No One Puts Baby in a Corner

After a relaxing night spent watching Dirty Dancing and eating pizza inside our spacious Econo Lodge motel room outside Hampton Roads, VA, Nate and I piled into the truck at 6am and headed to Norfolk for Conte’s Cycling Classic.

Rainy and 50 degrees, I set out in hopes of another exciting race. With some early morning drama about parking and towing and the realization that our least favorite race announcer was on the scene, the day promised some excitement.

While Nate’s 30+ race was in progress, I warmed up and tried to keep warm from the winds and spray of the Elizabeth River. Superstitiously, 45 minutes before my race, I treated myself to a race brownie (see previous post, I want a New Drug).

My race was at 930a and it was a combined Womens 1/2/3/4 race, though they were scoring separately. As I warmed up on the course, I tried to figure out the best lines to manage the strong head winds, strategically placed at the start/finish and the cobbled S-turn. At the start, I lined up on the front, not realizing that the Lipton Tea gals (read: pros) were wedged in behind me. I figured it would be the only time I’d be in front of them, so I didn’t feel guilty.

Off the line, I held onto the pack decently as it wound around into the head wind and into a straight away. Again, my legs felt strong. The USCF officials announced at the start of the race that no one would be pulled, no matter how many times we were lapped. Everyone was in it for the total 60 minutes and we were able to work together, regardless of what lap we were on. This made for some interesting tatics and some confusion. I felt like Forrest Gump at times, finding myself in very amicable, but bizarre situations. All of a sudden, I'm pulling for the Cat 3 women or sucking the wheel of a pro. Everyone was so spread out that there was no way of telling if I was leading or behind (though I did know...it was fun to pretend like I wasn't behind). I think the lead group of Lipton gals lapped me 3 times, while the rest of the field and I just played along.

Though I finished 20 of 21 riders, I was very pleased with my power. I averaged 19 mph in a head wind, the day after a TT.

No body puts baby in a corner.

I Want a New Drug

We all remember the Huey Lewis & The News song, I want a new drug, (I know I do—I had a hugenormous crush on him when I was a child) and the video of him putting his face in a sink-full of ice. Had Huey just stuffed his face with a handful of gooey brownies instead, I think he would have found what he was looking for. I know I have.

I’ve never been one to overindulge in pre-race food. I’m not a gel, goo or protein shake kind of girl. If anything, I’m coffee and bagels. This past weekend I added brownies to that list. Not just any brownies---the most fudge-full, sugar-full and blissful brownies. Ever. Made exclusively for racing, by Nate, we had joked as he poured the batter into the baking pan that we’d doped our brownies with the likes of EPO and creatine. Come race day, I thought maybe we had.

Warming up on the trainer before the start of the Smithfield time trial on Saturday, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything and with about 45 minutes to go, I thought I should at least chew on something. I asked Nate for food and with surprise he handed me a large brownie square. As I pedaled, I felt the sugar absorbed into the enamel of my teeth and evidently, my bloodstream.

The night before, Nate had put a new front derailleur on Pony, in an effort to remedy my shifting issues. As I disengaged from my trainer and headed to the staging area approximately 13 minutes before my start time, I realized that I couldn’t shift into my big ring. I swung back around to the truck and with moments to spare, Nate fixed what he could. For a time trial, I didn’t suspect I’d do much shifting from middle to big ring or vice versa, so we placed the chain onto the big ring and I vowed not to shift down until afterwards. However, I was still left with a loud clicking noise, which made my presence painfully obvious to everyone.

I clicked to the line and I was off. I had a strong start and what I assumed to be adrenaline kicked in and never waned, except during mile four and seven of a 16 mile course. There were fierce cross winds the entire time which made everything much more painful as each turn approached. Crouched down in the aero bars, I fiercely pedaled. Unusual but pleasantly enough, no one passed me until mile five. I passed my minute (wo)man at mile two.

The last mile of course was a slight incline—painful after having spent the entire time fighting winds and gravelly pavement. As I sprinted to the line, my computer announced that I had been on the mark with what I had hoped to achieve. In all, I had been overtaken by 3 women and a guy, but managed to finish 11th out of 21 women with a time of 47:46.

After I finished racing, I noticed that my adrenaline high remained. I talked incessantly and very fast (many of you are wondering how this is different than usual). I’ve never been on speed or any other amphetamine, but I imagine that was how it would have felt. What was the source of such excitement and immediacy? You guessed it—brownies!

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that a sugary substance could create such a firestorm of energy and efficiency, but I am putting my money on the race brownies from now on. If results are drastic enough, I just might consider marketing them on the pro-circuit.

True Grit at the Tyson’s Corner Crit

Three races in four weekends, an almost perfect trifecta of road cycling: a time trial, a road race, and a criterium. After a week that left me restless, yet preoccupied with thoughts and deeds, I confess that I spent very little time on the bike.

When Sunday arrived, I was rested and taking the morning in stride. A little NPR, some last minute packing and I loaded up the trusty sag wagon. As I reached for the trainer to carry out to the car, it protested this very act and bit me. Not unusual for the trainer, which I can only imagine despises being carried from destination to destination, only to serve as warmer-up and cooler down, while the actual bike has all the fun. I pulled my finger back expecting a little nip. To my surprise, the trainer’s teeth had bitten off a crucial bit of skin necessary to fulfill the obligations of being a finger.

It wasn’t a lot of blood. Just enough to make me a little nauseous. A few band aids later, I piled back into the car, trainer, finger and all.

I arrived with much time to spare. I hydrated. I ate. I listened to Garrison Keillor. I registered, pinned my number, changed and started my warm up. It was warm and windy, an odd combination that proved the zipper on my warm up jacket a necessary function.

At the start line, I found myself a good place. We started masochistically on an uphill, which made my start less than stellar. I had a good position. I started in my middle ring to gain advantage of the hill. And though I thoroughly checked my front derailleur before the race, I was thrust into a state of panic as I was unable to shift up into my big ring. Puzzled and panicked is not a good combination at the start of a race. Thus, as a result, I saw the pack slip away before I could say “hey wait for me…”

I caught the back of the pack and stayed on for half a lap, cursing my derailleur which by then had finally shifted into the big ring and rode well for the remainder of the race. An Artemis woman and I decided to work together. But it was clear we had different uses for each other. As a conditioned endurance cyclist, I prefer pacelines consisting of long pulls, rather than quick, short blasts. The Artemis woman definitely was the alpha female and took control. I blindly followed, thinking at least that it would distract me for several laps. I never got to pull or to draft more than 30 seconds, which wouldn’t have been so bad had she not flew like a bat out of hell every time she pulled. I was useless to her, as I worked viciously to stay on her wheel only to have to work that much harder to get in front of her. It eventually back fired for both of us, because I couldn’t stay on any more and she lost an opportunity to have someone block for her. Anyway, there I was again, alone at the back of the pack.

Twenty minutes into it, I felt like quitting, which is exactly what many of the cyclists did. They got dropped and figured what’s the point. I never could understand this reasoning. It’s not like we’re on the pro circuit or anything. We’re category 4 women just trying to improve our skills. If I quit every time I got dropped, I’d have a negative ranking. However, I didn’t quit and started to devilishly conspire and almost begged others to quit, if only to move me up from being last by a lot, to last by a little. And anyway, I don’t really think I was last. There were women behind me, unless they quit, too.

To make a long story, short (too late, I know). I finished. I finished strong. With 20 minutes left, I got a second wind and climbed my way around and down the course as if I was in the lead (which is the cool part about being in the back, because there comes a certain point, when spectators must ask themselves, is she in the lead?).

After the race, I meandered down to the EMTs for them to inspect my prerace calamity. They were eager to help as there had been no crashes all day. When I saw them take the hydrogen peroxide out I cringed. I asked, "this is going to hurt alot, huh?" They stared back and asked, "how old are you?" as if to imply that pain is ageless. I told them I'd rather race again and then they poured it all over my skinless finger, wrapped a fresh band aid around it and sent me on my way.