The Crazy Cookie Lady

I laid there in bed last night remembering that I had forgotten to call her. Again.

I had remembered because Jay and I were having a discussion about our moms.

How they were similar; how they were different.

I had realized that my mom had had a pretty lengthy history at pursuing unavailable men and then becoming pseudo-suicidal over her failure at making these men fall in love with her.

We talked of our moms' cooking habits and how mine was an awful cook, but a pretty fantastic baker.

Aside from the freakish and very wrong penis lollipops she made, which put me in therapy and surely played a part in my choosing Psychology as a major, she had a gift with the oven.

She baked the most detailed cakes and cookies.

Crafts, cakes, and cookies were the only times someone could prove that my mother's patience was not merely urban legend.

The other children on the block were frightened by her.

She had cookie molds for every holiday and not only would the cookie be the correct color (pumpkins were orange, black cats were...well...black cats) but she flavored the glaze so that orange had a slight orange taste and black tasted like licorice.

While in my adult years, I realized that this really isn't all that special...especially in the Midwest...but this was Brooklyn, NY and my mom was not particularly fond of children.

She always took whatever I had to sell for school to her job at the hospital and sold the shit out of it.

I was always in the top 2 in my class when these little sales drives occurred.

I used to think that one day she just sort of "snapped" and decided she didn't want to be a parent anymore.

As I grew older, I realized that she never did.

Children were tokens. Pawns. Reasons to make men stay. Bargaining chips to get my grandparents to buy her things. Baggage to make strangers pity her.

It must have come as a true shock when she realized that children need nurturing.

That you cannot simply put them in a kennel with a food dish.

The bigger difficulty was surely the love.

How does a loveless individual give that which she does not possess?

*shrugs*

She doesn't.

She gets on a plane and leaves.

She leaves her little girls, 10 and 3 years old, and heads to the beach.

She replaces her children with horses and men.

There will always be time for horses.

Always time for the man she "fell in love with" who was of course dating someone else when she "fell".

Always time for suicide notes, phony attempts at a very dramatic death, and hospital visits.

One afternoon, upon arriving home from school when she convinced me to move away from my beloved NY, I will hear sadness escaping from her bathroom.

As I entered the room, I saw the note written on the mirror with the lipstick she never wore.

The note was to "him".

No note or goodbye to her children or the parents who cleaned up her every mess.

No thank you for the love we gave her regardless of her cruelty.

I felt my lip drop like a toddler.

I had never seen a "note" before.

She was hunched over the toilet vomiting the alcohol that she never drank...which washed down the pills that she did always take...

I did not notice the revolver at her side and clenched lightly in her hand.

I simply asked her if she was OK.

Panic was clearly in my 14 year old voice.

In slow motion, or so it seemed, she raised the revolver at the doorway in which I stood.

In her mind, I do not believe she thought it was me, but I could be wrong.

I stood frozen and looked at her with eyes certainly wide enough to fill the void of love in that room.

Terrified.

This would not be one of those times that I should utter a sound.

There would be no talking my way out of her madness.

If it were a movie, you would hear a clock slowly ticking in an eerily amplified and distorted way.

Or you would hear my heart beat. Loud. Fast.

You would not hear me breathe, for I held it.

Her eyes were glazed and bloodshot from tears and her failure to embrace the family legacy of alcoholism.

She was bad at drunk.

Her green eyes glistened with pain and insanity.

She was simply not there.

She pulled the trigger.

*click*

I closed my eyes and I wondered if I would feel it.

How much would it hurt?

Would she still hate me when I laid there lifeless with my blood pouring on her white ceramic tile?

Would the sound of the shot snap her out of it?

Would she try to save me?

Would she instead kill herself?

Would she let the mortician put black eyeliner on me or would she make me wear some stupid little girl dress and put me in a plain box?

Would I have a face left?

This is taking a really long time...

I opened my eyes slowly, afraid that a bullet would hit my eye.

That would suck.

She was slumped over and crying on the floor.

I wanted to go to her and hug her. Help her.

I didn't.

Hello!

The crazy bitch just fired a gun at me! What would you do?

Me?

My pussy ass ran out of the condo and down to a neighbor...a friend of my mother.

Penelope.

Penelope called 911 and bravely went to check on my mom.

The police came.

The ambulance took her away.

I called my grandparents.

At the hospital there was hell to pay.

I had humiliated my mother by getting Penelope.

It mattered not that she fired a gun at me.

We were both stupefied as to why it misfired, as the chamber was not empty.

We never discussed this.

I think it freaked her out.

It was not long after her return home that she kicked me out.

She never forgave me.

Never let me forget it.

She bought more horses.

She sought and disbursed her revenge on me when she saw fit.

She would go to my grandparents' home and ransack & destroy my room with claims that I was doing drugs and having wild sex.

I wasn't. She just liked to punish me when she was pissed at the boyfriend who wouldn't love her.

In the ultimate betrayal, she made a bid to adopt a child when I was 18.

I was sure that a psychological evaluation and background check would be ordered.

In my mind, a judge would ask for testimony from her two existing children.

I felt that Jennifer and I would seal the deal that this women need ever be around other humans, let alone helpless children.

Apparently, when you are crazy, you can guilt your mom into helping fund your cuckoo and certain things can be made to go away if a little "monetary love" is thrown around.

The adoption went through a few years later.

Six months later I chose the least likely destination for my beach-happy family to visit and moved away from Florida forever.

For three years she would believe me to live in Mississippi, though that was due to her own confusion that Missouri and Mississippi were indeed two different states.

In 1999, she will call me when my aunt tells her I am scheduled for a mastectomy.

She will say the worst possible words at that time.

"I tried the best I could but things just never worked out for me."

Bullshit!

Victim!

"Goodbye, Denise."

I hung up.

20 years after she left, I would have a relationship with her.

It will be parent and child.

I am the parent.

She, still the eternal child.

Sweeter, but still a bit dead on the inside.

So dead that she will not even realize when she hurts others.

I will learn to feel simply sad for her.

One day, she told me about a new job that she got in the tiny town to which she had moved to escape the harsh reality of society.

To be alone with her many horses and her adopted son.

I will ask her if she has added me to her "Emergency Contact List".

She will tell me that she hasn't. That [name of adopted son here] gets everything when she dies, so why does it matter?

Hmmmm.

With all that she inherited and lost...

With all that she lost and found again...

In the end, it is still the money that crosses her mind.

At 57, she has learned little in this life.

At 57 and raised in a corporation rather than a family, even as the poster-child of failure, she will still chant the corporate mission statement...even as her position has been reduced and the board has taken away her power.

I am forced to play her game and consider the R.O.I. on this relationship...

I hover on the brink of terminating her position in my life...

...and realize that to complete that act, would make me equally wrong.

I sigh and pick up the phone and call her.

"Hey Mom. Calling to check in. What's shakin'...?"

I listen with an amused smile as she relays to me the miseries of her week.

I am not my mother's daughter.

So Tragic...*sniffle*

I feel for you.

To be so full of anger and bitterness that you just can't let it go.

What a victim you are.

I bitch about things, huh?

Yeah. Sure. Sure.

I write to write and almost every blog is tagged as "humor".

You're an idiot.

Sadly, you are an idiot whom I know.

...and those of us who know that you are doing this are laughing at you.

You're a sad, sad, little person, sweet tits.

I recommend you slide those hands down that kit and see if there's anything there.

What if your penis lost an inch every time you said something negative or mean?

At this point, you'd have a vagina.

And that's what you are.

A sad little pussy.

Complain and attack all you want.

I win every time you do.

If I didn't matter, you wouldn't be on my blog.

You are.

I'm not on yours.

You're not interesting enough.

No more of your lame ass comments will be posted.

You're just not worth it...but I'm guessing you've heard that a time or two before.

Why don't YOU quit the sport?

Why don't YOU go ride your bike and get better instead of worrying about me.

You've said it before, I suck, so I'm no threat to you.

...except that off the bike, I have and am everything you ever wanted...and that's gotta sting a little bit.

Crybaby? Me?

I'm not the one crying because someone else has a nicer bike...or car...or mtb shoes.

What was that song we sang when we were kids...

"Baby. Baby. Stick your head in gravy... Wash it out with bubble gum and send it to the Navy. Baby. Baby."

Now see? That was kind of fun!

Mmmmmkay...the little bitchslap-sing-along is over.

Jeeze...you're gonna lose your ever loving mind when I write the blog about my team's psychocross clinic, because YOU are not going....ANNNNNND Jeremy Powers IS going.

*hands X-Faxtor/Muscle Milk/Anonymous/Iknowyourrealidentityfucker a tissue*

Word of advice, know your opponents. Even "hidden" I know you better than you know me.

"What is is that you actually do for a living?" you asked me in casual conversation...

Truth? I make a lot of money crucifying ignorant, emotionally motivated assclowns who lack reason.

You may be faster than me, but I own the game that you have decided to play.

Your emotional imbalance and lack of experience has and will be your downfall.

The next time I look you in the eye, things will be very different.

Grab your ankles and pray, Sunshine.

*wink*

Sitting It Out

Well, I'm just not sure this is my summer.

I have battled to get back to zero after the Tour de Hermann and the shit with my chest/immune system just doesn't seem to agree.

Over the past few weeks, I have jumped back on the training pony, only to over train and end up sick again.

This sucks.

Last week I was scheduled for 4 races. And while that may not be a tough dealio for some racers, it was an ass kicker for me.

I started the week with a pretty fantastic wreck session in Castlewood on Monday evening.

And while the whole wreckfest was hilarious and fun as shit, the next day I fully realized what I had actually done to myself.

Though my left knee swelled immediately upon the first of the Monday night wrecks, it handed me my ass fully on Tuesday morning.

(I guess I should have stopped riding after I wrecked it Monday night...)

*shrugs*

Instead of babying it, I went out to Tuesday Night Worlds to spin on it.

Pretty purple bruises adorned my sun-kissed skin as I was told by my littlest that all the spots made me look like a purple Appaloosa.

(Nice.)

I put on my ugly knee brace and rode around.

It sucked.

I couldn't stand and mash.

My leg shook as I pedaled.

I started the B race and got nervous the 2nd time we hit the turn and backed off.

I took a lap off, but knew I needed to get my workout in.

I jumped back in, but waited for the field to pass so that I could work without impeding.

I practiced my diving skills.

Each revolution sent knives shooting through my body.

I have really slacked off with my pain management lately. It's been weeks since I've seen my acupuncturist. It sucks.

I heard myself actually growl as I pushed up the backside of the course.

Drool dangling on my lip.

For the first time in a while, I consciously focused on the words written with a black Sharpie on my handle bars.

"Push Thru"

*grooooooooaaaaannnnnn....*

I tuned it all out.

After a few laps, I rolled over to the kiddos and removed my wet knee brace.

Free.

I jump in again.

*fuuuuuucccckkkkkkkk!*

A few more laps and I am burning.

I go back to the kiddos.

Tears hover on the rims of my eyes and my lip trembles as I look at Ty and he knows how much this sucks.

Jay is still in there racing, so I grab my iPod and roll to work it out on the other side of the park.

NIN comes on the shuffle and I settle in as I let my mind go blank and let Trent (NIN) sing me through the pain of riding....ummmm, Trent (bike)...

The pain is fucking with me.

I finally fall asleep around 2:30am.

On Wednesday morning I get a text from Dan, my coach, that he thinks I may be over training. We set up a time to talk the next day.

However, I ride an easy ride Wednesday night with Jay to spin our legs.

Unfortunately, we also stay up working until 12am on a response to a project he is working on, so I am beat when the lights go out.

5am on Thursday dawns too soon and I am excited and anxious about the Dirt Crits that night.

It will be my first week in the B race.

Will my knee hold up?

Would I fall asleep mid-pedal stroke?

Would I be alert enough to hit the creek without blood on the cross bike?

Do I have enough Absolut Citron for my post-race lemonade?

I talk to Dan and he is unhappy with my beating the crap out of myself the week leading up to that weekend's races at Tour de Champaign.

I promise to be a good girl and I know he doesn't believe me and can tell that I am hopped up on caffeine and excitement like a Chihuahua on crack as I gush on about the dirt crits and the new cx set up.

He pats me on the head through the phone and heads off to the mountains for the weekend.

I race the B race and do better than I thought I would, though I would never have made it through as well without Mark Grumpke and Jiri Deksasky.

*high fives both badasses*

Mark would let me pass him on the backside of the course and then kick my ass at the creek.

I think at some point in the race I actually told him that I love him.

(Priceless.)

On the final lap, I let Jiri pass on the bridge, as he is ahead of me on laps.

Because it is the last lap, he rides just ahead of me, but seems to check back to make sure I'm still there and not crashed...or dead.

We hit the creek and we both dismount and cyclocross-carry our bikes across.

It is a very "Chariots of Fire" theme-song-playing-moment as we high five each other and run up together.

As we finish up the lap, Jiri says that we should make a big production about finishing.

We start screaming and cheering ourselves on in the last stretch and keep going as we hit the turn and mash toward the matrix...

I keep telling him to come up, but he will not cross the finish before me.

No matter. He was a lap up, so he beat me regardless. We knew this.

It was a hilarious and spectacular finish to a fantastic race.

I am high with excitement as I crawl into bed, knowing I have to be at the office by 6am so I can leave for Champaign.

As we are ready to leave, I am exhausted.

I spent the day talking myself into driving to Champaign.

I wanted to be in Champign, but I wanted to blink myself there and wished that teleporting was a reality.

By the time Jay and I arrive in Champaign, we are both exhausted and hungry.

My glands are swollen and my eyes are red.

My voice is going.

When we awake Saturday morning, I am sore from head to toe and my nose is stuffed.

Throat is sore and I am listless.

I want to sleep for days.

We talk it over for a few minutes and decide I should sleep and race the next day.

We grab a bite and watch my race from the restaurant.

Anona is on fire and kicks the field's ass...by a LOT.

It starts to rain as the next race takes off.

Hard.

Fantastic.

We go back to the hotel and sleep another few hours.

I roll out of bed again and drive to the course as Jay rides so I can help set up.

Jay races and I have little energy to run the course like I normally do.

It is a tough race and wicked fast.

I am detached from it.

I feel weird.

Sleepy.

Numb.

The next morning, I feel worse.

I had spent the better part of Saturday talking myself into racing on Sunday, but now that Sunday was here, I wanted to sleep.

Warm bed.

No kids.

No chores.

*yawn*

I wash the dry (but super sexy) dried snot off my face and tell Jay, with what is left of my voice, that I am not racing.

This is a change for him.

Usually he is telling me that I am not racing while I pout like a child.

I think he actually worried a bit, but followed my lead.

I sat down for 90% of his race.

After his race, I got on my bike for the first time that weekend and rolled around with him.

I wanted to sleep.

We got in the car to drive home.

I wanted to sleep.

I drove.

I awoke Monday with less voice, more pain and realized that I had an 8am meeting.

Ughhhhh!

Jay and I rolled around easy that night as we discussed my plan for the week now that I was flat out sick.

No Tuesday Night Worlds.

I rode with Steph and Quiz and did some hill efforts, but rode tempo for the most part of the 22 miles.

Gum and snot.

Yummmm!

My bike went unloved Wednesday night as I relaxed with Jay and the kiddos.

I took some TheraFlu Nighttime before going to bed in the hopes that it would give me my miracle for the Thursday Dirt Crits.

It did the opposite.

It "loosened" stuff up in my chest and sinuses, but now I am a coughing weezing wreck.

So pretty.

Then it happened...

I made a comment that I might still try to race tonight, and Dan, being what he is supposed to be, my coach, nipped that in the bud so quick my head almost spun.

I made my promise.

I won't race.

I will be "good" and spin, but no efforts.

Tour de Soulard is Sunday.

...and we all know I need my snot cleared and gone so that I can look fast in Dennis Fickinger's race photos of all those wicked turns.

*snicker*

So, though it will "kill" me, I will be sitting the Dirt Crits out this week...though I will be there to support my friends and cheer on Ty.

This will be a tough one, but I feel confident that I can do it.

I can sit it out.

*pout*

When You Find You, Come Get an Ass Kickin'...

I'm generally an optimist...OK, more of a realist, but when I hear cry baby songs on free radio like this mess that David Cook has just released, I want to vomit and then punch his mother for having him neutered.

He sings, "When you find you, come back to me..."

Really?

Seriously?

And men say that women are nuts?

Dude, man up.

Likely your semi-psycho girlfriend gave you the "It's not you, it's me" speech and you didn't see it for what it was.

...or...

You caught her doing your best friend and in a last minute attempt to keep you from slitting your wrist, she told you that she was confused and "lost" and being the whipped assclown that you are, you bought it.

Honestly, I realize that true love does exist, but this scenario isn't it.

What kind of nutless candyass waits around for some unbalanced cuckoo (who likely has 3 or more cats) to "find" herself?

She isn't leaving to find herself, bro. She is leaving because she has likely gone out of her ever loving mind from you serenading her with that sappy ear poison you call music as soon as she walks through the door from a long day at a real job.

Likely she is tired of your whiny neediness and simply wants you to throw her on the bed and ride her like a Pinarello.

You're going to "keep your things right where you left them...I'll be here for you..."

Yeah.

OK.

You may just be nuttier than she is.

Some dude tells me he's keeping my stuff like a shrine and I assure you, I'm moving to another state.

Your friends won't tell you this, David because they are all afraid to hurt your "sensitive" feelings while you are in this "fragile" state, but I'm here for you.

...but, ummmm...do NOT come back to me. I'm all stocked up on cuckoo.

However, I heard Daughtry just dumped his bitch and needs a new one...

Dear X-Factor

In an attempt to help you with your marketing, I am giving you some much "deserved" attention today. I want to help. I'm a helper. It's what I do.

OK, that's not it at all. Truth is, I had so much fun writing my response to you that I wanted to make sure both you and I got the attention you so rightly deserve.

The below are the comments from yesterday's blog, "My Wealth and Speed".

xfactor said...
I'm surprised to see you post such a lengthy response defending your 'richness' against some 5-word comment. Why stoop to that level; as they say... I mean, why even give it a second thought. *smirk*Oh, and where were you in the 'B'Race?!?!
July 8, 2009 12:34 PM

cory redmond said...
I have nothing TO defend. I'm not financially wealthy and work in the construction industry.This wasn't so much a response as it was a pondering on my part as to why someone would be so angry toward me when they don't know me. Frankly, I don't give a shit if some socially dysfunctional fucktard doesn't like me. It's probably better for me. Lol With regard to the B race, I was exactly where I said I would be and pretty pleased about yesterday. I did what Jay and my coach wanted me to do...especially considering my Monday wreck and current race-heavy schedule. Why do you ask?
July 8, 2009 1:23 PM

xfactor said...
hah, race heavy schedule. you have to finish the races for that to count...or do more than a handful of laps. the problem this brosky has with your bike is that you are a cat 4 woman, and you're riding a better cross frame than much more deserving riders. its a cross bike...pros dont even ride carbon.
July 8, 2009 10:56 PM

[presses button to let the fun begin]

First, let me thank you for your comments, X-Factor. While I may not agree with you, readers like you only prove why bike shops like me riding their bikes. Love me or hate me, people always know what I'm riding...and people like yourself have clearly taken extra care to make certain you can "accurately" report every component and fiber on each of my bikes. I'm not kidding.

If you actually read my blogs, you would know that I have never patted myself on the back for being a racer and actually pretty recently wrote in a blog that pokes fun of the fact that I am most often simply a marketing piece for a bike or team.

There's a reason why, regardless of my obvious racing suckage, people notice me. I promote products and companies in a positive and excited way. I am friendly to people and always have a smile...especially when talking bikes or talking to someone new to cycling. I get people in the saddle and often, into the bike shop.

How many other last place racers can you name? Can you tell me who they race for or which bike they ride? I doubt it.

Mike Weiss jokes that I must have a secret PR department. I don’t. However, I am a fantastic team player. I am always seen cheering my friends in their races (and mine), regardless of my racing status on that day. Also, I just really like bicycles and when Mike Weiss, Jay Thomas, or Russ and Adrienne sell me a bike, wheels or upgrades, they know that my ass will be in that saddle. Rolling marketing...free of charge. Don’t think we don’t all know that there is a bit of the, "Hey! She sucks and has a badass bike! If SHE can do it, I can do it!” mentality going on. There is. You’ve proved it. You want my bike. Our plan worked...and always will.

Believe me, I do understand your frustration about "deserving" and fairness. And I'm not sure if it's your refreshing and youthful naivety or your beaten down bitterness which intrigues me the most about you, but I get it. I get your frustration.

Currently I have an image in my head of you as a 6 year old boy throwing a blue streaked fit when his mom buys him a GI Joe when all the cool kids had Transformers. I imagine that temper tantrum didn't work then and it probably won't work out too well for you later in life either.

Look, I am never going to be a great racer. So what? Me getting or not getting this cx bike is not going to make you a better racer, so it really shouldn't matter to you.

I don't owe you or anyone an explanation about this bike, but I do find your comments rather amusing. You clearly have this bike, and the business of racing in general, confused a bit.

1. This is not Ridley’s top of the line bike. It is mid-level. It is way under $3K, so not a bank breaker, at all. It's a teaser, if you will.

2. If there is a Pro who cannot afford my bike, they must not be a very good Pro or not have a very good deal, since soooooo many pro deals come with bikes. (Dude, my boyfriend isn't a Pro and he has a bike deal!) Why? They want people riding their bikes...in lots of races. People who love racing and will promote the sport and the products. Want a Ridley? Apply for a Ridley sponsorship. Seriously. I don't think many, if anyone, has one here in town, so they'd at least read your app. I'll even help you write your essay. (Not a joke.)

On a funnier and lighter side, of course a stupid Cat 4 woman needs a carbon cross bike that the Pros don’t even ride! You said it yourself. I’m weak. Pros are strong. They can lift heavier bikes. Additionally, because I am so slow, there is almost no chance that I will wreck my carbon bike like the faster and more deserving racers who are right there in the heat.

...but seriously, wouldn’t that suck more? You spend the money on a carbon hottie just to have it crack in a crash? Now THAT would suck!

OK, this was fun. You really are my favorite commenter and you keep me on my toes. I hope we get to chat in person some time. I bet you’re a trip!

Next up, I will be writing a blog about my wide feet with their uneven toes and how I constantly buy absolutely fucking spectacular shoes which I wear to my job at a construction company in Jefferson County. (Believe me, I feel your pain on this one too!) I want you to brush up on your Italian designers so you can beat me down about how non-supermodel feet like mine do not deserve pretty Prada sandals.

*blows kisses*

PS: I will be sucking tonight in the B race at the Alpine Shop Dirt Crits. I will be the girl in the Fulcrum Coaching skinsuit riding the badass Cannondale CX-5 cross bike sold to me by Mike Weiss at Big Shark, running the creek in my Specialized BG Pro carbon mtb shoes and drinking out of my Specialized Susan G Koman water bottle, both purchased at Mesa Bicycles. Pre-race, I can be seen slamming my raspberry Hammer gel purchased at Trek St. Louis. See ya there!

*wink*

My Wealth and Speed

While I was initially really annoyed to receive a comment on the "Name My Bike" blog from Muscle-Milk which stated simply, "you are rich and slow," at almost midnight, it really made me think.

Because I know the person wasn't intending to be kind, I realized that they likely were not referring to any richness of character traits.

That being said, I also knew there was a pretty good chance that the person didn't know me very well...or at all.

I know this because anyone who does actually know me, knows that I am far from possessing any financial wealth and considering my ever-growing mountain of medical bills which are not covered by insurance but instead paid out of my pocket more often than not, I am not likely to be rich within the next 20 years...unless Ed McMahon knocks on my door.

*looks at newspaper from week before last*

Ooooops! Looks like Ol' Ed is finally done ringin' doorbells with freakishly large checks for weird, balloon-filled photo ops...My bad.

Until tonight, I was unaware that a 5 year old station wagon meant that I was livin' large.

Since Mr./Ms. Milk posted on a blog about my new cx bike, I guess they assume I'm rolling in cash.

I'm not.

I had to cut way back on some things to be able to afford this cycling season, and I'll be dammed if I'll be treated like some spoiled Trust Fund Baby.

I didn't marry a rich dude. I married an engineer...when I was 29 and had long been busting my ass on my own.

I had a Mercedes and he had a Chrysler Sebring.

We sold my Benz to put a new kitchen in our house.

When I left, I took a picture frame and a Pampered Chef casserole dish that I bought from a lady in my office.

I bought a Jeep.

In my lifetime I have lived in some very fine houses and I have lived in my car.

I have slept on the floor, on the couch, and in my car.

I have eaten at glorious restaurants and I have eaten Ramen noodles for months on end.

What I have always had was strength. Both mental and physical. For this I am fortunate.

I grew up with a mom who was a manic depressive and slit her wrists out of boredom and for attention.

I was always at a loss on how to save her.

I saved myself. She eventually followed.

I was rich with imagination and creativity.

I was rich with determination to be different.

I was rich with the will to never look back.

I was rich with the knowledge of how NOT to treat people.

That may be why at this point in my life, an oldish/youngish woman in the beginning stages of menopause and about to celebrate my 10th anniversary of surviving something I have been told multiple times would kill me, that I am confused by someone's preoccupation with what material things another may have.

So, I have a new bike. So what?

I also have two beautiful children, not purchased at Saks, whose eyes I look into every time I get a bad test result and convince them and myself that it will all work out.

Have you seen me with my children?

We are rich in affection and love and independence.

You worry about my bikes?

You want a new bike, then go buy one.

If you can't afford it, save or figure it out.

Why does my bike matter to you?

Why does it piss you off?

Why does the concept of me on my bike piss you off?

Have I ever run over you with one?

I'm generally happy when on my bike...unless I am bleeding...or like I was today, which was suffering with bruises from head to tow and a knee brace as I tried to get a smooth revolution...

Did I make a mean face at you? I assure you, it was probably pain, not meanness.

Have you seen me with my bikes?

If so, you would clearly see that regardless of speed, I adore my bikes.

They are not cute little toys for me to play with until I get bored.

They are alive, as am I when I am on them.

I am not the female version of a midlife crisis gone wrong.

I didn't buy a bike instead of a Corvette.

When my mother left, I was 10.

I got a mauve Raleigh 12 speed for that birthday.

I was immediately free.

Free of every fucked up emotion that a 10 year old could feel when her mom leaves because she simply doesn't want to be a parent anymore.

Free of feeling lost as I was raised away from my younger sibling, something from which we have never recovered.

Free to explore a city that no 10 year old girl should be exploring on her own.

Free to go where I wanted, without witness...so long as I was home by the time the street lights came on.

Free to speed away from mean girls who wanted to kick my ass.

Free to go all the places that other kids needed a mom to drive them.

Free.

Free.

Free.

You cannot put a price on that.

My entry-level road bike was the first thing that I bought with my divorce settlement.

It felt good.

It was nice to be free again.

I truly am sorry that my material items, whatever limited knowledge you have of them, bothers you so.

My bikes would only be material to someone who has never been where I have.

For me, putting a price on them is an insult...and is probably why I have a difficult time parting with them.

They each hold so many stories for me and each has lived a life.

While I am fortunate to have the bikes that I do, I am most happy that I am rich in so many things, including beautiful and healthy children, wonderful friends and challenging opponents.

And if you consider it a bit longer...or possibly simply mature a little more, you will realize that whether it pertains to racing or life, it is strength that matters most. Not speed.

...and while I am certainly not the strongest person alive, chances are that I have you beat there.

10 Things Overheard on an MTB Adventure with Cory & Lisa

10. "...So this next trail has some descents, but nothing too tricky..." (Heard by Lisa just prior to them sliding down Cardiac.)

9. "Well...Adrienne said I needed to work on my descents...I'm not sure she meant this though..." (Cory laughing as her cross bike bombs down fast and furious descent.)

8. "...Did you hear me scream? I was hoping I had a better story for you other than a cute and fuzzy squirrel almost got sliced in my spokes thus wrecking me off that cliff. That's a little embarrassing..." (Said to Lisa after a suicidal squirrel made a go for it while I was riding the edge.)

7. "Fuck! Owwwww! Shit! Damn!! That hurt! ...Yep, this is still better than marriage...at least my marriage!" (Said to Lisa just after the big pedal-knee slap down during losing battle with tree limb.)

6. "I'm sorry...what? I couldn't hear you over my breathing..." (Said by Lisa after being *tricked* by Cory to ride Love.)

5. "I had to stop. I lost my sunglasses in my boobs..." (Said by Lisa after rough ride caused glasses to slip a bit. )

4. "Hey! I think I may have this whole 'fear thing' conquered!" (Said to Lisa just before #3)

3. "Hey! That was almost an endo!!!" (Said to Lisa after a descent into a hairpin when I had thankfully unclipped my foot fast enough to ground myself while Christian went flying and only barely dragged me to the ground.)

2. *OOOOF!* "Cookie check...Yep, it's still there!" (Said by Cory after smacking hoo-ha on stem while out of the saddle on a climb...and slipped.)

1. "Yep, I am for sure going to bleed today!" (Said by Cory after semi-brilliant decision to defy gravity/physics and ride cross bike down Cardiac.)

Dirt Crit 1: July 2, 2009

With exception to the entire cyclocross season, the dirt crits are the race series that I look forward to the most.

The dirt crits are an opportunity for me to hop on my beloved cx bike, Christian, and spark the fire in me that I am generally unaware was dormant until the actual week and possibly the day of the first Dirt Crit.

On Monday prior to the start of the series, I rode the course on my cx bike to get myself reacquainted with my bike and the course.

It was glorious.

I felt alive.

I felt bad.

Naughty.

Like I was doing something that I shouldn't.

It was niiiiiiice...

Warming up on the flats by the river, I am reintroduced to the sand pit and have my first wipe-out of the dirt crit season...

Thankfully sand is soft, and sand is the only downfall this bike has seen.

As we ride the course, I feel myself aging in reverse.

I am suddenly 12 years old and the kid who used to venture out on her bike all over Brooklyn, NY and sometimes find herself down at the beach riding in the crisp and salty May air at Riis Park in Rockaway.

Dangerous.

Thrilling.

Happiness.

As Thursday morning dawns, I am bitchslapped by MoNa (Motha Nature) and am cramped over like angry trolls have kicked the snot out of me in my sleep.

I am hunched over and feverish.

(This happens every 28 days or so...)

*snicker*

I drag my ass into the office and the last thing I want to do is work, work, or work...but if I take the day off, I cannot hardly justify racing that night. So I work.

By the end of the day, I am still not sure if I am going to race.

I feel like ass as I drive home, but catch Ty's excitement as soon as I walk through the door.

He is kitted up and ready to go.

*beams with pride at her bratty little mtb racer in his pretty white kit*

He starts his normal trash talking about ass-handings and smack downs and I have to bite.

We wage a dollar on who will win between us.

(I of course bet on me over him.)

*smirk*

I kit up and load the bikes.

I am anxious to not only race, but to make a good showing with the cx bike.

Admittedly, as many times as I have ridden/raced this course on my cx bike, I feel sort of jinxed by Ralph's prediction that us cx'ers are going to flat.

I have never had a flat issue on this course, but know anything's possible.

I buy an extra tube.

We get to Castlewood and ride the course for any changes and feel confident when the whistle goes off in the C race.

I have one goal.

Beat Gabrielle.

I love the girl, but she has been kickin' ass at some MTB races and if I can beat her, that will be super awesome. The woman trains like a maniac.

*hugs Gabrielle*

We take off and I am able to advance on the turns through the matrix while some racers get tangled.

I take off after Gabrielle.

I hear Lo behind me telling Brit to jump on my wheel.

I want Brit to do well and have fun since I sort of helped push her into the race.

*high fives Brit*

Unfortunately, I don't think anyone was prepared for me to have an actual game plan.

I take off and go up on the grass to pass some racers and close the gap between me and Gabrielle.

I am behind Ty when we hit the creek.

Gabriell is 2 racers ahead of Ty.

Sadly, the racer in front of Ty wipes out on the dive into the creek...and just lays there.

He's OK, but not making an attempt to get up.

The poor guy looks like a turtle on his back.

Just as I pick up my bike to step over him to run the creek, he gets up.

Ty and I run around him and I tear ass across the creek and run up before mounting Christian (smacking my pelvic bone on my saddle) and charge after Gabrielle.

I catch her.

I'm there, but biding my time before I pass.

We come through the front of the course and I feel good until I hit the pavement and hear a sound that I hate.

"THUD!"

The sound of thinly covered rim on concrete.

WTF?!?!

*Thinks in head "DAMMIT RALPH!"*

I hop off the course as Gabrielle rolls on.

Bad words swirl in my head.

I watch racers pass by and am actually sad. (Yes, sad.)

Then I see Cody Jones from Ballwin Cycles.

I tell him I got a flat.

I joke about the jinx and he tells me he has a wheel.

"A cx wheel????" I squeal at him?

"Yeah. In my car. Do you want it?"

"Heck yes, I want it!!!" and nearly jump up and down.

As Cody rides up to his car, I feel the time ticking as racers go by...

I am reduced to Chihuahua-like behavior by the time he returns and he barely gets the wheel on as I rip the bike away and jump back into the race.

Holy hell I have a lot of ground to cover...

I dig deep and haul ass.

I see some racers and add my gears to plow past them.

I scared the almighty crap out of one as I came up on her and said, "On your left!" and hopped back onto the trail...

Through the creek, running up the hill and remounting to close this gap...

I don't even consider my brakes as I take a sharp left through the mud onto the trail between the brush and take extra enjoyment in my bike sliding through the turn and yet staying remarkably upright.

I can feel someone coming up on me.

It's a dude.

"Not now, sweet tits," I think as I dig deeper.

We hit the gravel climb at the bridge and I have to run it up.

He says, "I don't know how you are going so fast on that little bike!" and we laugh.

I keep it up and as I cross I am told "One lap to go!"

I have to catch that other chick.

As I take my turns fast heading toward the creek, I see her in the grassy section.

"Hold on, sweetheart!" I say under my breath to her as I close in on her and pass her on the turn.

I tell her she is doing great and dive into the creek.

DONE! I passed her!

I dive into the creek and come up on Casey and Karen.

Karen tells me to pass them.

No way.

Casey is ahead of me for contention. I'm not passing her. She's my buddy (and a badass 12 year old racer!) and I'm not in contention anymore.

I did what I needed to do.

We ride it out together and finish.

I didn't beat Gabrielle...or Ty, but I also didn't screw with the confidence of a developing young racer, and that felt pretty good...and right.

I did however enjoy more than I should have, scaring the shit out of the other 2 chicks...but I hope they keep racing and scare the crap out of me back one day.

Next race...The B race.

*wink*