The Breakthrough/Breakdown Tour of KC

For the first time in a long time (Tilles Crit) I felt pretty confident going into a bike race.

(Not confident that I would win, but confident that I would not die, cry, or quit.)

Over the past few weeks I had gotten back on course with my training and was pleased with how it was coming along.

After my heat issues at Winghaven, I worked hard all week to get my body acclimated to the high heat and humidity while on the bike.

I pushed through most of my brushes with heat stroke and dehydration and felt that I played it wise.

I took my rest days.

We got up to Kansas City Friday night for Jay's race.

While he warmed up and for the first few laps of his race, I rode.

I followed Dan's instructions and felt oddly good in the summer heat.

The venues were fantastic.

Well organized.

Visually appealing.

Challenging.

These weren't flower-pickin' race courses.

I warmed up on Saturday before the Lee's Summit Crit possibly a little more than I should have.

I was shaking and had a high heart-rate as we pulled up at the line.

Megan was experiencing the same.

Another racer commented on how she felt like she was going to throw up.

The officials then announced that we would be going off with the Women's Open. There would not be a staggered start.

Ummmmm...

Nice.

They may as well have said, "Listen up you candy-assed Cat4 women. You have chosen to race on the hottest day on record for 2009 and have the Sydney Brown/Catherine Wahlberg/Michelle Jensen Trifecta-O-Hell driving the pace for your race. You will suffer. You will be lapped...repeatedly. By the end of this race you will be in a fetal position begging for a pacifier and your childhood woobie. Fuck what you know, this is PAIN!"

[insert evil and sinister laugh here]

If I had not just seen Justin snap a picture of me, I may have crawled away right then and there and pretend that I was on a shopping trip and no where near the Tour of KC.

As it was, I poured some cold water on my head, swallowed hard and shitted out my mental game.

I tried to visualize myself on Michelle's wheel, but nearly fell over laughing.

I lost the race before we hit turn one.

Why the fuck was I so scared?

We weren't even in the same race as those maniacs!

(Don't get me wrong, I dream of being one of those maniacs one day and hope to get a real podium finish before I am completely gray, but still. They are wicked fast and clearly fearless.)

3 laps in I have to take off my heart rate monitor.

This has been happening lately.

I guess I am in such a state of panic/heat that the HRM around my chest just makes me feel like I am being crushed.

I spend the rest of my race kicking my own ass and talking myself through each lap.

The goosebumps/chills come again and I try to mentally convince myself that it isn't happening.

I start downing electrolytes at the top of the course and am rolling really super slow.

I keep going.

Head down and focused.

I have to shake this.

It's just heat.

Those other girls are doing it.

Megan tells me to work with her.

I am so dizzy and out of it that I tell her to push on. I was going 15mph.

FIFTEENFUCKINGMILESPERHOUR!

My six year old can almost go that fast.

At one point I nearly wreck myself unzipping my skinsuit. (That's one, and possibly the only, advantage of being dropped, you can't wreck anyone else.)

I hang in there until I can feel the shakes in my legs.

Stacie yells at me on the climb to jump on.

Oddly, I liked the climb today. It is the descent into the turn that has been fucking me the entire race.

That being said, at that point, I was in no shape to work with anyone.

I stay to the right and out of everyone's way.

I am no where close to being in contention and at this point will be lucky to not pass out.

One more lap.

I watch a racer DNF and feel her pain, but keep on going.

I push through but know I am toast.

With 8 laps to go, I pull out.

The typical body spasms, gasping for air, dry heaves, and crying ensue.

(Poor Jay.)

I cannot formulate sentences.

(Happy Jay!)

I lay under the tent while the world swirls.

I stay that way a while.

I sit on the cooler to cheer on Stacie and Megan in the final laps.

I am beating myself up and inform Jay that I am still racing the next day of the Tour.

"I know," he says.

Why the fuck does this keep happening I wonder out loud.

"You're sick, Cor," is Jay's sweet response.

It hits me like a brick to the face, though that's not how he meant it.

His eyes were soft, his tone gentle.

It killed me to hear it.

I often try to forget.

I never want "THAT" to be the reason I suck.

I was off the bike for a few weeks.

I had lost my love of it once the health issues started in.

But I had gotten refocused.

Sure, there was no way I was going to be stellar, but I was racing slower than I generally ride...and suffering.

What happens to me when a number gets pinned on my back has nothing to do with cancer.

Sure, there are days when clearly my illness plays a part, but somewhere along the line I developed a mental block.

Maybe I don't want to do well.

*shakes head*

Nope, that can't be it...

Maybe I am stressing too much about doing well...

I don't really know.

That being said, I dragged my sorry ass out of bed the next morning and kitted up to jump back in for the Power and Light Criterium.

There were two wicked climbs in this crit.

Right after each other.

The second was deceptively more difficult.

Where I should have been bombing down the hill and diving into my turn, I recovered instead.

I drooled. I gasped. I gritted my teeth.

There was no way I was dropping out.

They could pull me if they wanted, but I was pushing through this until that moment.

I made damn certain I rode strong on the front of the course.

I secretly thanked the universe that Jay stayed on that side of the course and didn't see my suffering.

I'm not saying he didn't know, but my dignity was marginally spared.

This crit hurt.

Bad.

Every revolution felt like knives ripping through my bones and slicing my chest.

I heard, "8 laps to go!" and sighed.

I shut my mind down.

At one point on the 2nd climb, my legs shook so bad that I couldn't stand and had to spin.

That sucked.

I closed it off.

I went numb.

"5 laps to go!"

Michelle Jensen caught me on the back side of the course and said, "Jump on for a draft if you need it!"

My heart smiled.

That was futhamuckin' Michelle Jensen, dude!

I nearly fainted.

That being said, we aren't allowed to work with their field and I was so chicken shit of getting DQ'd when I was this close that I didn't go with her.

I hear the leaders go through and hear the most magical sound...

The bell.

"ONE LAP TO GO! ONE LAP TO GO!"

As I roll through, Lefler calls out, "Cory Redmond, you have one lap to go!"

I blow him a kiss.

As I take turn one for the last time, I start to cry.

(You are surprised by this, no?)

I am so happy that there are no photographers at that moment. I am not fantastic at crying.

I dive into my last 2 turns and hammer up the hill to the Finish.

Lefler announces my finish and proceeds to announce that a reporter is waiting to talk to me.

This actually makes me laugh because I know people who don't know me will think I'm a pretty big deal for that one moment...

I take a second to imagine who they might wonder me to be, because clearly I was not the winner of that race.

This strikes me as funnier by the second and I start to relax.

As I roll over to Jay, I lose it however.

I bury my face in his chest and bawl as he hugs me and pours water down my back and head.

One of these days, I am going to do more than just finish.

One of these days, finishing is going to be no big deal to me.

Where Are You...?!?!?

You have no right to fucking check out on me right now, bitch!

There are explanations and love owed to me for the many "Mommy IOUs" I have received from you in my life time.

I do not care that we have mended our fences.

I do not care that I forgave you.

I am starting to be angry that I give a shit at all.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence you teased me with your haunted death dance.

Always falling one bullet, one pill, one drop of blood short of leaving the hell you created.

Everything for which you had been forgiven gets dug up and thrown in my face every time you pull one of your stunts.

While there was many a time in my angry and injured youth that I boldly believed that I wanted your strange and selfish obsession with death to be realized, I am not that little girl any more.

I am a woman who learned to forgive you and accept you into my life.

You have no fucking right to cash out now.

You better have simply forgotten to call after your spectacular trip to the ER.

This better have been a misguided attempt at courtesy for my rest and well being.

If you left this mess unexplained, I will kick your sorry box from the mortuary to the grave.

Do you hear me, woman??? Do you???

OK then...

Love ya. Mean it. Call me.

*kisses*

Winghaven, For Those Extra Wet Days

I always assumed that if I was soaking wet in a race, rain would be involved.

Nope.

Not the case.

Welcome to the Tour de Winghaven!

A spectacular race and a luscious course on what just happened to turn out to be Mother Nature's kick to the balls introduction to summer.

Ughhhhh!

Hello 99 million degrees with a heat index of "wtf" and let us not underestimate the "t-bag effect" of the wall o'humidity!

Woo HOOO!

Hello, Ladies. THIS is futha muckin' racin'!

Let me rewind a moment...

We went out to Colorado for a little relaxation, fun, and hiking the weekend prior to this race.

While there, we enjoyed the luxury of actual breathing without pollen sludge or humidity.

Sure, we wore tank tops and snow apparel on the same day, but it was fun.

We made a last minute decision to leave our bikes at home.

We later (both in Colorado and upon arriving home) lived to regret that decision.

Not that we can't "live" without our carbon ponies, but that was really just too long out of the saddle mid-race season.

We arrived back in St. Louis early Monday morning to a wall of humidity that would intimidate China.

Ooooooh! I have a great idea! Let's ride our bikes in it!

Monday, I was out of commission with intestinal issues (which happens almost every Monday and any day following a trip.)

TMI?

*snicker*

Tuesday I jumped into the Tuesday night crits.

Jay had just gifted me a sweet new PowerTap training wheel and had put it on my bike that morning.

Accidentally, yet unbeknownst to me, he had put on his cassette instead of mine...

So while warming up, I didn't feel right, but really thought it was all the time off the bike.

I tried not to beat myself up as we pulled to the line...

On the back side of the course (which is generally my favorite) I got dropped...

...and then Chris Clausen pushed me up the hill...(He's so damn sweet!)

Hmmmm...

WOW!

How much do I actually suck?!?!?

(Don't answer that!)

I continued to try to work it out, but ultimately ended up beating myself up anyway.

At that point we had still not realized I had the wrong cassette...

I found out the next day...

...and Jay rushed to change it before I headed out on a 45 mile ride in the heat and humidity.

The ride went well as I felt "my old self" on the bike again.

When I arrived home soaking wet and trembling that night, I felt good. Real good.

I headed out the next night to jump into the Thursday Night Marquette Ride (the alternate route) to punish myself some more for being off the bike.

Following my plan, I skipped Friday and headed out for another steamy, hilly ride Saturday morning with the girls (and Brain).

2 thirds in, I realized that I shouldn't be doing so many hills the day before my race and decided to spin the last bit of the way.

I broke out in goose bumps and chills...so I hydrated even more.

All seemed good.

We arrived at the Tour de Winghaven believing that all of our ducks were in a row.

We brought enough water to quench a small village.

As I got on the rollers and started warming up (in the shade), I began to get dizzy.

I started downing water.

I rolled a while longer but felt queasy.

I took my asthma meds and squirted some Hammer.

I sat for a few while Jay switched out my wheels and pinned my numbers.

I rode around the subdivision behind the race for a while and got ready to roll to the line.

As I pulled up, I was shaking.

Nerves?

Intestines?

Heat?

First Womens Open?

*shrugs*

Not wanting to over think it, The Universe dropped Kate in my lap (or at least made her roll up next to me at the line).

KATE!

*lets out girly squeal here while trying to appear cool*

Yay! Kuna Kate is racing this race!

If I could have tap danced in my cleats, I would have!

*giggle*

Racing is always made more fun when you know that at some point, mid-suffer, you will see Kate smiling her ass through what others call pain...

I've said it before and I will say it again, when (if) I grow up I wanna be Kate!

The race announcements are made and I hear these strange words...

"...racers who are not in contention will be pulled..."

Ummmm...

Should I just call this a donation and go park my bike right now...?

Seriously, that isn't very fair to Cat 4 women...but I get it.

NRC race...blah, blah, blah...They are running late...blah, blah, blah...screw the women...no primes...blah blah blah...

*yawn*

They even pulled one of my friends who was 16 seconds off the field with one lap to go.

Seriously? That 16 seconds was going to break the schedule so much that after working her ass off she gets pulled?

That sucked. (Especially since there was an AWFUL lot of down time with zero action in the heat while they talked for 10 minutes before each race and did nothing between the kids races and the Pro,1 race.)

That being said, long before that, I dropped out...which is how I got to see all that action.

(Hey, DNF'ing has some benefits!)

My race started off alright...at first.

I stayed with the field the first lap but struggled to get my breathing clear.

I am weezing.

Kate is behind me and hears this while watching me fall apart.

Ughhhh!

I feel like throwing a tantrum because I want to race with her.

[insert mental pout here]

I pulled over in the second lap and tried to get it together.

DUMB!

Kube passed by.

I looked at her.

Kathryn passed by.

I looked at her for a second and changed my mind from DNFing to pushing through it.

I caught up to her, barely breathing...

"I'm not going to pass you," I said to her. "We're going to work together and get through this."

Kube is ahead of us and we start toward her.

Goose bumps cover my skin.

I feel very cold.

My head starts to spin.

The big descent is coming soon.

I see beautiful green grass as the road starts to spin.

*aims Trent toward pretty green pile*

I break hard before hitting the curb and down I go.

My foot is tangled in my pedal as I lay there watching the pretty swirls of the sky and madness.

I get my foot out and roll over to downward dog to make it stop.

A volunteer runs over to check on me.

(So sweet and pretty in his tan handsomeness and lime green t-shirt.)

Is he an angel?

No, he is blinding me and rotting my teeth with his sweet concern for an old and dizzy racer.

"I'm good, sweetie." I tell him. "Gimme a sec and I will be up and back out there." I smile to reassure him that I am not dying, fainting, nor destroying the carefully manicured green of Winghaven and that racers in this position are the most natural thing ever.

I know I only have so long before I am without hope and will be lapped.

I imagine this matter has taken about 2 minutes, but I cannot be sure until I check my data files (which I cannot do while at the office).

I get back in and hit the descent.

I feel better.

Almost.

I take the next climb and see Chris, who is volunteering.

I think I was friendly, but the mere fact that I cannot recall tells me that I was not alright. Chris is one of my fave local racers and buds. (I know I said nice things to him later, so maybe that's OK.)

I take the last climb strong and make sure I don't look too spastic or defeated.

I look for Jay so that I can tell him what I need in the feed zone on the next lap.

He's warming up as his race is next, so we miss each other.

I cross the finish and keep going.

Hmmmm...

Do I keep this up and try to avoid actually dropping dead...?

Heart rate is 186.

I am dry.

I do not feel pain, but this breathing thing is starting to be a concern...

I really want at least 3 laps.

I won't be able to get what I need until I almost finish the 4th lap (and that is only if I catch Jay on the 3rd).

That's 12 miles in.

I won't make it.

*sigh*

I drop out.

(Good thing too!)

As I roll over to the tent and get off my bike, my legs go nuts and I drop into the chair pouring water over myself.

Jeff Yeilding's wife looks scared...or thinks I'm nuts. Not sure which.

Drinking one ice water bottle and pouring the next on me.

Legs still going crazy.

(Good times!)

Some races I smack myself when I drop out.

This race was not one of them.

I did what I personally could and that will never change.

Jay's race went off and I got it together enough be in the zone to feed.

He amazes me in these types of situations and his strength and ability to adjust make me jealous and amorous all at once.

In his mind he sucked in his race.

In reality, he got 8th.

(Fucker!)

As I watched racer after racer drop out in race after race, I felt less bad about my decision.

Regardless of my personal suckage, it was a beautiful day with some of my favorite people, on and off the bike.

Next up, Tour of KC.

Niiiiiice!

Some Days...

Some days, I just do not get it.

Some days, I am as strong as one's imagination could ever dream.

Some days, I am frail as a baby bird.

Some days, it all seems remarkably clear.

Some days, it is simply as clear as mud.

Some days, I am amazingly organized and on course.

Some days, I am a scatter-brained mess who would rather crawl under her desk than to tackle the impossibly growing pile of issues that are all marked "Priority 1".

Some days, all I need is a water bottle and my flask of raspberry Hammer gel and I can set out on my bike and conquer the world...or at least some pretty tricky hills.

Some days, my chest seizes from the mere thought of making one more revolution of the pedals.

Some days, I am wickedly excited about the thought of jetting off to the mountains for some clean-aired fun and music.

Some days, the thought of leaving all that needs to be done undone makes my head pound and my pores bleed salty pearls of glistening anxiety.

Some says, I want to know why she did what she did to us; to me.

Some days, I just want to hug her and protect her from a world that she has clearly not grown accustomed to.

Some days, I want to slap the shit out of her for being a spineless victim of the web she has spun.

Some days, I just want her to brush my hair and kiss me good-bye so that I can feel the warmth of her body and smell the familiar pain and crazy which overwhelms her and dances on her skin.

Some days, regardless of knowing the solution, I will sit back and observe, doing nothing but eating my imaginary popcorn as the scene unfolds.

Some days, I will raise my eyebrow and devilishly stir the pot to raise them to their toes...or drop them to their knees.

Some days, it is a mere toss of the coin.

Hottness is Power...At Least with the Man-Boys

Though we've all gone through our "awkward" phases (and believe me, mine was fugly beyond mention, bro), most of us (hopefully) learned somewhere along the way (probably in the "really fuckin' awkward" phase) that beauty is only skin deep...

...at least we hope.

My awkward phase lasted from 1985 through 1996. (That seems REALLY effing long to me!)

...and that's just the "physically awkward" phase. I haven't even begun to discuss the socially awkward phase. (Which was from 1972 through March of 2000 when I finally just said, "Fuck it. Fuck you and Fuck that giant box that I can't/won't fit into and that giant stick for your asses that comes with it.")

Prior to 2000, and more specifically September 1999, I had ginormous boobies. GIANT! They were freaks of nature which blossomed pretty much over spring break my first year in Florida.

I was 14 and had ALWAYS been the flat-chested one (Remember the water balloon-bra-stuffing incident of 1984?).

I was initially really super pleased to suddenly be blessed with anything bigger than a pimple, but soon realized how cruel people could be...

...and that suddenly I had little identity outside of my boobs.

I'm not sure anyone could tell me what color my eyes were. (Coincidentally, they are a pretty effing spectacular brown with golden flecks. My eyes ROCK!)

I knew this because I would stare into the mirror trying to find ME.

I liked my nose.

My lips were pretty cool too.

I had a huge smile and straight teeth.

Generally, I would screw all this up and stick out my tongue and make goofy faces just to get people to see that there was more to me than tits.

When I would walk down the Ft. Lauderdale strip (what would be a boardwalk in most places) strange men who did not know me would grab my boobs or poke them to see if they were real.

I was 15 and 16.

Eventually, I just wore large t-shirts to cover them, and then looked nice and fat next to my perfectly skinny and normal-chested friends.

No one gave a crap what I had to say. I was immediately a whore because I had big boobs. The actual status of my virginity was irrelevant.

I was a whore and some parents upon seeing my boobs would rather that their angelic daughters not hang with me.

I used to dream of taking a knife and simply cutting my boobs off.

As I became an adult, I still hated them.

I did not feel sexy.

I did not feel human.

In my history, the mere fact that I had these ginormous boobs made me a tease and at times I was punished for it.

I eventually moved away to the Midwest where, in my naivety, I had assumed people were more "innocent" and less cruel.

Not true.

People are people and tits are tits.

If anything, the women folk hated me upon sight and the man-boys did not mince words about the things they would like to do to me/my boobs.

It was if they thought I would simply unscrew them from my chest and hand them over, since I didn't really exist as an actual person.

It wasn't the men's behavior but my boobs that were to blame. Of course.

With every job, I had to fight my ass off to be taken seriously and I would always secretly pray for a woman boss so I wouldn't have the drama.

I would bind my chest with ace bandages to make my boobs appear smaller.

Then cancer happened.

I was so angry at my boobs!

First they tortured me with pain and not allowing clothes to fit me properly.

Then they make me a freak of nature by "standing out" like a sore thumb.

Then they have the nerve to harbor cancer.

Effing jerks!

"Fine, Fuckers!" I thought to myself. "Out you go!"

*gives disgusted and disapproving sneer at space where boobs used to be*

Honestly, the decision to simply go under the knife instead of pumping my body full of poison was pretty easy to make.

4,000+ stitches later, I started imagining myself jogging and running marathons without getting black eyes from my boobies.

(I feel that it is important to note here that to date, regardless of curious lack of boobs, I have made only 2 marginal attempts to jog and zero attempts to run a marathon...or even a 5K...hell, I haven't even run 5 blocks!)

After the surgery, people started to notice that I had a face.

They made eye contact.

It was nice.

Oddly, not as much changed with the man-boys.

I was still treated like a piece of meat...just a different cut.

While I won't pretend that there isn't some benefit to people finding you attractive, I can say that the payoff was never worth the hassle.

Every success is questioned, if not by one's self, then by others.

The constant and remarkable comments that people feel they are entitled to make to you are astounding.

Even when I started racing, I knew and didn't pretend that I didn't know, that I was chosen by my first team for my looks first and personality second. It certainly wasn't for my racing skill, because I don't have much.

I can look the part and damn, when Dennis Fickinger catches me at the right angle, that picture will convince you that I kicked everyone's ass.

In poking fun at another female racer, I posted pics of me in sexy-ish clothing on my bike as a joke last year.

You know what?

(This will shock you...)

My racing ability did not improve because more males noticed me.

*smacks head in mock astonishment*

I was still the same girl pulling up to the line and my perceived hotness did not make me a better racer. (Believe me, if it had, I would have been the first one at the make-up counter and made appointments for Botox and and a boob job!)

*shakes head*

I didn't become someone suddenly worth knowing.

I didn't become a better mom, a better girlfriend, or a better friend.

At the end of the day, whether the topic is bike racing or ethics, you better hope you have a whole lot more in your bag than your looks, because no matter what the photographs say, no one can see that stuff when the lights go out...and you have to be able to sleep with yourself...and wake up to yourself as well.

While I can appreciate other women who are physically beautiful, I do tend to look for something more.

After all, I was a girl once defined by her boobs, and the me that exists without them is ugly and beautiful all at once...

...and knowing that is all the power I will ever need...on and off the bike.

Returning to the OGP...

The 2008 O'Fallon Grand Prix was my first road race ever.

(Some may recall that this was the race where I was sick as a dog the night before and fell off the toilet and slept on the bathroom floor...then raced the race hydrating myself just enough to not pass out but not enough to poo my pants. Good times!)

*throws up mock thumbs-up sign*

I am naturally brilliant (this is sarcasm) when it comes to racing, so I felt that with this week's medical advice to "take it easy" and "not participate in any strenuous activities", I should of course temporarily abandon my decision to only do crit races and enter the O'fallon Grand Prix.

C'mon. It is a sentimental race to me and I wanted to see what it would be like to ride it without fear of pooping my pants. (Don't even try to pretend that you wouldn't do the same!)

Plus I had to skip last week's Wheels Over Wildwood crit, so I was feeling antsy to race. (There is CLEARLY something wrong with me. CLEARLY!)

Last year I raced in a category which no longer exists (Women's Masters 35+), but I was curious to see how (or if) I had improved over last year.

When we awoke, it was of course raining.

DAMMIT!

Mentally I was crushed, knowing that I could not race in the rain thanks to my health issues and still not being recovered from the Hermann RR.

As I turned the dryer on to make sure our race kits were dry, I crawled back into bed and said poutily to Jay, "I'm racing."

"Not if it's raining, you're not, " he replied.

*sticking out my bottom lip*

"Cor, you know what it will do to you and you will be screwed for weeks."

(I not so secretly hate when he is:

1. logical
2. correct)

"Can I pack all my gear as if I am going to race just in case it stops raining?" I ask with my saddest puppy dog eyes.

"Of course you can!" he says and hugs me.

(Psssst...I LOVE him!)

It rains the whole way out.

It rains while we walk up to registration with Steph and Phil.

I look at Jay with panic on my face.

Do I register? Do I wait?

Ughhhh!

"Why don't you wait a while and see if the rain stops?" he suggests.

"OK," I say with a pathetic sigh.

As I stood there, it seemed simply wrong to not register. I filled out my paperwork but didn't turn it in...yet.

I waited with Jay while he registered...

...but the ladies at the registration for my race looked so lonely now that Steph had finished.

I saw Steph with her race number and it seemed wrong to not race THIS race with her. We did this together last year.

I quietly register...still unsure if I will start.

Jay has a look I cannot describe on his face. It is one of frustration and I think a little pride too...I may never know...

As we walk outside, the sun is out!

Holy hell!

The sun!!

No effing way!!!

I think I may have squeaked or squealed...I'm not really sure.

I got ready...fast!

I was now a nervous wreck that the rain would start again.

"I want you to take your vest and rain jacket and protect your chest," Jay says.

"OK!" I say with a happy smile now that he has mentally conceded that I am racing this race. I wanted to hug him.

I was so edgy that I forgot my glasses and gloves and had to go back, but I didn't care.

We warmed up and Jay's race was getting ready to go off.

We did the "schmoopie thing" and he offered his love to some other Pro,1,2's and I rode off to warm up some more.

As Steph, Susan and I chat at the start line awaiting our race to go off, Christine spots me.

Christine took 1st to my 2nd in our category (which no longer exists) last year.

We caught up and were happy to see each other this year.

As the whistle blows, we ride through the neutral zone and a Wild Card racer (Antonia?) asks me if I want to go with her on an attack...off the front...because "they" will never expect it.

*Thinks in head, Ummmmm, no...but they're not headless...they'll SEEEEEEEE it....derrrr!*

She being from out of town and me knowing 90% of the field is laughing in my head.

"Well, you can try it," I tell her.

She was sweet and very strong, but not very stealthy...

She made 2 revolutions before looking back at the field as if to scream, "HEY! LOOK AT ME ATTACKING OFF THE FRONT! CAN YOU SEE ME?!!? HOW ABOUT NOW...?"

I chased...as did the field and I couldn't help shaking my head at her. There is NO future for that girl as a secret agent.

As I dropped back with Christine we are laughing at our roles in this race...bringing up the rear...or so we thought...but we had actually dropped quite a few girls.

Another attack on another hill and the field surges...

I try to get back in my big ring and it won't go...

I am fighting this when Christine passes me...

...and then I get passed by some racer with nice wheels...

I am starting to get pissed.

I like Christine, but she is not beating me today!

Why the *bleep* won't this effing thing shift?!?!? I just had this issue fixed at the shop last week...or so I thought.

I get it to shift and then feel completely fucked.

Dammit!

I am NOT doing another effing time trial in Illinois. Not today, bitches!

I speed up my cadence and drop my head and go.

I barely look up.

I am just charging and see the girl with the nice wheels.

I bridge up to her and attempt to draft her wheel for a minute, but she isn't having it.

She moves to the side and I stay with her.

She is getting pissed.

Something snaps in me.

I think, "Fuck you then!" but say nothing, go around her and drop her...hard.

*thinks in head, "Ya should have worked with me bitch. I'm NICE"!*

Head down and pounding my pedals, I am bridging back up to Christine and can see the field again and instead of drafting her, as I pull next to her I yell, "Jump on my wheel!" and keep bridging to the field.

In my head I feel that the girl with the nice wheels must feel pretty stupid right now.

*does juvenile nah-nee-nah-nee-boo-boo dance at stupid girl*

With Christine and I now back in the field, we get a moment's rest...

...and then I see it...

...a hill in the distance...

I signal Cristel (my Ghisallo badass) to get to the outside with me and nod at Wild Card.

Cristel nods that she gets it and moves over so we can chase her down when she goes.

Predictable as my monthly cycle, Wild Card added her gears and went...

We chased...

(I don't know if you are counting here, but that was twice *TWICE* that I was aggressive in a road race...not counting the bridge work.)

I am the generally the most passive, just trying not to die, pulling over to puke racer in any given race at any given venue in any climate.

Generally when I get dropped, I make one effort to bridge and if it doesn't stick, I say "fuck it" and time trial my way through the race talking to myself, drooling, and attempting to spit without wrecking myself.

Once again I find myself next to Steph in a race...on a hill...and we glimpse at each other as we chase down Wild Card and the obligatory "Fuuuuuuuuckkkkkk...." comes out on an exhale.

The field spreads out a bit on that attack and Christine and I find ourselves in the back...with a gap starting to happen...

As we take this one turn, I struggle to get my breathing back to normal and have a small panic attack in exactly the same spot that I had one last year.

For some reason this amuses me mid-panic and I somehow push through it...

Christine is catching me on this climb...

We turn and I throw it back into the big ring and and it won't go...again...

I hit my lap button on the Garmin so I can see exactly how long this takes.

The gap widens between Christine and me.

Then some other chick (but NOT the one with the nice wheels) passes me.

(Where the hell did SHE come from?!?!?)

[insert words inappropriate for children, grandmas and God-fearing Christians here]

I am slamming the cranks around in my little ring chasing her and Christine and I let out the first of 2 very loud screams of frustration, pain, and something that I hope will scare Satan himself...

It wasn't a word, just a guttural, primal yell...

"He" clearly did not hear me...so as I pound on, I do it again (as if that shit will propel me and not really rob me of precious energy...Oy!)

I guess the second yell was scarier because the Satan of Cranks (or maybe of stretched out cables) released me and I was able to shift.

2 minutes and 46 futha mucking seconds.

CRAP!

Here we go.

Head down.

Inhale.

Aero.

GO!!!!!!!!!

I chase and as we take the turn a little over 10 miles in, I see Heaven.

There's a hill.

They are struggling with the climb.

2 bike lengths now...

I am about to pee myself with excitement that I have caught them...

...wait...

Why am I suddenly going slow...

2.5 bike lengths...

3...

I look down at my wheel...

"Why hello, Mr. Flat Tubie! So nice of you to show up and screw me in my race!"

No respect.

We had just passed volunteers on the turn so I think I will hustle back and get them to walkie-talkie (yes, I know they are called 2-ways or radios, but saying "walkie-talkie" makes me happy!) the wheel truck so I can get a wheel.

I am met by 2 of the nicest volunteers, a married couple who are painstakingly watching this dangerous turn and keeping cars from killing racers.

They do not have walkie-talkies.

Nor does the next wheel truck that comes through...

Ummmm...seriously?

Sooooo...I am not getting a wheel nor a ride? Really? I have to carry my bike back 10+ miles?

*scratching head*

I watch a few girls who I was clearly ahead of pass by and I start to get a little stressed.

Am I REALLY not going to finish this race????

I finished this race last year while dehydrated. I am feeling GOOOOOOD for the first time in a LONG time!

(I never underestimate the power of a little defiance with a side order of piss and vinegar...)

The volunteers and I chat while we all hope there will be some love in the form of assistance soon...

I would be willing to come in DFL at this point, but I want a wheel and I want to finish!!!

*hears crickets instead of wheel love*

I sigh and realize that it's over.

I'm not going to finish this race.

I am frustrated, but am so warmed by this very cool volunteer couple that it all melts away.

They offer me a ride back in their truck and I accept after standing in the sun dehydrating a while.

Mrs. Volunteer mans the turn and we load up Trent into their truck.

I sigh again.

My OGP is over...but the mental commitment to return next year is strong.

I am not a fan of road races...yet, but there is something really special about this race that makes you want to do it.

I was an immediate fan last year and this year was no different.

I was happy that I got to share/race it with some of the people whom I love...and introduce Jay to it.

He also became an immediate fan.

As I walked up to the Start/Finish to let the officials know I DNF'd, Aero gives me some good natured ribbing.

"Hey man, what can I say? If it's DFL or DNF, it's probably me right now...but I still have the prettiest bike in last place," I laugh.

...and some days that's good enough.

*kisses Trent and smacks his naughty saddle for being bad in the OGP*

He knows he's in for it now...there's a hot black Pinarello just WAITING for me to love it, right Dave?

*wink wink*