I arrived at the second feedzone approximately one hour til the women's peloton was to arrive. With no possible way to know what in tarnation was happening, I was relegated to that lowest form of social media...the twitter.

NVGP's twitter campaign was helpful, but certainly not stellar in its coverage. Truly, to tweet that there is a crash and then not tell the gasping audience of your tweet who was injured!? THAT IS SO CRUEL, NATURE VALLEY.

I learned later that this crash did, as I feared, impact Parsons, who was forced to chase strenuously after the peloton. She told me that she was paced at 36 miles per hour to get back on, and I wondered how this was not harder than the actual race. Apparently, I am sophomoric and amateur.

The crash, though bad for Lapars, set Vdrigo up for a moment of success; she jumped after an attack and found herself in a three woman break. They established about a minute lead over the peloton, and gobbled up some Queen of the Hill points before being swallowed back up. I tweeted frantically about this, and would just like to mention how grateful I am to have the opportunity to tweet "SoSwissSoFast" and have a legitimate reason to do so. THANK YOU, VANESSA.

The pair came into the feedzone relatively close together, and both got their bottles without much issue. I AM LIZARD. I hand bottles like a champ.

THURSDAY, later.

I followed the colavita, optum, and tibco cars back out of the rural wilderness and into the "metropolis" of Cannon Falls. I discovered that these team cars drive exactly how they race bikes, and was filled with an unholy terror as I watched Colavita's van drafting the optum van, and then both vans divebomb the right turn onto CO road 19. This recklessness, it is a thing I must learn!

We made it back into town just as the racers were entering their finishing circuits--and HOLY MOTHER OF JESUS, I have never been so floored by speed. I mean, consider that these racers have just completed ninety miles of gnarly, hill-infested, pedal mashing. They have been in the sun for four hours, hands crunched around their drop bars, WAITING for something to happen. FOR FOUR HOURS. I am not kidding you when I say I have never seen these women go so fast. It was full-gas, criterium-style, on a course probably half of the remaining riders had not ridden before. Carnage ensued.

Optum hit the front hard and did not look back. A break of Tibco and Lululemon riders went and was drawn back, and then there were two laps remaining. I scoured the peloton for Laura and Vanessa, and willed them hang on with all of my lizard heart!! For the life of me, I do not know how they survived.

CAN YOU TELL...

But survive they did! The race ended and I have never seen them both filled with such happiness to be finished. I tended to my soigneur duties, and took them home for ice baths, and bed.

....that these are video screen captures...

....because they are.

A jersey update:

Jade wilcoxen, that godly woman, threw the hammer down for first place tonight and proved herself the strongest of the strongwomen. She keeps yellow. Tayler Wiles moves back into white. Brianna Walle keeps the jelly belly! Kimberly wells, blue, that crusher of souls; Flavia Oliveira wears red and Kat Hall, green.

Jade Wilcoxen wins by what appears to be 27,000,000 bikes lengths.

Tomorrow, the ladies are back for more, the Uptown crit is stage 4 and it is sure to be monstrous. Wish them all the luck! What do you need it for?! GIVE IT TO THEM!!!

More tomorrow,

your faithful, fangirling 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?