My Name Is...

It's not what you think when you look at me lately.

It may begin with the same letter, but you have me confused.

I am not defined by that thing that you have rolling around in your head.

It is no big f*cking deal that I am riding a bike.

...or racing a bike.

...or walking upright.

I may lay in a fetal position for a while...

It may take a while for my body to stop twitching...

But I will get up...

The day I don't is the day you will light me on fire and put my ashes in an urn.

I'm just a girl with a bike who figured out that she likes to race.

It doesn't matter that I suck.

I'm doing what makes me happy.

Even when I suck.

I don't suck because of that word you have rolling around in your head.

I suck because racing is new to me and I don't train properly...or enough.

I suck because I am not properly nourished and I don't get enough sleep.

I still ride more than a lot of people I know and want to scream when those people look at me with pity.

Why?

I'm not dead. I don't have a third (or even a second) head. I'm not completely unfortunate looking or illiterate.

Those things demand pity.

I'm out there living a helluva life on my bike surrounded by my amazing children and fantastic friends.

Pity me?

I think not.

I bombed this weekend. Sure. I know.

I have no regrets about taking part in those races.

I was sick (and sleepy) and missed my first race of the day on Saturday.

So what.

Part of the problem was that I got in my head that my race went off a half hour later than it did.

Oh well. My bad.

I volunteered all day out in the hot sun on my feet from 8am until after the Pro-1, 2's race that afternoon and then drove to my time trial.

Stupid.

It was stupidity, not cancer that tanked my time trial.

...and likely a little sun poisoning.

I completed my time trial.

I did it.

I didn't stop to puke.

I didn't cry.

Sure, I cursed the wind in that last mile and a half like no other and said things that surely reserved my place in Hell, but I finished...upright.

I didn't die.

I wasn't spectacular.

I was a girl in her second time trial who succeeded in doing the one thing I had set out to do.

I had committed to staying in my aero bars the whole time, regardless of wind, and I did.

*WOOP! WOOP!*

Sure, I screamed like a child when my bike blew sideways, but I stayed upright...and pedaled.

I didn't poo or pee my pants.

I awoke the next morning and knew I shouldn't race.

I rolled out of bed and dragged my sorry ass to the velo wagon and drove to my race as the sun came up.

I imagine plenty of people were doing the same.

I wasn't special.

I was simply sunburned and exhausted.

I felt like tiny trolls had beaten me with rolling pins while I slept.

I was moving slowly.

Painfully.

Even as I pinned my race bib onto my jersey, I knew I should simply sit this one out.

I knew the course and rode it often.

In my mind, it should have been cake.

After one roll around the course that morning, I knew it would not be a good day for me.

Stupidity made me roll up to the line.

I had cement in my shoes as the whistle blew and sneered as that one chick took off.

*DAMMIT!*

Now we have to chase her!!!

*YAWN*

I remember looking over at Steph, both of us wishing we were home in our beds next to our men instead of having to chase some chick who warmed up properly around the course.

I knew what we had to do.

I looked over at Kaboom and said, "Get her, Maura!"

There!

Done!

That'll teach that little wisp of energy to pull that nonsense first thing in the morning.

I felt like a 5 year old as I sung in my head, "Maura's gonna kick your ass now, girlie! la la la la la.."

We chased them around the course and were a *weeeeee* bit off the back.

I attempted a bridge on my favorite part of the course and was about 2 bike lengths from completing it, when a sucky thing happened...

I went to stand and my legs gave way.

Hmmmm...

That should have been cake.

I'm a stander.

I stand.

It's what I do.

My legs laughed at me.

My eyes were huge with shock and panic as I willed myself up and over the line and considered taking a nap at the Dogfish tent as I rolled by.

Steph said, "So are you ready to do 8 laps in the park with me this morning?"

I attempted something that was supposed to resemble a laugh, but I think even she knew it was not.

My mind went blank.

All I felt was pain for the next lap and knew I was done.

There's pushing through the pain and then there's just plain stupid.

For me to continue would mean bad things for me and my body.

Like a dog who knows it's days of fun are numbered, I quietly rolled to the grassy side of my car and laid down on the grass.

My body in knots.

My muscles twitching.

My breathing challenged.

I was told my eyes were rolling (and hope there is no pictorial evidence of such beauty).

I was freezing.

I was sweating.

I felt my hair standing up and neck stiffened.

*Not today. Not today. Not today.*

I was being swallowed.

Sounds were far away.

With a little help from Patrick and Traci, my body got it together.

I started to hear things again.

I shivered under my down blanket.

It was 80 degrees out.

My stomach raged its fury.

I sat for most of the day...shivering.

I eventually got my legs back.

At least enough to jump up and cheer when Jay attacked from the back of the pack like a friggin' badass...and then attacked again right after it!

This is what it's all about.

Some days I wish I could change it back and not want to race.

I was that way last year, but something snapped in me (psychocross?) and I can't unsnap it...

...and I don't really want to.

When you see me sucking, remember I am just a girl with a bike...

...and my name is Cory.

Not:

• "Poor Cory", or
• "Cory has Cancer", or
• "Such a Shame" (what am I a race horse?!?!), or
• "Ughhh" (I think my ex-husband still uses this one, but he has his reasons...)

Just "Cory".

...or "Ty's and Sassy's" mom, but only if you have children who know my children and we have not personally met, after that, my name is Cory.

I know it's a four letter word, but it's the one that's here to stay, so practice it.

No More Dancing on His Shoes

She stood across from me in my bedroom just 2 days before my 10th birthday.

"I have been accepted into the police academy and I am moving to Florida. You are going to live with Grandpa."

She handed me the folded twenty dollar bill she had in her hand and said, "Happy birthday."

Even at almost 10 years old, I knew $20 was an awful trade for a mother...or at least I thought so at the time.

However, I was going to live with HIM!

I usually only saw him on weekends.

He had the most amazing blue eyes that I had ever seen or seen since.

They were beautiful and always always dancing with the laughter of a secret joke.

He worked all day with a whistled song that surely was responsible for that extra spring in his step.

He was a beautiful man with a strong and steady voice which in my 17 and a half years of knowing him, he had never raised...though I had heard a story about the one time in which he had.

I was determined for there to never be a second time...at least not that could be blamed upon me.

At 12 years old I drove the car through the double garage door, barely missing the water heater and the family dog who was asleep on the garage floor.

He didn't yell.

Nor did he believe my story that the car had accidentally slipped into gear while I was playing in it. (It did not help that the neighbor told them that I had been driving the car in circles in our driveway.)

He seemed almost amused but did not leave me with the impression that I should attempt such a stunt again.

My grandmother was less than amused and I heard about that garage door until I finally moved to another state halfway across the country when I was 23. In January 2000 she forgave me. I was 27.

He had been gone almost 10 years by then.

I felt for her. She often accused me of loving him more.

It was true, no matter how much I didn't want it to be so.

I envied her.

He looked at her in a way that would make the most cynical little girl believe in fairy tales.

She was blind to this.

On Saturday nights they would dress up to go to the club and if it was that one Saturday a month when she wore a gown, she would take his breath away.

He would would be sitting quietly watching the stocks and she would rush into the room and his face would change.

This was not a woman whose beauty was lost on her husband of more than 37 years...

Even at 15 I knew that he was rare.

At 15 I knew I would never meet another man like him.

That realization alone is wonderful and awful all at once.

This man let me cook awful meals and would eat my (very burnt) first attempt at butterscotch pudding. He would even take a second serving.

He would later still try a new and not so much improved batch of butterscotch pudding.

This was love.

Even I wouldn't eat it.

He sat across from me at dinner and allowed my to set the formal dining room.

He talked to me and discussed the news.

He made me sit up straight.

"Stomach in, chest out, shoulders back. You don't want to look like you've already lost, do you?"

No. I did not.

I remember walking into the new school when my mother sent us away (yet again) and that posture was a thorn in the side of the girls there.

I was picked on and bullied and it sucked.

That posture only egged them on. They thought I was a stuck up snob. I was 11.

I would go home and pretend it was all OK...except to him.

"Don't let the little bastards grind you down," he'd say and move on to the next topic to encourage me not to over think it.

Easy for him. He was a retired colonel in the Army and had fought in WWII.

He was strong.

People liked him.

All people.

We were not the same by a long shot.

He had a way of laughing at you if you didn't agree with him that wasn't actually a laugh but made you reconsider your position. Generally, one would concede to his point.

I moved away from him and NY the summer I turned 14.

I was to live with my mother in sunny and overrated south Florida.

How was I going to be so far away from him?

Luckily, my mother quickly decided that parenthood, like south Florida to a non-driving teenager, was overrated.

I walked all the way to my grandparents' house in the Florida sun with my big brown Samsonite suitcase and the new kitten my loving mother had just given me (who scratched the hell out my arms the entire way).

They weren't home.

I "broke in" to their Florida room and awaited someone to come home.

He was the first to arrive.

I knocked on the window, dehydrated and and hot from sitting and waiting for hours.

He was startled but quickly opened the Florida room door.

"Mom's done being a parent. She made me leave." I sniffled with the tears hovering on my bottom lids as my throat tightened and my chest burned as I silently willed those hot and messy tears not to fall. (There's no crying in this family. Period.)

"You are going to live here with us now. Let's get you settled into your room. Which one do you want?"

"What about my kitten?"

"He can stay in the Florida room until we ease your grandmother into the idea of a cat."

That's how it went. Nothing was ever traumatic with him. No drama. Everything had a solution.

"Yes, you may have that. No, you may not have that other more ridiculous thing which you do not need."

"No, you are not getting a gray Jeep Wrangler with a pink top, no matter how cute or inexpensive it is. They roll over and people break into them."

Period. No arguments and all presented with a sound argument as to why he was right. You could attempt to argue but even I as a hormonal and emotional teenager could see his logic, whether I liked it or not.

To pout was to be simply selfish.

Never one to be lazy, he did not enjoy retirement much and when my mother found herself in financial trouble, he got a job to help her instead of taking it from his and my grandmother's savings.

This was to appease my grandmother.

He loved the job.

He worked for the city and did landscaping.

He always came home with a smile while whistling a happy tune.

One day he awoke with a scratchy throat.

It got worse and we all assumed he had Laryngitis.

They went on a trip and when they returned, his voice was still gone.

He decided to see a doctor.

He didn't have Laryngitis.

He was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease).

It's terminal.

I was 16.

I drove him to work before school and picked him up after work every day.

We sang Bobby McFerrin songs and he criticized my driving but let me turn the radio up loud.

This could not be happening.

The doctors decided that he had contracted it from breathing in the chemicals in the fertilizer while landscaping, since it seemed to be affecting him in reverse of the most common cases.

His throat was slowly becoming paralyzed.

This would eventually work it's way down his body, but they did not expect it to get there since his breathing organs would be hit first.

I drove him to work on his last day there.

I watched him walk out of the building with his head held high.

Stomach in. Chest out. Shoulders back.

It was then that I understood.

That moment.

I never heard him whistle again.

Nor did I hear his words.

He could barely whisper.

He carried note pads and wrote notes.

He perfected the art of the written argument.

I saw him cry.

It was the first time in my life.

He got up from the dinner table and went into a hallway bathroom and locked the door.

The sobs were enough to cave the strongest of walls.

He went to a liquid diet.

He struggled with his intake as the invisible snake wound itself tighter and tighter around his throat and made him shed pounds and inches in the blink of an eye.

My tall and strong everything suddenly resembled a tiny baby bird.

She wouldn't eat with him.

It was messy.

She wouldn't look at him.

He always looked. He always saw.

He fought hard for a year and a half.

My mother who lived close by in a condo owned by him never came to visit him.

They attacked his dignity.

I became jaded and lost in my own world for 6 long and horrible months.

He flew to NY to have surgery to have a feeding tube inserted so that he could be fed.

I picked up the phone that Friday afternoon and was told that the surgery had gone well 2 days prior. He had even gained 2 pounds.

When I hung up, I knew.

I could not shake the feeling that something was not right.

I had a friend book me a flight to NY immediately.

I called from Kennedy and told them that I was on my way home.

When I arrived, he looked at me and instead of making the sign with his fingers letting me know that I shouldn't be spending money like this, he hugged me.

He was sitting in the plant room and looked peaceful.

I knew.

He went to a follow-up visit the next day and we could hear the bones in his feet breaking as he walked.

Still, he climbed the staircase to the front door of the house he was so proud of.

Tuesday morning, he was struggling.

He tried to write notes to explain all that needed to be said, but his hands weren't working.

His mind, sharp and unaffected, was trapped in a body that simply would not function.

It must have been like being buried alive.

His eyes dug deep into me willing me to understand.

I ran downstairs and screamed and cried and threw myself on the floor and begged God to take him and to make it stop.

Maria came home and saw this.

We sat for hours talking about him and laughing about all the amazing things he did and was.

At dinner time, I went to check on him. He had not rung his bell in a while, but The A-Team was on the channel he was watching and I hated that show and didn't think he (or anyone) needed to see that.

As I entered the room and was about to ask him if he wanted a channel change, I noticed that he was just drifting off to sleep.

I didn't interrupt him. I quietly left.

I returned downstairs and told Lisa, who went to check on him as she had just come home from work.

I heard her screams.

I felt myself get very cold.

He was gone.

There would be no more dancing into my bedroom to lower my stereo a notch.

There would be no more singing in the car.

There would be no more road trips.

No more shelling peanuts while I drove around with him.

No more hiding from him while he searched for me calling out, "Fee Fi Fo Fum! I smell the blood of an Englishmon!"

No more dancing on the tops of his shoes.

No more performing every single dance routine, every cheerleading routine and cheer, every drill team routine over and over and over again with him as my very captive audience.

No one would sit in the stands and cheer me on while others were too busy to attend.

No one to walk me down the isle.

No one to make me believe.

19 years ago today...

And as I am now a mommy who didn't find it overrated to love my children and have stood for many a year with my chest (both with and without boobies) stuck out with my shoulders back and my back straight, I know that he will never really be gone.

Tour-ture de Hermann

Holy Helena Handbasket!

This was a tough ass stage race.

Originally I only signed up for the TT (time trial) and the crit (really a circuit race) and only decided to do the RR (road race) on Easter Sunday.

(I still blame Teresa for the latter.)

*snicker*

I was excited to do my first TT and to finally race the new TT set-up.

I can't lie, I'm glad I looked the TT part, because I sure didn't feel it and felt so awful the morning of the event that I almost bailed on it completely.

As we lined up to take off, my only hope was that I didn't wipe out and fall off the TT ramp upon take off. (That would SUCK!)

I took off alright and headed out on the flat 10 mile course.

I certainly could have pushed harder and remembered halfway through that Dan said I should be breathing like I was in a cyclocross race. (I wasn't.) So I turned it up a notch, but it wasn't enough to dazzle anyone, though I placed decently for me.

Next up: the "crit"...

We are scheduled to go off only a couple of hours after the time trial. I am sleepy and sore.

Steph says, "Go ride the crit course" and I'm pretty sure she shuddered too.

I know I did when I saw the lovely climb to the Finish (Stone Hill Winery).

All I could think was that I wish we got a glass of red wine every time we crossed...or that there was at least a pretty man dangling baked brie with fresh fruit and wine at the base of the climb so that we could chase him/it up the hill and be distracted.

(That did not happen...but there were pretty flags and it was the only well paved part of the race, so that welcome alone will have me going back to Stone Hill Winery.)

I had to talk myself out of the car as the rain came down and wondered again why I didn't take up a dry hobby like knitting or some such painless nonsense...

We ride the course a couple times and there is a descent that would freak out Satan himself on the back side of the course.

Every time my wheel hits a bump in the wet, I silently will the rubber to land on the pavement.

I am imagining wiping out at 35+ MPH.

I am envisioning my children.

Now I am envisioning our family photos showing me in a body cast without a face.

Now I am descending MUCH slower...and with the ever so slight feathering of the brakes...

I LOVE descents...when they are dry or when mountain biking or cyclocrossing. I do NOT love wet descents on torn up pavement while racing a carbon road bike.

I would rather climb the hill to Stone Hill Winery 50 times and never have that descent. It's like the Boogie Man for road bikes.

Scary!

We await our race start which was after the Junior race, so now I have had 20-30 minutes or so to freak myself right the hell out.

The race takes off and because it's the Women's Open, we are racing with the ridiculously stealthy Sydney Brown.

I silently beg her to ride slow and save herself for the Men's race she's doing after ours.

(No need to spend your energy here, Syd. Take your time. Stop for a spot of tea or something...)

My mental strategy doesn't work.

I have my wheel figured out and we go off.

Immediately several girls get tangled.

*rolls eyes*

I was not part of it, but was next to and behind this.

Ughhhh!

I know what my coach is thinking right as he reads this sentence and I smack myself and nod agreement at his closed-lipped-head-shake all the way in Maryland.

(Yes, Grasshopper is catching on...slowly, but catching on.)

This type of messy start does not bring out in the sweet in me.

I heard bad words in my head...though I am sure nothing but an annoyed look escaped.

Steph and I form an alliance after the first lap.

We decide that we REALLY like our bikes and bodies and since we don't get to see each other as much as we used to, we'd use the race as our "catch up" time since we know we're not gonna win it and agree that we are finishing.

*raises wine glass to Sydney*

We climb on and just past the Start/Finish (but still during the race) I hear it.

Like an exaggerated snake out to steal my thunder.

"SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!"

I almost missed it with the sound of my heart in my nostrils, but there it was.

Unmistakable.

I look at Steph while I am still trying to breathe and for a second I go, "Woooo Hoooooo! I have a flat!"

Then immediately I think, "CRAPCAKES!"

Jay is going to SOOOOOO think I let the air out on purpose.

I am feeling a bit like a 2008 Paris-Roubaix Hincapie as I make my way back to the Start/Finish and realize that I do not have a spare wheel out and I cannot see/find Jay.

I am out of the race.

Boooooo Cory! Boooo!

*sigh*

I cheer on my friends and await Jay's race.

After the first lap we realize that he is going to climb that hill 18 times.

*raises glass of wine to Jay and other Cat 1 and Cat 2 racer pals*

As I watch Jay ride the pain train, I am happy that we decided right before his race to simply stay in Hermann for the night so we can both get some rest and be fresh for the almighty RR the next day.

(There will be a separate blog about the non-racing adventures of our time in Hermann...maybe.)

Sunday dawns un-bright and pretty friggin' rainy.

There's nothing that says champion like a good old fashioned serving of pneumonia.

Bring it!

We roll out of bed to our breakfast and once placed in front of me, I realize I am going to have my second nutritionally challenged day in a row and am now cursing my bright idea to not drive home the night before.

30 miles of hills in the rain.

5 grapes and 3 bites of something that may have been French Toast with a yeast infection, but I'm not really sure.

I pray that my Odawalla is still cold and un-rotten in my cooler.

Regardless, as I drink it, it is too soon for my body to get what it needs.

I make my nutrition drink for the race and make another bottle of electrolyte water and tuck what's left of my Hammer gel into my back pocket.

I have enough to get me maybe 2 or 3 miles of hills.

Because I had promised Patricia that I would race this race for her as she raced the half marathon in St. Louis, I knew I had to roll out.

A friend is a friend.

A promise is a promise.

We take off and I feel pretty good.

At the second hill I feel a stabbing and die.

(Was that dramatic enough?)

OK, I don't die and I get back on as Kloah reminds me that it's too soon to quit.

(No filler for the blog if I quit at the start and once you get into it it's too stupid to quit, so I was all in.)

I told Patricia if I start it, I'm finishing. I meant it.

At the second hill I tank. I get going again and stop to puke at least 3 of the 5 grapes. (I will puke 3 more times before I reach the pinnacle of this one hill.)

Can you imagine how the rest of my race went? That was like 2 miles into the race. 2 miles of 30 miles.

I now have 28 miles to go with zero grapes and weird French Toast thingie.

After the 4th puke, I chase back on to some racer that I do not know. I pass her on another climb and see Kube ahead.

I then stop to puke again (that's 5 for those who are counting) and the unknown racer passes me by.

The rain continues on.

I look behind me for Lisa, but do not see her. I consider waiting for her and then start to tremble.

I get back on and start moving.

There will be more of this for another 18 miles or so when the Pro, 1, 2's come through.

I see the leaders and a few minutes later the rest of the field comes through.

I do not see Jay.

He would not pass and not say something and the field is small in this race.

Hmmmm...

I keep riding and check behind me.

No Jay.

Holy crap! What if he wrecked?

I have the key to the car!

Craptastic! He is going to be sooooooo pissed!!!

Do I get in a SAG vehicle and get back in case?

Who am I kidding? It will be a long ass while before any race vehicle sees me.

I keep rolling.

About 10 miles from the finish, I stop to puke on a hillside...again.

I am really wanting to curse my promise to Patricia at this point. I am soaking wet and muddy.

I have mud in my hoo-ha and worm guts on my legs.

However, Patricia is a minister and really nice so cursing a promise to her would be just wrong...on multiple levels...and even I know that.

Karma would beat the crap out of me.

I do some post-puke yoga stretches and because it's a hill, Jay can see me from about a mile away.

He's riding with Nate Rice (cyclocross badass!) and they tell me to get going.

I tell him who the leaders are in his race and after a semi-schmoopie millisecond of rolling chit-chat we are back to work.

I ride in their vicinity so that I'm not working with the badasses and once Jay knows I'm solid, he and Nate take off.

7 miles from the end an odd thing happened.

A Big Shark racer came from a side road and asked me which way we're supposed to go. ( I am dumbfounded by this as I am not sure why he made a left turn in the first place. There were no arrows or friendly flagging turn volunteers, sooooo...)

I tell him that we're supposed to go straight ahead.

He takes this to mean, "Make a right turn and go in the opposite direction from me" and goes the wrong way.

It was like he was in the 3rd grade and I had cooties!

Sheeesh!

Come on, Dude! I know I'm effing slow but I didn't wreck on my head...follow ME!

I had used up my energy:

• Puking
• Worrying about Jay possibly wrecking and not having a car key
• Puking
• Trying not to curse my promise to Patricia
• Puking
• Weighing the possibility of attempting a snot rocket so that I can say that accomplished something in this race and entertain myself at the same time
• Puking
• Re-teaching myself how to spin up hills
• Puking
• Wondering if I was going to make it up the final climb

I had no energy to help that lost racer.

I decided that men on bikes were worse about directions than men in cars and laughed that I was going to beat him to the finish.

*hee hee hee*

What can I say? That race was like 30 miles of water boarding and I was embracing my inner Satan. (Hey, I tried to help the dude. He chose not to listen.)

I start a climb about 3 miles from the Finish and as I get to the top, the sweet volunteer tells me I'm doing a great job (Why are the people who volunteer to be nice so much nicer than people who are paid to be nice?)

"You're doing great and almost there! It's all downhill from here" he says.

"Thank you! Downhill and one more big climb, right?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just one more climb."

As I ride down the other side of that hill, I start to cry.

Like not just tears, but big heaping sobs...like a two year old.

I want to throw my bike in the river and pout.

I don't want to do one more climb.

Not even one.

I am so freaked out by this potential climb that I start to wonder if I will have to walk up it.

I am still crying/pedaling when a Cat 3 racer comes by...and then a few more.

Jeeeeze! Did they hear me crying?

Ughhhhh!

In that 20 seconds my mind dreamt of bloody cheesburgers dripping with cheese and all the fixin's (ewwww!) to the sole beer in my cooler (blech!) to a hot cup of tea (hmmmmm)... I wanted it all.

This is how I knew I was delirious.

I cross the river and am on the main drag.

I turn right and see Alice on her bike riding back to her car.

She cheers me on and then falls over.

(Believe me, Alice...I too was shocked to see me alive at the end of this race.)

I ask if she's OK and she tells me to go finish.

I turn left and see a volunteer with a flag.

I am wondering where my last climb is and realize that the last one was my last climb. That was the King/Queen of the Mountain hill.

I ask the volunteer, "Is this it...I go straight and finish? No more climbing?"

He laughs and tells me I'm done...once I cross the strip.

Holy Helana Handbasket!

I feel it coming.

I feel girly, weepiness and screams coming on.

I keep it in.

Jay will get it, but he's out there...racing still.

Steph's in St. Louis.

I finish and turn in my chip.

I am disoriented and confused.

Kube calls my name and snaps me awake.

She stays with me as I start coming around and pulling it together.

We open a bottle of wine that the hotel gave us for staying there.

Kube takes a sip and warns me that it's sweet enough to rot my teeth on the spot.

I take a sip and pour that nonsense out.

I really want a hot tea.

Kube starts to say the old addage, "That which does not kill us..."

"...makes us say REALLLLLLY bad words!" I finish for her.

I laugh for the first time in hours.

Unlike with Hillsboro-Roubaix, with this race, I was just fine (and amazed) to have finished.

Some races are like that.

My Infinite Race

I can't tell you why.

I don't know.

I only know that it hurts and that I am tired.

I miss real food and actual living.

I hate it more than you do.

I feel like an animal most days.

Hunted.

Running from it but barely staying a step ahead.

I watch it creep up on me as I hide in the brush on a dark and starless night...

Its footsteps paused to listen for my breathing.

Its nose open and searching for my scent.

It approaches and strains its eyes to find me in the dark...

It looks me deep in the eyes and does not see me, for it is blind.

It does not see my fear, strength, or love.

It does not see my children and loved ones and all that it will leave behind.

It simply hunts.

I look straight at it and hold my breath.

Sweat pours from my skin and the salt alerts it that I am possibly alive.

I do not allow the tears to fall.

I continue to hold my breath as it awaits my expected exhale.

My body shakes ever so slightly as my muscles fight to be free but are forced to stay still...

It moves away and starts a different path.

My exhale carries like an echo in the night.

It knows.

The hunt is back on and I run.

Panting.

Breathing.

Hard.

When will it stop?

When can I rest?

Frantic now.

I am running a jagged and aimless path.

Hoping that I will outrun it.

Hoping that I will not have to stop.

Hoping that for once I want the win more.

This is my infinite race.

Ketchup 3.0

Mmmmmmmkay...

To catch you up on what's shakin', here goes:

I bought last minute hold back tickets to Morrissey on Thursday night and then Jay couldn't go, so Hawley had to fill in while Jay worked his fingers to the bone. While I had a good time, I hated that Jay had to miss this because he also missed Kings of Leon and it would have been a great show for him to see. Luckily, Patrick gets Morrissey too so we had fun.

On Thursday, I bagged on my tickets to see All American Rejects because Jay had to work all weekend and couldn't make our weekend trip and seeing him was more important than seeing a band, so we hung out and had a nice dinner with better martinis, gave the tickets to some teenagers and had a proper date night. It was wonderful and worth missing the concert.

I took Friday off so that I could ride before I hit the road for a 6 hour drive to Ft. Wayne, IN for the weekend. I woke up to acute cramps and a rain filled morning and realized that mother nature had bitchslapped my plans.

(There's really nothing more exciting than menstrual cramps and riding in a car in the rain during the first 24 hours of your cycle when you are unable to ingest pain meds. It's pretty super spectacular and everyone should do it at least once!)

I made it to Ft. Wayne alright, but lost an hour since Indiana has officially decided that it would play the Daylight Savings Game and now they are officially Eastern Standard Time. (So cute of them to join the rest of the country!)

Sooooo...when I got to Indiana, it was way later than I planned and getting in a post-drive ride to spin my legs was out of the question.

Saturday we arose later than planned (which "may" have had something to do with the "arrival martini" but likely had more to do with the fact that Ol' Cory was flat out exhausted).

After we ran errands and catered to the children's needs, Chris and I decided that regardless of how effing tired we were and how effing windy it was, we were going out for a ride.

We rode in the wind that proved much colder than this ol' girl had thought it would be and I was happy to arrive home and shiver upstairs to inquire about when we would be leaving for dinner and martinis. (I feel a step program in my future, though frankly, I am still a lightweight at 2 martinis.)

Dinner was super yummy and I was pretty much out cold 10 minutes upon our arrival home.

Easter morning dawned quicker than I ever would have imagined!

That effing Easter bunny kicked my ass when The Sass awoke at 7 effing a.m.!

Holy hell!

Christ himself had not yet risen!

That child has a nose for gifts and chocolate like no other!

Thankfully, the E.B.'s assistant (Lisa) heard Sassy's big mouth and hauled ass downstairs to get "it" all together.

After a brief moment of excitement over waking up the boys and discovering her chocolate and Easter gifts of horse related activities, The Sass settled in for brekky and chilled out...for the most part.

Soon, we were on our way back to St. Louis to attempt to share dinner with Jay, who had missed the weekend fun.

After a close encounter with a stupid driver who thought it would be a super groovy idea to slam on his brakes in the left lane and make a U-turn in the 70 MPH zone, we arrived safely at our destination and had a lovely dinner with Jay who is now sick from working non-stop for over a week.

Duh.

I arrive home to the have my arm twisted by Teresa about the Hermann road race (for which I had not registered, but only registered for the crit and time trial) and added the road race to my schedule and am now officially registered.

While doing that, I also officially changed my racing license to reflect my official team, Fulcrum Racing and somehow my cursor clicked the MTB license and now I guess I have to complete some MTB races so that isn't a complete waste.

My bad!

*snicker*

Now, I am going to bed so that I can awake and train like a good girl instead of the bad girl that I have been for the past 2 weeks.

Peace out, peeps!

The Tilles Redemption

The eve of the Gateway Spring Criterium ("Tilles") was looking bleak as I lay face down in my bed, having moved there after my sob-fest on the couch after the Hillsboro Roubaix.

I had texted Dan, my coach, while driving home from the race and was happy that he couldn't return my call until after I got the crybaby nonsense out of my system...
I needed to talk to him about tomorrow. I needed him to un-freak me out about the race at Tilles.

I needed to do well.

I needed to stop mind-screwing myself.

I needed him to tell me that although I had not trained properly that week, there was still a shred of hope for me to get what I wanted out of the Tilles race.

Let me tell you, there is no bullshitting your coach. There's no point. So I told him the 20 different ways in which I had sucked at Hillsboro and the additional 20 different things that I could have/should have done differently to not suck at Hillsboro.

Thankfully, Dan's not the type of coach who makes you feel like shit about things, but he doesn't blow sunshine up your ass or allow you to lie to yourself either.

We talked a good long while while I drove to meet Jay.

I really wanted to be feeling better by the time I saw Jay because I knew otherwise I would look at him and burst into tears.

Dan and I set my goals and strategy for the race the next day and I felt everything lift from my shoulders.

Jay and I have a nice evening relaxing with some friends and the time flies by quicker than expected and suddenly it is 1am and I am still awake riding the pain train while Jay is out like a baby.

I awake early and were about to enjoy our morning time together when (tell me if this sounds familiar from another race morning) we hear the outside door open.

We both pop up and look at each other in confusion.

It's 7am on Sunday morning. Who the hell is here?!?!

Jay runs out and it's Tim. There bright and early to get some work done on building the deck.

(Considering that we kept Tim up late with martinis, we are amazed!)

*sigh*

Alright. Time to act like adults.

Jay gets to work and I catch up on emails and get ready to hit the races.

I go through the methodical (and relaxing) process of getting my stuff together and am excited when Steph calls to tell me she has a spot saved for the tent and chairs.

In my mind, I will get there early enough to see Phil race. In reality, I looked at the wrong race time and will miss his race, but get there just as it has ended.

(He did REALLY well though and got 4th even after someone wrecked him.)

STRONG!

We decide that we are going to go on a warm-up ride on Litzinger.

A nice group of us heads out on the wet road and it still feels like a good decision until...

(This is sort of funny...)

A (gray) Toyota FJ Cruiser with the license plate "NAMASTE" and a "COEXIST" bumper sticker decides that regardless of the wet roads and the posted 30 MPH speed limit, he/she is tired of these effing cyclists on his/her road (he/she owns it, you know) and revs his/her big and beefy engine and buzzes us.

Apparently he/she does NOT see the light and beauty in cyclists and coexisting only applies to religions and not vehicles vs. bicycles.

I mean, he/she may as well have leaned out the power window and yelled, "Peace, Mutha F*ckers!"

While Alice and I are laughing about this, we are soon experiencing the fury of a BMW driver who also feels the speed limit and the law where thou must not mow down cyclists is merely a suggestion....but at least he/she pulls a dramatic James Bond and simply drives entirely in the wrong lane so that we can all see just how put out he/she is.

(I'm sure he/she was on his/her way to church and we were impeding his/her salvation.)

I am thinking, "Seriously?!?!? I cannot be killed by a motorist before this effing race!!! I bought beer! I never buy beer!"

I do not think this was what Dan meant when he told me to get my heart rate up before the race.

We return to the park and I feel pretty good.

We chat with the guys who have finished the Cat 3 race and cheer on the Juniors. Then we're up. We ride the course and line up.

The wheel I had done my visualization on is racing a different race.

Crap!

I mentally regroup and visualize my new wheel.

I position myself where Dan wants me and play the waiting game.

Interestingly enough, when the whistle blows, my left foot slips off my pedal and I can't clip in.

(Naturally.)

I pedal but have lost my position as we hit turn 1.

I clip in and turn it up.

I need to get through the back side of the course so I can recover a wee bit.

Done!

I settle in and am where Dan (and me) want me in the race.

At one point I find myself pulling in a spot where I do not want to pull.

I can hear Cristel and Deana talking to me and I keep my focus.

I have no worries about getting out of this and do what I need to.

We play the game and I am happy to see Kate working her plan.

At one point on the back of the course I am with Steph and the field is splitting.

I say, "Let's go" and we go.

We rotate our wheels and work it nicely.

We are again back where we want to be in the pack. Steph and I are in the top 10% and we come up on the Women's Open field.

We look at each other.

What the hell do we do???

Do we pass them?

Left or right?

A ripple of shrugs goes through our field and then, we collectively (and figuratively) say "Fuck it" and we go.

"ON YOUR RIGHT!" we call out...and we pass them.

It's a little funny because I cannot lie that part of me wondered if we should play it smart and follow their lead. I mean, the whole energy conservation thing seemed to be working for them...

Regardless, we pass...

Another lap or so and they pass us.

I am off the front. (Dammit!)

One of them leans over and says to me, "Hang back for 10 seconds or so."

I think, "Sure. Sure. Let me shoot out a memo to the rest of the field."

I smile at her. It was funny, but I knew as soon as I let up, there would be an attack.

I quietly thought, "No, you guys go fassssster!"

We continue on and the mere fear of being DQ'd for working with their field made our field hang loose for a bit...but only for a short while.

I sure as shit wasn't being DQ'd. This race was going to count for me, come hell or high water.

26 minutes into the race, I am still feeling OK...until we hit the back side of the course.

We dropped off the back.

Steph, Suzanne, Alice and me.

Hello???

Suzanne asks if we are going to work together or bridge.

Steph says we are going to bridge together.

We are going to do 3 short pulls for 20 seconds. Her computer is out and Suzanne is going to count.

I'm in...for a second.

I feel my stomach rise in my throat and my nose starts to burn.

(Holy shit! You have just GOT to be kidding me!!! I cannot puke right now!! What the hell?!?!?)

I make a sound as my stomach retches.

Steph hears it and Alice sees it and asks if I'm OK.

I tell her I am, but I drop off.

I keep it down.

I hang in, but there is no hope that I am getting back on.

4 more laps.

I refuse to sit up.

I refuse to slow down.

I am dead on the back of the course, but I stand and push through.

Coming over the hill I hear it.

Breathing.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

I think it will be Kloah bridging to me so that we can work the rest of the race.

I look over my left and it's Kate.

Sweaty.

Working.

HARD.

She broke away!

Holy shit!

She is breaking away from Kaboom (one of the strongest racers out there)!

Holy shit!

(I know I said that, but seriously...this is not the last lap!!!)

I said, "Are you winning?"

(Which is a joke between a few of us with her...)

...and she replies, "Yes."

Very simply.

I smiled.

I believed her.

Holy shit!

Kate is going to win!

She effing wants it!

I see Kaboom coming and I speed up as she passes.

I am not missing this.

We lap around and as I approach the final turn I cannot see it.

I can hear it...

I see Ron (The Hub) and ask if Kate won.

She did!!!

I scream and cheer for her as I take the turn and raise the roof in her honor.

"Raise the roof for Kate Hrubes!!!"

I complete my last lap and I am so freaking happy that I cannot see straight!

I can't wait to see Kate and even as I type this, I am a teary-eyed mess.

Last year, this was Kate's and my first race...ever.

Today, she won....and I was there!!!

Sure, I am thrilled that I got my own redemption for last year's poor performance, but there is nothing like seeing the face of someone win who:

1. truly deserved the win


2. truly appreciates the win


3. is so humble you almost have to convince them to congratulate themselves for the win

I didn't just redeem myself in this race...I found a new love for racing and a new idol.

When I grow up, I want to be just like Kate.