Inspired by the Conference Road Race

An Ode An Elegy A Curse Upon A Few Choice Words For A letter to the Crosswinds

Dear Crosswinds,

You suck.

Well, no, you don’t suck. You blow. And right now, you are blowing into my face as I am losing my protective shield (aka my opponent, who was giving me an awfully good draft) as they move to the back of the pack and I am left alone to face you head-on. Actually, “head-on” is not the appropriate term here. I will use the term “left-side-of-my –body-on”, because if you were coming directly at me, I would be feeling slow, but I would not be leaning into you, which, if I did not made this clear before, blows. I would also like to point out that I do not see how it is fair that everyone behind me gets to take it easy while I have to struggle for dear life against you, feeling the acidic burn building up in my calves and fearing that my quads may pop off at the next pedal stroke.  It simply is not fair, and you know it.

Oh. Now you are blowing almost perpendicular to me. Fantastic. The universe does not smile upon me today.        

Crosswinds, you are like a box of chocolates…No, I feel like that has been used somewhere before.  How about: you are like a bag of jellybeans.  99% of the time, the beans in the bag are, like the situation between you and me, horrendous. They do not work for my taste buds, much like you are not working for my poor legs right now. But, in that rare 1% case, there exists the delectable cherry jellybean which is analogous to when you, Crosswinds, turn into the sweet, sweet tailwind (we can argue about the validity of my bean choice later).  I am starving for that jellybean/tailwind right now, along with a delicate side of clear skies, as your friend Rain has decided to join us right now.

I see that you are upping your ante by blowing even harder as we proceed up this hill, you cruel heartless monster. Fine. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Here is what I propose: You will blow really really really really hard when my opponents are up front, letting me catch their drafts and sail along like a happy little toy boat. When I come up front, however, you let up and my calves and quads are saved from the sensation of pedaling though frozen molasses. Or, better yet, you position yourself where you give me and only me a tailwind, letting me break away gloriously from the pack while they all try desperately to catch up to my spectacular attack (the fools).  The only question is, what will it cost? My bank account? My computer? My car? My first unborn child? My soul? Name it, and you shall have it.

While my bank account is not much of an offering, my computer has photos of Beyoncé in Iphoto, therefore making it a priceless item. No one can pass up Beyoncé. Not even you, Crosswinds.

Sincerely,

A Whitman Cyclist

Bellingham Crit Race Report_Becca

I know this is a bit late, but I didn’t finish writing this last week due to the upcoming Walla Walla omnium (which was awesome, if you haven’t seen the pictures!).

Bellingham: Women’s A criterium

At the start line: My legs are sore. There is no other adjective that I can use that could describe my legs at that moment except for “sore.” After two weeks of climbing in the Bay Area and a 48 mile race the day before (my longest race ever, as I had just upgraded), my legs are feeling it. After our names have been called, the race director gives us an option: since the weather was less-than-optimal (it was bloody cold and wet), we have an option of shortening our crit from 45 to 30 minutes. The racers glance around at each other, wanting to say something but not wanting to be “that” person.

“I’d like to do a 45 minute race, personally.” The UBC girl says next to me.

“Me too.” I say. I’d like to use this opportunity to learn how it feels like to race in the A’s. Besides, I may be feeling my legs, but I figure I can still muster out a good 45 minutes. I could learn something or two in the meantime.

A few laps in: Dessie and MJ have already gone for a prime (prim? Preem? How do we spell this?) at this point. I struggled to stay on. As we rounded the second corner, our speed slows and I find myself behind someone who I really don't want to be behind. We're just pedaling gently at the moment, so I decide, "hey, if I'm going to pass her, why don't I make an attack? We haven't really done anything anyway." So, I surge around the girl and the rest of the pack, going (as Mackinzie had instructed) 100%. I look behind me and see that the entire peloton.... aren't going after me. What do I do?!? After 50 miles of racing yesterday, I'm pretty tired. However, Mackinzie's (or was it Alberto? It's hard to distinguish the two sometimes) voice pops in my head: "Attack like it's going to stick." Ok. So this suicide attempt was going to stick... right. I went to 90% and held it.  And held it. And held it…

A lap later: "15 seconds!" Someone calls out as I round a corner. Holy jeez, I am actually gaining time on the group. This was not a part of the plan. Wait, I realize, what was the plan?

13 laps to go: So, if no one has ever raced before, let me tell you: it is bloody hard to pace yourself without other people. I develop a simple plan involving my little computer on my handlebars: 19 mph in the windy section, 22 mph in the straight away, 24 mph in the tailwind section, and hopefully 22-23 mph in the other straight away. It was also around this time that I actually begin to look at the fated lap counter.

12 laps to go: I look at the lap counter and am beginning to regret that "45 minute race" decision I made earlier.

8 laps to go: Around this time, I begin to develop a case of multiple personality disorder:

This is insane! This is so awesome! Stinking peloton, catch me! No! Stay right where you are! I like being in front! What was I thinking? I am insane! I am a genius! I feel like a freaking rockstar!! I feel like I am being run over by a herd of monster trucks followed by a horde of runaway trains! Female power!! Sweet jeezuz, I am going to die anytime soon. Someone better have my obituary ready at the finish line.  I’ve never felt so alive!

7 laps to go: As I round the second corner, I see my teammates cheering me on outside of tent city. Alberto is down the course a little farther. “35 seconds, Becca!” He hollers at me.

“THIS IS @#%$^@#$ INSANE!” I yell out to him. I don’t hear his response.

6 laps to go: With every pedal stroke, I think to my self:

Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-turn-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-headwind-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-shoulder glance-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow (etc. etc.)  

4 laps to go: I have no legs. Everything from my waist down is gone as far as I can tell.

2 laps to go: I cross the start/finish line and I don't hear anyone shouting times. That's a little weird, but I have also lost the ability to care at this point.  Alberto (who apparently has the ability to appear anywhere around the course like a magician) yells at me, “Prepare for your victory lap!”

“Wait, WHAT?!?!” I yell back. I hear a calm voice in my head say “Victory is imminent.”  Woah. This is for real.

Finish: I see the end in front of me. Everyone is cheering. I have half a mind to sit up and punch the sky, hug myself, or do a victorious soccer-score knee slide (but on a bike), but I am just too dang tired. If I let go of the bars, this contraption beneath my butt will wobble out from underneath me and I will have a glorious finishing crash on my hands (now THAT would have been a photo). Instead, I manage a fist pump and a weak “yay.” Ten feet from the line, I decide to do something fancy and attempt a mini sprint across the white line.  

On the road: I open up my computer and begin typing up my Anthropology essays. I wrote three lines, and that’s apparently all I got to, because the next thing I know, I am groggily waking up an hour later. Rose has kindly taken my computer and my book from me and has let me slide into my seat in a deep nap. I guess I worked harder than I thought.