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
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
LIZARD TAKES TULSA, or The Trepidations of Lizard Travel
LOOK AT ME, ignoring this blog. For shame! I apologize. I don't know what that is worth, because I will probably ignore it again until Tour of America's Dairyland once this race is behind me. But, at least I am honest. That is something!
Thus far, I have an excellent feeling. Tulsa Tough! The event had reached my ears many times. The city...well, not so much. Here we go:
THURSDAY
3:00: I departed for the airport on Thursday afternoon after a nice spin with my mother, Charlotte, and Kevin. Charlotte wanted to go to Target to make me replace all of the sports bras I had stolen from her sequentially in recent months. What can I say? She doesn't do sports!!! I NEED THEM!! My mother said this is not an excuse, and that was that. Then, Kevin requested that we hit up the bank to see if they had a Rutherford B. Hayes presidential dollar to add to his collection. He is an interesting little man.
4:00: My mother and siblings deposited me at the airport and we exchanged our fond farewelleries. "Goodbye,"I said, "I shall come back with my bicycle, or on it." They did not get my 300 reference. The festivities began with the American Airlines clerk politely demanding that I pay $175.00 to check my bike on the plane. When I began to sob and scream, "WHY!!!! WHY!!!!" she explained that I had to pay to check a bag, and that I had to pay for the bicycle inside the bag. And so, $175.
"Please miss," I said, "I am poor." Somehow this worked, and they charged me only $150. (ONLY.)
4:30: I made it through security quickly, though I did receive an extremely "friendly" pat down from one of the TSA ladies. "Woah now," I told her, "If you want to touch my butt, you need to buy me dinner first!" She chuckled the pained laugh of a woman hearing the oldest joke on the earth and told me I could go.
6:00 Our flight should have been boarding at this point. Unfortunately, though, South Florida is a hellish pit of disaster, and weather had delayed our flight. I worked on my novel and drank copious amounts of water.
10:00: We landed in Tulsa, and each and every person aboard the plane suddenly became some sort of track star. Men, women, and children bounded off the late-arriving plane with springy determination, running, their suitcases pinging along behind, with a haphazard fury toward the tram to the next gate. I walked, lazily--lizards do not run.
12:00 AM: I arrived finally in Tulsa, feeling a need of slumbers quite profoundly. A nice italian man gave me a Taxi ride to my final destination, all the while blaring Pitbull's "Holiday Inn." Very appropriate, as that was my destination. We arrived, and I settled into my lizard lair with much satisfaction
FRIDAY
9:25: I awoke with a start, realizing the time. "BREAKFAST," I cried, flinging the sheets away. I ran, with all the enthusiasm of those air travelers and then some!
10:00: I assembled my bicycle, and noticed with much distress that my Look Keo Blade pedal was cracked. Upon further inspection, it seemed slightly....unsafe. I scuffed at the cracked piece with my thumb, and it fell off. Oops.
11:00: I departed the Holiday Inn to go meet up with Amy and Laura for a quick spin around town. A lovely bike path deposited me directly in downtown, and I found the drivers of Tulsa to be a friendly, forgiving folk. The day was improving! I arrived at their hotel (another Holiday inn, if you can believe it), and went to the elevator.
"That's a CUUUUTE bike suit!" a friendly hotel employee told me.
"Well, thanks," I replied.
Amy came to collect me from the downstairs area and we went to their room. Laura fixed all of the things I had put together incorrectly on my bike (read: under-torqued), and I met Amy's mom! Giggity!
We rode an hour, and in that hour, I managed to be run over by a pedestrian and fall onto the ground in a heap of pink. Bike paths, I say. They are not designed for bikes.
NOW: we race at 7:00, so currently, I am lounging like the exemplary professional that I am. More later!
Love, Lizard
Thus far, I have an excellent feeling. Tulsa Tough! The event had reached my ears many times. The city...well, not so much. Here we go:
THURSDAY
3:00: I departed for the airport on Thursday afternoon after a nice spin with my mother, Charlotte, and Kevin. Charlotte wanted to go to Target to make me replace all of the sports bras I had stolen from her sequentially in recent months. What can I say? She doesn't do sports!!! I NEED THEM!! My mother said this is not an excuse, and that was that. Then, Kevin requested that we hit up the bank to see if they had a Rutherford B. Hayes presidential dollar to add to his collection. He is an interesting little man.
4:00: My mother and siblings deposited me at the airport and we exchanged our fond farewelleries. "Goodbye,"I said, "I shall come back with my bicycle, or on it." They did not get my 300 reference. The festivities began with the American Airlines clerk politely demanding that I pay $175.00 to check my bike on the plane. When I began to sob and scream, "WHY!!!! WHY!!!!" she explained that I had to pay to check a bag, and that I had to pay for the bicycle inside the bag. And so, $175.
"Please miss," I said, "I am poor." Somehow this worked, and they charged me only $150. (ONLY.)
4:30: I made it through security quickly, though I did receive an extremely "friendly" pat down from one of the TSA ladies. "Woah now," I told her, "If you want to touch my butt, you need to buy me dinner first!" She chuckled the pained laugh of a woman hearing the oldest joke on the earth and told me I could go.
6:00 Our flight should have been boarding at this point. Unfortunately, though, South Florida is a hellish pit of disaster, and weather had delayed our flight. I worked on my novel and drank copious amounts of water.
10:00: We landed in Tulsa, and each and every person aboard the plane suddenly became some sort of track star. Men, women, and children bounded off the late-arriving plane with springy determination, running, their suitcases pinging along behind, with a haphazard fury toward the tram to the next gate. I walked, lazily--lizards do not run.
12:00 AM: I arrived finally in Tulsa, feeling a need of slumbers quite profoundly. A nice italian man gave me a Taxi ride to my final destination, all the while blaring Pitbull's "Holiday Inn." Very appropriate, as that was my destination. We arrived, and I settled into my lizard lair with much satisfaction
FRIDAY
9:25: I awoke with a start, realizing the time. "BREAKFAST," I cried, flinging the sheets away. I ran, with all the enthusiasm of those air travelers and then some!
10:00: I assembled my bicycle, and noticed with much distress that my Look Keo Blade pedal was cracked. Upon further inspection, it seemed slightly....unsafe. I scuffed at the cracked piece with my thumb, and it fell off. Oops.
11:00: I departed the Holiday Inn to go meet up with Amy and Laura for a quick spin around town. A lovely bike path deposited me directly in downtown, and I found the drivers of Tulsa to be a friendly, forgiving folk. The day was improving! I arrived at their hotel (another Holiday inn, if you can believe it), and went to the elevator.
"That's a CUUUUTE bike suit!" a friendly hotel employee told me.
"Well, thanks," I replied.
Amy came to collect me from the downstairs area and we went to their room. Laura fixed all of the things I had put together incorrectly on my bike (read: under-torqued), and I met Amy's mom! Giggity!
We rode an hour, and in that hour, I managed to be run over by a pedestrian and fall onto the ground in a heap of pink. Bike paths, I say. They are not designed for bikes.
NOW: we race at 7:00, so currently, I am lounging like the exemplary professional that I am. More later!
Love, Lizard
Sunday, May 26, 2013
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?
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?
Monday, May 13, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Speed Week....swirling lizard vortex!
There are certain things in life that are easy. It is easy, for example, to forget all the things you have ever done and think yourself a swaddling baby child. It is easy to slide backward in a criterium. It is easy to let your nose fill with water as your head bobs just above the surface.
There are easy things, and there are difficult things, and discerning the threshold at which one becomes the other is like finding the sliced end of the tape when it sticks to the roll, slick and gloss, thin.
How easy to write that I am trying my best! How easy to say that I began the week with a cold, that I am allergic to cats, that I stand at a counter forty hours a week. But these things don't matter. The easy things never matter. It is the impossible moment that defines what we are, and all too often cycling insists that I am soft, jiggly, like hospital tapioca. What is life but a boot at your throat always, and when cycling stops being a means of escape, is it just an extension of the life we have made so taxing?
What is important? What is really important? These races are like holding desperately to a rope. Your knuckles whiten and your brow furrows. You do not want to give up. But as your fingers peel, and you readjust for what is to come, you wonder: is it too late? Was it ever early enough? Why afterwards are we so sure we could have stuck when in fact we did not?
I'm not sure there is even really a way to explain what you feel as you start a race like these, knowing that most of the real "big guns" are not even present, that these other ladies' horsepower is sufficient to lay you flat and sad. Is there a way to tell what it is to be thick with rainwater, the road between your teeth, watching for manhole covers buried beneath miniature lakes?
All of this is probably superflous, and that is probably where my problems come from. There can be nothing but your foot on the pedal and your sweat in your eyes, I guess. I will try harder tomorrow!
There are easy things, and there are difficult things, and discerning the threshold at which one becomes the other is like finding the sliced end of the tape when it sticks to the roll, slick and gloss, thin.
How easy to write that I am trying my best! How easy to say that I began the week with a cold, that I am allergic to cats, that I stand at a counter forty hours a week. But these things don't matter. The easy things never matter. It is the impossible moment that defines what we are, and all too often cycling insists that I am soft, jiggly, like hospital tapioca. What is life but a boot at your throat always, and when cycling stops being a means of escape, is it just an extension of the life we have made so taxing?
What is important? What is really important? These races are like holding desperately to a rope. Your knuckles whiten and your brow furrows. You do not want to give up. But as your fingers peel, and you readjust for what is to come, you wonder: is it too late? Was it ever early enough? Why afterwards are we so sure we could have stuck when in fact we did not?
I'm not sure there is even really a way to explain what you feel as you start a race like these, knowing that most of the real "big guns" are not even present, that these other ladies' horsepower is sufficient to lay you flat and sad. Is there a way to tell what it is to be thick with rainwater, the road between your teeth, watching for manhole covers buried beneath miniature lakes?
All of this is probably superflous, and that is probably where my problems come from. There can be nothing but your foot on the pedal and your sweat in your eyes, I guess. I will try harder tomorrow!
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Sunny King and Cycling and Pain and the Philosophy of a Little Lizard
The
human spirit, on some level, relishes pain. Cycling thrives on this. It draws
this type of person—the sufferer. On some level, I think, we all create our own
pain and we create pain for others. It isn’t an intentional thing in all
respects but it is a human thing and it is a thing we revel in. We love it. We
just won’t admit it. Or, maybe we can’t.
When
a rider goes down, it is almost formulaic: there is that plasticky clack, the
metallic twang of spoke lattices popping. There are shouts and curses. But
above all, there is a feeling of blood and guts and flesh. You are suddenly
aware of your skin and the way it holds you together; you feel your bones
knitted beneath your muscle and maybe there is a bit of fear. Is that what this
sport is? Are we just looking for new ways to feel a thing? Are these just
little lampposts peppering the black outside our bedroom windows?
This
is what we do--this is what so many people do. But the more and more I do it,
the more I wonder why. It is not a question of love, of hate, of health or
performance; it is one of thrill. It is expectation, and the question of our own
ability to meet that expectation. It is the triumphant swoop that comes when we
dispel our own doubts.
I
don’t know. In that hour, are we all the best we are ever going to be? I am
just one character printed on the bottom of some page somewhere and all the
while there are books upon books upon books.
I
say all this mostly because the weekend gave me many prompts to weird thoughts
and you are the only ones I can tell, internet, and maybe you can understand.
Right?
Do you get it? There is never really any answer when you shout into the
internet, so maybe not.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Charlotte, Presbyterian, and my yet unending Adultolescence
I write today not from a place of utter despair, because that would be dumb. SO, I am not doing that. I am not in despair. But I will warn you, I will unabashedly talk of feelings in this post so don't say I didn't warn you CAUSE I DID.
Okay then.
Over the weekend, the lizard ventured to Charlotte, North Carolina for the renowned Presbyterian Hospital Criterium. Here are some things I heard about this race before I could even wrap my brain around the fact that I would be doing it:
"It is fast."
"It is really, really fast."
"IT IS THE FASTEST RACE EVAR OOOOOMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG."
Etc., Etc., in an unending variation of permutations. I heard these people. It wasn't that I didn't believe them. Maybe it is like that DailyGrace youtube video. THAT ONE! The word fast had essentially ceased to mean anything. What is fast? Fast fast fast fast fast. How many times can you type a word before your brain forgets what the characters mean?
But yeah. I will begin, as things should (or so I am told): with the beginning. At least, standardized testing and an english degree have led me to believe this. But, ya know. English degree.
So. The all powerful RB squadron (one lizard and one laura) were to depart Fort Lauderdale airport at 6am Friday morning. I worked Thursday, and upon completing my workerly duties, I retired to complete one last set of vo2 intervals. This took me until about eight. I got home and remembered that I possess the mechanical skills of a furry rodent, and set to the task of breaking down my bike for travel with much panache and wherewithal.
I swore. I shook my fist at the sky. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. I mean, really, it's not even that hard, right?! It's not!! I blame my sausage hands. Sausage fingers?!
So by the time that was done, it was almost ten. Rather than drive to Miami at a reasonable hour, as a sensible human might have done, I decided to simply "nap" from about 11-3. This, I thought, would be brilliant and limit my exposure to cats to those of the nap variety. Here is a point-by-point replay of my trip. YOU ARE WELCOME.
2:50 AM, FRIDAY.
I awoke from a dream about canoeing with a flaily gasp and promptly realized my error in judgement. The world was a saucy mishmash. The road was twisty and devious. Survival, I realized, was tantamount here; my driving was like that of a weird drunken uncle. I drank 3 large red bulls and blared needly dubstep songs, but even these measures could not keep me from driving basically on the rumble strips for 110 miles. BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO.
4:45 AM, FRIDAY.
I engaged in all the gobsmackingly fun activities airports have to offer: mean old people!!!!!! long lines!!!!!! TSA agents stealing treats!! WAITING OF EVERY POSSIBLE FASHION!!! In this six hour period, lp regaled me with much knowledge and I discovered that many of the pillars of my life are actually lies. LIES!!
11:00 AM, FRIDAY.
We arrived at Charlotte to find that it felt something like 5pm despite the fact (Siri said so) that it was earlier than noon. I was taken with the yawns. BUT, we were pleasantly surprised by our Charlotte-based teammate, Vanessa, and her boyfriend diego! Yes! We had thought that we would need to catch a mysterious green bus, but Vanessa and Diego rescued us with a Honda Odyssey (! ) What classy people! Truly. There was more talk of the race and the crushing that would occur there. I felt less and less like a participant in this sport and more like a baby bird abducted from its nest and thrown into a fishbowl.
12:40 PM, FRIDAY.
I ate a pita pit. It was pita-licious.
3:00 PM, FRIDAY.
Laura and I ventured out into the wilds of charlotte for some pre-race openers. When I say "we" and "pre-race openers," I actually mean that I followed laura stalkerishly through the streets of Charlotte and tried to keep her within seeing distance as she did some sprinting things. Fun fact: we have seen probably every industrial park in/near vicinity of the city of Charlotte. God, we are so pro. On our way back into town we happened upon a bikeshop (I think it was called Uptown Cycles, but these details escape me), and the nice people there gave us free water and made laura's bike shift better! Good samaritans! Y'ALL GOOD! Also, the girls from NOW Novartis from MS were present at said shop; I do not know this because I recognized them, as I was not wearing my glasses, but because 1) laura said it was them and 2) the lady captaining the register area of the shop told me so. So there.
We then hit up trader joes, where we were told that bikes are NOT allowed inside (that is racist!) and also a vitamin shoppe, where a new dad helped laura select the most economical beta alanine.
7:00 PM (maybe?) FRIDAY.
We agreed that we had accomplished much wandering; with this, I was pleased. Like in the bible. 'Let there be wandering,' and all that. We hungered, and set out to find sustenance. The end result: delightful enchiladas, and a nice waiter who brought me many water refills. I send that guy many internet thanks.
9:30 PM, FRIDAY.
By this point, it felt like I had been awake for my entire consecutive life. We discovered things that I forgot (pajamas! toothbrush! etc.) and laura marveled at my unwordliness. This was a theme of the day, actually; laura would discover a dumb thing that I do and then go "LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZ!!" This happened when I told her that I ride my tubulars at 140 psi, and when I told her that I thought sunscreen caused cancer. She face-palmed many times. The day ended with my face in a nice pillow.
8:30 AM, SATURDAY.
This was it. The day. THE BIG DAY. The day I presumed to be at least partially mine. We got up and went for a recovery ride. You know, for the muscles! Then, we headed to registration to meet up with Vanessa and collect our numbers and race bible. I saw Ashley T., from whom I abducted a timing chip (accidentally...) at Delray beach and she was quite forgiving. We also saw laura van gilder, who is super pro and awesome. She had just come from the airport, and had yet to assemble her crushin' machine. So....pro.
12:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The rest of the day was spent in convulsive torment. I found the start list on Facebook and out of the 73 names penned, about five had been in the Olympics and another ten were major badasses. The rest were just regular bad asses.
There was a lot of sighing, I remember. I thought I should try breathing a lot, but this did not help. I imagined the race in my mind; I played it and played it going well. I recalled feelings of suffering I have felt and I told myself that it is not necessarily a bad feeling. I felt a compulsive need to half-cry and half-throw up for much of the day.
I decided that not smothering these feelings would probably lead to an epic freakout, and so I set to compartmentalization. I watched Miranda Sings, and giggled. I felt better.
5:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The course opened for lady warm-up time, and so down we went to do just that. I was very pleased to be able to ride on the course before actually racing it, and as we wound around, I saw many faces I recognized--some friends, and some acquaintances, and some people that I think probably hate me...I asked people repeatedly whether they had done the race before or not; I received a variety of answers. Well. Not a variety. Just yes or no. YA DIG!!
I made a point of watching people I knew would do well (lp for one) take the corners. Though her wisdom regarding tubular pressure certainly had helped, I still felt a lack of confidence while doing this. How hard can it possibly be!? You just look somewhere and the bike goes there, right?! ISN'T THAT HOW IT WORKS.
It was surreal. I felt like I had never raced before in my life. I was like a little cycle baby swaddled in someone else's jersey and left out to dry. The throw-uppy feeling persisted and I rolled through the dumbbells of the course for the next forty minutes or so.
5:40 PM, SATURDAY.
With 20 minutes until the start, I decided it would be a good idea to line up. Maybe. Is it better to start closer to the front, or start a bit warmer? I cannot say.
Row by row, jerseys I recognized filled the street. Imagine just muscles, all over the place. Muscles, saturated with an overall feeling of taut anticipation masked with this weird bravado that seems to possess many cycle ladies. I will not lie; intimidation had begun before I even got to the line. "They are just ladies," is what I told lp; unfortunately, I sort of suck at taking my own advice. I started next to cari higgins for the love of god!! THE BICEPS!!! ALL THE BICEPS, OKAY?!??!??!? That is all.
5:55 PM, SATURDAY
The announcers fiddled with a microphone and 80 something ladies all wiggled around with their bicycles and helmet straps and water bottles. There were twenty-five call ups (some of whom didn't know they were getting called up, this was good fun watching them wheedle their way through the million ladies). This placed a substantial number of ladies in front of an already large number of ladies starting in front of me. When you are going 35 on a straightaway, moving up is difficult, and i had been told repeatedly that the back was not the place to attempt to race this, the fabled Presby crit.
I think I talked myself out of anything before I even tried. Which is weird, because as George Hincapie (what) blew the horn and the washed out whine of spokes flooded the air, my only thought was a question, and the question was a simultaneous "What?" and "why???" I had read that the things that demand the greatest performance from a human were pain, fear, and ambition. Why then, with the lizard filed narrow with fear and what I thought to be ambition, did I punk out so utterly?
The first fifteen seconds of the race were enough to finish any hope I had of completing it. I had been told to drill the first five laps, but truthfully, I think I was afraid. We wound through the first corner and screaming carbon spit a sour smell into the air, and it did not quite register. But now, I am sure: I was afraid, not so much of hurting myself, but moreso of hurting another person. And this earnest thing crippled me--the thinking. Too much thinking.
I slung through the third corner still on, probably in about fifty-fifth or sixtieth place; I pedaled and I set up the fourth turn. Then, suddenly, there was a gap. it looked to be only ten feet, I moved forward to close it--and it just never happened. One by one, a few of us who had been at the back honeycombed into a little group and we rotated for about a lap before being pulled. Nobody said anything.
I was filled with a familiar misery. Again, I had done this idiot thing. Again. What am I!? What is my life if not the bicycling!??!!? HUH!?
Honestly, I wallowed. I smacked my head against a wall. I aired my shame on facebook (and then decided it was lame and retracted it.) I watched the pro 1-2 men's race as they blinked through the dark, and I felt taken with sense of regret. A sense of the hours I have spent, of the dollars sent to line registers somewhere in the retail ether. I thought of the stories people told about riders who are lame or un-good and I wondered--is that me? Is that what people think of me? I thought about going back to work tomorrow. I thought about facing all the people (real, or imagined) who consider me nothing. In summation, I had a lot of thoughts. THOUGHTS. IS ANYONE STILL READING AT THIS POINT. I have life confusion, basically. I cried with much sorrow.
The nature of this sport, I think, gives one rider glory and another this despair and that to me is very disheartening. Even in success, you achieve only comparative success. I write this and there are others who didn't even get listed on the results sheet--does my reaction to my performance demean theirs? I think it does, but that doesn't change the way I feel. And the more I talk to other, stronger, more accomplished riders, the more I find this feeling pervasive through the minds of these ladies. There is a cutthroat thing that lives inside us, and the thing hungers for the blood of others. I did not feed the thing this weekend--but, I wonder, will it grow hungrier? Or will it shrivel, and die?
I am certain now that this thing I am doing, whatever it is, is not enough. There are things boxed and unopened somewhere and I must seek them. This does not mean quitting; rather, a reinvigoration, a new angle, another outlook, another day.
Okay then.
Over the weekend, the lizard ventured to Charlotte, North Carolina for the renowned Presbyterian Hospital Criterium. Here are some things I heard about this race before I could even wrap my brain around the fact that I would be doing it:
"It is fast."
"It is really, really fast."
"IT IS THE FASTEST RACE EVAR OOOOOMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG."
Etc., Etc., in an unending variation of permutations. I heard these people. It wasn't that I didn't believe them. Maybe it is like that DailyGrace youtube video. THAT ONE! The word fast had essentially ceased to mean anything. What is fast? Fast fast fast fast fast. How many times can you type a word before your brain forgets what the characters mean?
But yeah. I will begin, as things should (or so I am told): with the beginning. At least, standardized testing and an english degree have led me to believe this. But, ya know. English degree.
So. The all powerful RB squadron (one lizard and one laura) were to depart Fort Lauderdale airport at 6am Friday morning. I worked Thursday, and upon completing my workerly duties, I retired to complete one last set of vo2 intervals. This took me until about eight. I got home and remembered that I possess the mechanical skills of a furry rodent, and set to the task of breaking down my bike for travel with much panache and wherewithal.
I swore. I shook my fist at the sky. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. I mean, really, it's not even that hard, right?! It's not!! I blame my sausage hands. Sausage fingers?!
So by the time that was done, it was almost ten. Rather than drive to Miami at a reasonable hour, as a sensible human might have done, I decided to simply "nap" from about 11-3. This, I thought, would be brilliant and limit my exposure to cats to those of the nap variety. Here is a point-by-point replay of my trip. YOU ARE WELCOME.
2:50 AM, FRIDAY.
I awoke from a dream about canoeing with a flaily gasp and promptly realized my error in judgement. The world was a saucy mishmash. The road was twisty and devious. Survival, I realized, was tantamount here; my driving was like that of a weird drunken uncle. I drank 3 large red bulls and blared needly dubstep songs, but even these measures could not keep me from driving basically on the rumble strips for 110 miles. BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO.
4:45 AM, FRIDAY.
I engaged in all the gobsmackingly fun activities airports have to offer: mean old people!!!!!! long lines!!!!!! TSA agents stealing treats!! WAITING OF EVERY POSSIBLE FASHION!!! In this six hour period, lp regaled me with much knowledge and I discovered that many of the pillars of my life are actually lies. LIES!!
11:00 AM, FRIDAY.
We arrived at Charlotte to find that it felt something like 5pm despite the fact (Siri said so) that it was earlier than noon. I was taken with the yawns. BUT, we were pleasantly surprised by our Charlotte-based teammate, Vanessa, and her boyfriend diego! Yes! We had thought that we would need to catch a mysterious green bus, but Vanessa and Diego rescued us with a Honda Odyssey (! ) What classy people! Truly. There was more talk of the race and the crushing that would occur there. I felt less and less like a participant in this sport and more like a baby bird abducted from its nest and thrown into a fishbowl.
12:40 PM, FRIDAY.
I ate a pita pit. It was pita-licious.
3:00 PM, FRIDAY.
Laura and I ventured out into the wilds of charlotte for some pre-race openers. When I say "we" and "pre-race openers," I actually mean that I followed laura stalkerishly through the streets of Charlotte and tried to keep her within seeing distance as she did some sprinting things. Fun fact: we have seen probably every industrial park in/near vicinity of the city of Charlotte. God, we are so pro. On our way back into town we happened upon a bikeshop (I think it was called Uptown Cycles, but these details escape me), and the nice people there gave us free water and made laura's bike shift better! Good samaritans! Y'ALL GOOD! Also, the girls from NOW Novartis from MS were present at said shop; I do not know this because I recognized them, as I was not wearing my glasses, but because 1) laura said it was them and 2) the lady captaining the register area of the shop told me so. So there.
We then hit up trader joes, where we were told that bikes are NOT allowed inside (that is racist!) and also a vitamin shoppe, where a new dad helped laura select the most economical beta alanine.
7:00 PM (maybe?) FRIDAY.
We agreed that we had accomplished much wandering; with this, I was pleased. Like in the bible. 'Let there be wandering,' and all that. We hungered, and set out to find sustenance. The end result: delightful enchiladas, and a nice waiter who brought me many water refills. I send that guy many internet thanks.
9:30 PM, FRIDAY.
By this point, it felt like I had been awake for my entire consecutive life. We discovered things that I forgot (pajamas! toothbrush! etc.) and laura marveled at my unwordliness. This was a theme of the day, actually; laura would discover a dumb thing that I do and then go "LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZ!!" This happened when I told her that I ride my tubulars at 140 psi, and when I told her that I thought sunscreen caused cancer. She face-palmed many times. The day ended with my face in a nice pillow.
8:30 AM, SATURDAY.
This was it. The day. THE BIG DAY. The day I presumed to be at least partially mine. We got up and went for a recovery ride. You know, for the muscles! Then, we headed to registration to meet up with Vanessa and collect our numbers and race bible. I saw Ashley T., from whom I abducted a timing chip (accidentally...) at Delray beach and she was quite forgiving. We also saw laura van gilder, who is super pro and awesome. She had just come from the airport, and had yet to assemble her crushin' machine. So....pro.
12:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The rest of the day was spent in convulsive torment. I found the start list on Facebook and out of the 73 names penned, about five had been in the Olympics and another ten were major badasses. The rest were just regular bad asses.
There was a lot of sighing, I remember. I thought I should try breathing a lot, but this did not help. I imagined the race in my mind; I played it and played it going well. I recalled feelings of suffering I have felt and I told myself that it is not necessarily a bad feeling. I felt a compulsive need to half-cry and half-throw up for much of the day.
I decided that not smothering these feelings would probably lead to an epic freakout, and so I set to compartmentalization. I watched Miranda Sings, and giggled. I felt better.
5:00 PM, SATURDAY.
The course opened for lady warm-up time, and so down we went to do just that. I was very pleased to be able to ride on the course before actually racing it, and as we wound around, I saw many faces I recognized--some friends, and some acquaintances, and some people that I think probably hate me...I asked people repeatedly whether they had done the race before or not; I received a variety of answers. Well. Not a variety. Just yes or no. YA DIG!!
I made a point of watching people I knew would do well (lp for one) take the corners. Though her wisdom regarding tubular pressure certainly had helped, I still felt a lack of confidence while doing this. How hard can it possibly be!? You just look somewhere and the bike goes there, right?! ISN'T THAT HOW IT WORKS.
It was surreal. I felt like I had never raced before in my life. I was like a little cycle baby swaddled in someone else's jersey and left out to dry. The throw-uppy feeling persisted and I rolled through the dumbbells of the course for the next forty minutes or so.
5:40 PM, SATURDAY.
With 20 minutes until the start, I decided it would be a good idea to line up. Maybe. Is it better to start closer to the front, or start a bit warmer? I cannot say.
Row by row, jerseys I recognized filled the street. Imagine just muscles, all over the place. Muscles, saturated with an overall feeling of taut anticipation masked with this weird bravado that seems to possess many cycle ladies. I will not lie; intimidation had begun before I even got to the line. "They are just ladies," is what I told lp; unfortunately, I sort of suck at taking my own advice. I started next to cari higgins for the love of god!! THE BICEPS!!! ALL THE BICEPS, OKAY?!??!??!? That is all.
5:55 PM, SATURDAY
The announcers fiddled with a microphone and 80 something ladies all wiggled around with their bicycles and helmet straps and water bottles. There were twenty-five call ups (some of whom didn't know they were getting called up, this was good fun watching them wheedle their way through the million ladies). This placed a substantial number of ladies in front of an already large number of ladies starting in front of me. When you are going 35 on a straightaway, moving up is difficult, and i had been told repeatedly that the back was not the place to attempt to race this, the fabled Presby crit.
I think I talked myself out of anything before I even tried. Which is weird, because as George Hincapie (what) blew the horn and the washed out whine of spokes flooded the air, my only thought was a question, and the question was a simultaneous "What?" and "why???" I had read that the things that demand the greatest performance from a human were pain, fear, and ambition. Why then, with the lizard filed narrow with fear and what I thought to be ambition, did I punk out so utterly?
The first fifteen seconds of the race were enough to finish any hope I had of completing it. I had been told to drill the first five laps, but truthfully, I think I was afraid. We wound through the first corner and screaming carbon spit a sour smell into the air, and it did not quite register. But now, I am sure: I was afraid, not so much of hurting myself, but moreso of hurting another person. And this earnest thing crippled me--the thinking. Too much thinking.
I slung through the third corner still on, probably in about fifty-fifth or sixtieth place; I pedaled and I set up the fourth turn. Then, suddenly, there was a gap. it looked to be only ten feet, I moved forward to close it--and it just never happened. One by one, a few of us who had been at the back honeycombed into a little group and we rotated for about a lap before being pulled. Nobody said anything.
I was filled with a familiar misery. Again, I had done this idiot thing. Again. What am I!? What is my life if not the bicycling!??!!? HUH!?
Honestly, I wallowed. I smacked my head against a wall. I aired my shame on facebook (and then decided it was lame and retracted it.) I watched the pro 1-2 men's race as they blinked through the dark, and I felt taken with sense of regret. A sense of the hours I have spent, of the dollars sent to line registers somewhere in the retail ether. I thought of the stories people told about riders who are lame or un-good and I wondered--is that me? Is that what people think of me? I thought about going back to work tomorrow. I thought about facing all the people (real, or imagined) who consider me nothing. In summation, I had a lot of thoughts. THOUGHTS. IS ANYONE STILL READING AT THIS POINT. I have life confusion, basically. I cried with much sorrow.
The nature of this sport, I think, gives one rider glory and another this despair and that to me is very disheartening. Even in success, you achieve only comparative success. I write this and there are others who didn't even get listed on the results sheet--does my reaction to my performance demean theirs? I think it does, but that doesn't change the way I feel. And the more I talk to other, stronger, more accomplished riders, the more I find this feeling pervasive through the minds of these ladies. There is a cutthroat thing that lives inside us, and the thing hungers for the blood of others. I did not feed the thing this weekend--but, I wonder, will it grow hungrier? Or will it shrivel, and die?
I am certain now that this thing I am doing, whatever it is, is not enough. There are things boxed and unopened somewhere and I must seek them. This does not mean quitting; rather, a reinvigoration, a new angle, another outlook, another day.
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