My Life On A Bike

I woke up Tuesday morning with butterflies in my stomach.   Today was the day, my first try at the West Oak Crit for the season.  The routine is well worn and I know it all too well.   Ever since my departure from the world of  hammers, it has been the same ole song and dance.  Show up for the “prologue” riding in a circle while listening to the chatter of roadies giving detailed accounts of their latest race shredfest.   The gun goes off at 6:30 and thus begins a short lived effort to survive as many laps with the pack of 8 million riders while trying to avoid crashing.

After what  feels like surely 20 minutes, a glance at the clock reveals it has only been 5 and already I am struggling to hold on to the back.  The cycle is repeated over and over with my strength and resolve growing weaker each lap.  After 10-14 minutes,  my body revolts and refuses to participate any longer in this cruel and unusual form of punishment.  Dropping my head in utter fatigue and defeat, I sit up and watch as the back of the pack slips out of my grasp.  Game over.

Yes, that explains the butterflies.  So why do I suffer through this humiliation year after year?  Good question.  Deserves a valid answer.  I look at it as a type of shock therapy for the system, like burning the carbon off the pistons.  It is not possible for me to produce a workout of that intensity on my own, it’s 6 miles from my house, and I’ve been doing it for over 15 years.  It’s a habit.  I habit I fear, dread, and desperately need.

All day that sickly nervous feeling kept welling up within me.  I told myself to calm down, “it’s not a race you silly girl.” You’d think after all these years I would not get nervous about things like this.  Yea, you’d think, wouldn’t you?  As if it anyone in the world would notice that I rode or how I rode!  Honestly, I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head.  No one is paying attention to anyone but themselves and they sure aren’t checking the roster to see if I’m there.   I’ve never figured out how my body knows to get all nervous about a ride.  It’s official.  I am a bonafide nut case.  A nut case that’s heading to the crit on Tuesday night.

Then it came to me!  I knew just what was needed to calm my nerves.  The KIT!  I’d wear my Swiss cycling kit!  After a brief stint as a Euro Pro in 2008,  the power of the cycling kit was still fresh in my memory.   My mantra is always, “it’s not how good you ride, but how good you look.”  I’d wow them all with my Euro cool looks and nothing else would matter!

In our early years of riding, there were slightly different rules in the peleton.  For starters, the Atlanta cycling scene was a thousand times smaller and there was only one official ride to attend per night.   Only a chosen few riders were dressed in a fancy racing jersey.  They weren’t called kits back then, just “jersey”.  Shorts were a solid color, mostly black.  The rest of us were relagated to simple plain colored jerseys or tshirts.  Tshirts from the recent century or festival were the shirt of choice, and only the fastest of racers wore a “jersey”.  It was  a status symbol, like a pecking order, totem pole ranking for the commoners to be reminded of their position in the pack.  We would dream of the day that we’d be worthy to wear a coveted jersey.

I had a friend, Mike, who was a very strong rider and always did the crit faithfully.  He only wore a tshirt and refused to wear a jersey until he deemed himself “fast” enough to give it justice.  It always confused me because in my eyes he was terribly fast and strong and yet he never felt worthy.  Whenever he did show up on a ride with a jersey, that meant all bets were off, Game ON!

As time moved on, the cycling community grew bringing change and new ideas.  Eventually it became acceptable for the little people to wear team jerseys or ride for a club without being a racer.  Yet still the idea of “kits” was reserved for the Pros.

A few years ago as Roger and I were talking after an evening’s ride at the crit, he pointed out to me, “you notice how everyone wears kits now?“  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  We were the only ones wearing solid plain black shorts.  Gasp! It was true, a new change of guard had taken place and we had slept through the whole thing.   How long had we been sticking out like sore thumbs announcing to the peleton our lack of “sponsorship”?  I had become one of those old has beens, stuck in my ways, at which everyone snickers behind my back at my geekiness.   <sigh>  Oh well, there was nothing I could do about it.

HA!  Now there was something I could do about it, finally!  My chance had come and I could hardly wait to get home to piece together my ensemble.  Rushing in the door not wasting any time, I bolted to my closet.  Matching blue n’ white bib and jersey kit…good.  But I’d need more to complete the look.  Ooooo, blue socks, cool, that’ll fool ‘em.  Oh crap, my black Specialized shoes would not fit the bill.   What to do, what to do?  Ah Yes!  I remembered a pair of white Shimano shoes somewhere.  Where are they?   Here they are!  Cool, they have blue accents.  This was awesome.

No time to go out and buy a new helmet or gloves.  Black would have to do.  That didn’t matter anyway.  I was so Euro cool right now that I would have stopped traffic.  Feeling stronger, lighter, and leaner than I did 5 minutes ago, I hopped on my bike and headed on my way.  The force was with me.

Weaving through the neighborhood streets, I worked my way over to Kennesaw Mountain feeling rather smug and sassy.  My legs felt pretty good as I turned onto a busy street.  Collective gasps from the passing traffic could be heard.  “Wow, look at that Euro Pro go!  I wonder who that is?  I bet she’s heading to the West Oak Crit!” I could hear the conversations in their heads.

As I turned onto the mountain road, my spirits sank slightly.  Greeted with the brightly colored kits of my riding companions, 4 of the strongest roadies around, I did a quick reassessment.  “What do you think you’re doing, you numskull?  You’re going to be eaten alive!” Then I remembered.  I too had on a brightly colored kit.  And mine was a Euro Kit.  Bet nobody else had a Euro kit!   Ha!  I joined Greg, Cam, Barry and  Alexis for some hill repeats up the mountain.  That’s what all the Pros do as a warmup before a crit.  Prologue schmologue.  We do the hard stuff first.  My head was starting to get a little tight in my helmet.

Saying goodbye to Cam, the 4 of us began our trek over to West Oak.  Barry paced us over while I sat in wondering if I had shot my legs already at the mountain.  Too late now, I was committed.  The start of the crit was still a little early this time of year, so we would get there fashionably late.  That’s the Euro cool way to do it.  We’d let all the Nervous Nellies get things out of their system in the first 10 minutes and then arrive once the pack had settled down.  Heck, I was with Greg.  He’s like the most uber cool cyclist around.   And Barry and Alexis, 2 very accomplished crit racers that only have to ride once a month and can still attack off the front.  I might as well been arriving in a limousine.

Right as we rolled up to Vultures Corner (that’s where dropped riders strategically jump back into the pack whizzing by at 30 mph), we could see the pack cresting the hill.  Our timing was impeccable and I had no time to fret over my doom.  Throwing it into the big ring and down in the back, I got into position on the outside.  “Here goes nothing”,  I thought as I dove  in the deep end of the pool.

Talk about a shock to the system!  Going from a standstill to warp speed in 3 nano seconds is enough to wake the dead.  The whir of 80 drivetrains turning over at a cadence of 110 and up is mesmerizing and helps to drown out the ugly voices in your head.  I told myself, “Just remember, you’re blending right in with the Euro kit.  Time to focus on riding like a Euro Pro.” Alexis is a seasoned criterium racer and known for her sprinting prowess.  I locked  my radar in on her and tried to stay glued to her wheel.  Easier said than done.  79 other cyclists were jockeying for the same position and would not hesitate to take an inch if I let them.  That’s the nature of the game.

I used to know this course like the back of my hand.  However, through the years, the road has become worn with more holes and grooves than you can count.  Without doing the crit on a regular basis, my memory had become foggy and I could not remember where they all were.  Coming into the first turn I did recall a big ole hole somewhere on the outside.  I was on the outside, but all the cyclists bunched up around me were obstructing my view.  Panic set in.   Where is that darn hole?!!!  It took me a few laps to memorize its location in my peripheral  and then program my system exactly where to set up for the turn.

A good crit rider always chooses a position with the least amount of drag, which is usually on the inside.  I am terrified of the inside.  Taking a turn on the inside with 80 other riders is not one of my strong points.  Knowing I have to work harder riding on the outside, I do it anyway.  The thought of causing a crash and taking out the pack is not a pleasant one.  I didn’t want to be that bozo.

For the past 6 years my valiant efforts have always been the same.  Starting out mid pack, I end up drifting back losing ground rider by rider until I find myself on the back.  Coming out of every turn, I have to sprint to hang on to the pack.  As we speed up the hill section of the course, my breathing becomes so labored that I am on the verge of exploding and I can barely hang on the downhill as I try to recover.   When you ride like that, it does not take long before you explode.

So what would be any different with tonight’s attempt?  I was wearing The Kit, of course!  From the top of my pony tail cinched with a blue band to the bottom of my white and blue shoes, I blended in perfectly with the peleton.  I was not in the back, as far as I could tell.  Three laps had gone by and I was still in the same position without any feelings of sudden death or explosions.  I did not feel completely at ease, but I felt better than I remembered from past years.

Keeping my eyes locked on Alexis, I did my best to hold my position keeping it smooth and steady.  The turns are my biggest challenge and I let a gap open.  In split time another kit of which I was not familiar was in front of me.  Again, panic, Where’s Alexis?  I need Alexis!  I’m falling back!  Don’t do this.  Hold your position.  Fight for it!

Settling down, I focused on the dynamics ahead.  Then poof, all of a sudden, a small group attacked on the climb forming a sizeable gap.  I was perfectly positioned 3 back from the front of our group on the outside and instantly knew to react.  You can’t wait for the others to respond.   You have to make your own decision and go with it.  I jumped it with a few others and the gauntlet was thrown down.   On a hill no less.

The chase was intense and we made the turn nose to wheel.  The pack was now strung out in a line,  never a good sign.  A line of riders means a very fast pace and there’s no where to hide but behind the  wheel in front of you.  That is, IF you can hang on to that wheel.  As we got to the straight and I realized we were still in a line, only one thought went through my head, “this is going to hurt.” Taking a quick glance  at my computer I tried not to faint….35 mph.  Yup, this was going to hurt.  That’s alright.  You can do this.  Give her all she’s got, Scotty.

I obviously survived.  I can’t remember any dirty play by play details (who cares) , but the next thing I recall is riding in the pack and hearing Alexis come up next to me and say,  “Good work.” I smiled on the inside.  That was like having the teacher hand you back your homework all marked up with red smiley faces and a big A+++.    The Power of the Kit was in full force.

My biggest challenge with crits is finding focus.  It is a totally different focus from a mtn bike race.  Throw me in the middle of a  mtn bike race and I’m at peace, feelin’ at home, and in my comfort zone.  Even on a group road ride I am able to focus quickly.  Perhaps it is riding an inch away  from other cyclists on all 4 sides that challenges my brain and natural instincts.  The “override” button is constantly in use with conflicting signals bombarding my mind.

I tried to find a linear focus zone and not waver. Look ahead, stay relaxed, pay attention to what’s going on ahead, relax, relax.  Ah!  He’s coming over on me! I wanted to veer away.  Going against every grain of my natural being, I held my course and closed the 8 inch gap of the wheel in front of me.  You have to mark your territory and be spot on, otherwise, it’s up for grabs to the quickest bidder.  Stop looking at the grooves in the pavement. I was terrified of falling into a hole disappearing into the abyss while 79 cyclists rode over me like a pebble in the road.

In a sea of strangers, I could have been riding next to Greg Lemond and not known any differently.  The new season meant new kits, and not being on the race scene put me all the more in the dark on who was what.  There was rarely any talking to be heard above the high pitch buzz of wheels cutting through the air.  Someone asked his neighbor, “Is that Isaac?”  I knew that name, but couldn’t see up ahead.  Isaac must have made a jump and his buddies were impressed with his aggressive move.  No one yelled at anyone.  There was no need to do so, because everyone was riding so smoothly.  Maybe it was different up here in the front half of the pack.  Perhaps they always ride this steady up front and I had played the fool all these years for riding in the back with  the drunkards and darting squirrels.

Alexis had taught me a trick years ago of giving one last turn of the crank when entering a turn.  I was using that manuver to keep my momentum and lessen the gap I was so prone to create.   Getting more adept at the turns, I was still making small bobbles and fully expecting a tongue lashing from whoever was behind me.  As bad as I felt my riding was, I never heard a curse or huffy grunt directed at me.  My Kit must have had a cloaking device preventing anyone from seeing my imperfections.

A familiar voice beside me said, “Hey Laurie, nice to see you mixing things up.” It was my friend, Trinidad Dave.  He was used to seeing me struggling off the back, so I imagine he was as surprised as I was.   No words would have sounded sweeter to me than those did right then.  I raised my chest a little higher and continued to wear my Kit with pride.

I was slighty annoyed with my rear derailleur.  You don’t need many gears in this crit, basically only the last 3 or 2 cogs, but even those were not transistioning smoothly.  Normally I have an 11×23 which I prefer for a crit because I like short tight gaps.  Then I remembered, Roger had switched it out to a 12×25 for our Switzerland trip and not changed it back.  I was really wishing for that 11 tooth ring, but it was not there.

Without my consent, the cotton fairy had lined my mouth with parchment paper and all I could think of was a cold glass of water.  I needed a swig from my bottle, but how could I retrieve it!  Not able to stand it any longer, I reached down to get it and almost knocked it out of my hand as I brought it to my mouth.  Cursing under my breath, I put it back and vowed never to get it again tonight.  The horror of dropping my bottle in this pack was too much.  How could I have done something so stupid!?!   Berating myself made it harder to regain my focus.  I almost disgraced the honor of The Kit.  Focus.  You cannot afford a slip up like that again.

One of my personal rules in the crit is to resist looking at the clock as long as possible.  When you do break down and consult the stats, you are always sorely disappointed.  Curiousity got the best of me and I finally had to look.  14 minutes.  Hey, that’s better than 5!  I was okay with that.  I wasn’t struggling to hold on for dear life.   Still in a comfortable place in the pack, my legs, lungs, and heart felt like they had plenty more to give.  Hmmm, this Kit thing was working and it was pretty powerful!  My head got a little snugger in my helmet.

Alexis shouted from behind me, “I’m heading home.  Let me know if you need a ride.” I looked at the time, 25 minutes had passed.  “Okay,” I nodded my head and signaled with my hand to her.   Now on my own with my security blanket gone, my resolve gained new ground.  If I can “ease” through 25 minutes like this, then why not shoot for 30.  Thirty minutes passed and I thought, why not go for 35.

The pace picked up as we chased a break and once again we were stretched out in a line.  “Just one more lap, one more, hang on, don’t let this wheel go.” I dropped my head.  In a flash I realized what I just did.  You never drop your head.  That’s a sign of fatigue, defeat, surrender.  Never drop your head.  I collected my thoughts and got back on track.

By now the light was waning.  Forty minutes had passed.  Did I want to shoot for 45?  The mind games were getting more attention than my riding and I didn’t want to gamble with riding home at dusk alone.  41 minutes on the clock and I made my decision.  I was going home.  When you ride under the power of The Kit, you are in control of your ride.  The ride is not in control of you.  I knew I wasn’t fading and had the power to stay for what was probably 7 more laps since we were just a few minutes away from “5 to go”.

Truth is, I was so stoked over my performance that I was ready for some alone time to savor the moment.  I had no means to justify my immense pride;  I had not gone off the front, had not led a break, or even done the full hour plus 5.   Yet there were enough endorphins running through my veins to last me a lifetime.  I was stoked.

It did not matter than only 4 or 5 people knew I was there.   What anyone thought was completely irrelevant to me.  All that mattered was I had conquered some big demons that had been hiding in my closet for a long long time.  I had donned the all powerful Kit and broken through the impenetrable barrier.

Just as Superman does his deed and quietly slips out of uniform to take his place in society, I rode home in solitude while basking in the glow of a bright orange sunset.  Everything draws strength from a higher source of power, and for one beautiful spring afternoon, mine was in the Power of The Kit.