Halloween Bubba-licious

Last week was Bubba #4, The Sprints of Darkness.

It was Halloween night. There would be costumes and mayhem.

It would be fantastic!

Because of all the rain in the week leading up to the race, the course was the muddiest of the season thus far.

The very thought of that made me giddy like a six year old on Christmas morning.

Kate, Cristel, and myself had decided to dress as Hooters girls, a separate idea of Kate's and Karen's (who had to miss the race due to being out of town).

We were like giggly school girls as we planned the irony of us tiny-titted ladies in the boob-friendly costumes.

Soooo, as the rain poured down that week, I got more and more excited about the race.

I was damn near beside myself as we pulled up.

My race at this venue last year did not go so spectacularly as it was effing cold, and my rear wheel feel off after descending the Green Monster and taking a sharp turn. (Honestly, it would have sucked for me without the wheel falling off since I had not yet embraced racing in 38 degree weather.)

This year was almost hot and steamy at 39 degrees.

39 degrees. Hooters uniform. HUGE blond wig. Lotsa mud.

*has mental 'crossgasm and continues*

My initial intent had been to simply have a blast with the girls and ham up the costumes...and finish the race.

Then I pre-rode the course.

Well HELLLLLLO!

Even going slow I had mud in my ginormous blond wig.

As I bonded with Christian, I could feel my confidence grow as my Fangos glided over the mud and I mentally prepared my game.

This would be no ordinary race for Cory.

You could not have smacked that smile off my face.

As we lined up at the start, I was relaxed and playful.

No stress. No anxiety.

(No, I did not do a bong water shot before the race.)

I was just completely zen.

The race went off and I worked my plan and held my pace.

Then we hit the chicane.

All mud and 180 degree turns, including one around a concrete light post.

(Good times!)

I would cringe at the light post imagining boys wiping out and hitting it. OUCH!

(Sorry, sometimes the gents tend to "overshoot" things a bit.)

*snicker*

Because I was at this point hanging with the boys, I didn't want them to wipe out. There was not enough space to get around them and I would have to barrier them if they wiped out and I think that may be frowned upon...but I'd have to ask an official...

*makes note for future clarification*

The barriers were a no-brainer in this race. 3 railroad ties after a muddy descent.

MMMMMM...I love me some muddy descent running dismounts!

Because it was a short course, it slopped up pretty quickly.

As the race went on (and the course conditions deteriorated), I was able to catch some people and advance.

This gave me what I had always heard about but considered a myth...an exercise high.

Something clicked.

The course became a dance.

On the sharp turns, I took the lines less chosen.

On the straights, I rode the less traveled grass unless drafting off a boy.

Cristel (MO State Road champion, time trial stud, and fellow "Hooter-crosser") and I stayed together most of the race.

As we finished this one particular lap, the lap counter read "3".

That "should" have meant we had 3 laps to go.

Cristel and I talked through the next lap, mentally preparing for 2 more laps to go.

However, when we came through again, the lap sign said "6".

WTF?!?!

I was confused and mind fucked for about 6 seconds and then decided to ride the lap and see what it said next time.

"5".

*sigh*

OK. It is what it is. That fucking sucked, but it is what it is.

I clicked the mind on again. (SOOOOO glad I found that button!)

I settled into my pace and advanced again in the muddy chicane.

Cristel was still with me...and then we hit the barriers.

I cleared them and as I remounted I heard Cristel behind me yell something about "losing her shorts".

I looked back and see the familiar orange and assume she is joking.

(She does that from time to time. The girl is silly!)

I hit the pavement and recover and speed up.

Then the hairpin back into the off-camber mud...

I add a couple gears and dig in.

I catch up to some men and settle back into a nice pace.

Literally every revolution of the pedals is a dance step.

Every shift of the gears calculated.

As I go through I see the sign.

1 lap to go.

as I make my turn off the first stretch of pavement onto the grass, I feel my gears slip.

"NO! Not now, dammit!"

(I think I actually said this out loud.)

I added a gear and it held.

I knew I could not drop back down.

As I exit the chicane and approach the muddy hill, the guy I am behind gets stuck in the mud and stops short on the climb.

I have *just* enough space to go right without wrecking him.

*wipes brow*

That was effing close. Wrecking in the last lap would suck super bad!

As I clear the barriers and hit the pavement again, I feel my body dance.

The hardest part of the course is behind me.

I am home free.

As I take my last muddy turn and climb, I see the dark pavement of the final stretch inches ahead of me and I am pure magic.

I add my gears and sprint it out.

The white of my Hooters uniform is splattered with mud and my legs are coated.

FUCK YEAH!

Suddenly all the hell...the surgeries, the recovery, the pain, the frustration, the suckage...is gone and I am pure disco ball and magic from the inside out.

I'm not the "girl next door" of the Hooters image...I am way dirtier...and that's pretty spectacular.

The Chronicles of a Chronic DNF'er

I am not a racer.

I enter races.

I ride in the races.

I often stop mid-race and "DNF" (Did Not Finish).

Usually this happens in criteriums. I finished my road race.

Here's the dealio...

I entered my first road crit in April of this year. I was not prepared and pretty much did not know what to expect. I soon found out.

I was trembling at the start on the freezing April morning and honestly considered peeing my pants simply for warmth. I had ridden the course over and over the night before with Steph and felt comfortable with it. I knew the inclines and I knew the turns. I knew where the suicidal squirrel liked to play/screw with us. However, on race day, I was scared shitless.

The whistle blew and the racers took off. I had to chase them from the start and was unfamiliar on what the strategy was supposed to be. I got panicked. I started to hyperventilate. I got dropped pretty dammed fast. F**K!!!

I kept riding, but not knowing (at the time) what to do when I saw the field coming back around, I pulled over to the side and stopped (yes, STOPPED!) to let them pass. Apparently, what I was supposed to do was NOT stop and jump back in on someone's wheel and simply be down a lap. So when Carrie screamed, "Jump on, Cory!" I looked at her like she was effing nuts. Hmmmmmm...dead stop to futha mucking fast was not likely from this old gal. So I started riding, but in no way was I even close to the field.

I mentally waved "ba-bye" as they zoomed on...

As I approach the final turn for that lap, a sweet, tall bald man cheers me on and tells me that I can do it. I think, "Jeeeze! Even that guy knows that I suck!"

That thought makes me cry.

(I will later find out that the sweet, bald guy was Phil, Steph's hubby, but as I had only met him once and he was in his cycling gear, I did not know who he was.) Steph and I will laugh about this the next day.

I made it around for my third lap but was so mentally toast that I dropped out, rolled over to the sidelines to my friends, took off my helmet and burst into tears.

(Holy crap.)

That did not stop me from entering another crit a couple weeks later.

This time I hung in for longer, but had already been dropped and was about to be lapped for the 2nd time when I pass Carrie and the elite team and they are cheering, shouting encouragement to us from the sidelines...and then my boss (and team sponsor) yells out, "You're doin' good, Cor!" and under my breath (once I have passed him and am out of earshot) I mumble, "Shut the f*ck up, Bob."

I then start hyperventilating again...and burst into tears.

Karma much?

*snort*

Needless to say, I DNF'ed that friggin' race as soon as I finished that awful lap.

(This shocks you, yes?)

I had done better than my first race, but still pretty awful and I was pissed.

THIS IS JUST NOT FUN!!!!

I was screaming this in my head (SCREAMING IT!) and wondering why I had ever started racing when it was making me dread being on my beloved, beautiful bicycle. Ughhhh!

"I am not a racer", I said to Steph. If I wanted to be, I would be. Something in me must not want it or it would be there.

I like to go fast. I like to push myself. I like to play with my recovery. I like to manipulate my body.

I do not like stress.

I do not like the unknown.

It freaks me out.

Maybe if I knew what to expect, I could relax and just race...but I hardly think so. You're sort of not supposed to "relax". Maybe I need to smoke a big fattie before I race or chug bong water... Not sure.

Sooooo...for whatever reason, I entered a road race (The O'Fallon Grand Prix).

I'm not certain as to why, except that I enjoyed the idea of not going super f*cking fast in a circle. I liked that I could get dropped and not have the same people see me suck over and over and over again each lap.

I liked that I could suck without witness and that although my time would clearly indicate my suckage, I would not have to endure their visual scorn or pity for/at my suckage.

I was sick as a dog the night before the race and possibly fell off the toilet and slept on the bathroom floor.

I was dehydrated and physically and mentally exhausted.

(Seems like a FANTASTIC time to enter a 28 mile road race, yes?)

I drove out to the race with Steph and Phil and literally decided to race because it was better than sitting in a 90+ degree car for an hour and a half while everyone else raced. I got the added bonus of being able to switch categories to the Masters Women after I registered. (They gave out free Depends undergarments instead of t-shirts...) Just kidding.

All I had to do was:

1. Not poo my pants

2. Not Crash

3. Finish the effing race

I was golden.

...until 3 miles in when the panic thing happened.

This time I was pissed.

I knew it would pass, but I knew I had to ride alone. (Not ideal for a race, but totally ideal for my heart.)

I worked past it and the rest of the 25 miles were pretty OK. I stopped a couple times to throw up and once to remove articles of clothing as the temperature was at times 97 degrees...and once to cross my legs and squeeze my knees together and mentally will my intestines not to make me poo my shorts. (It worked...or I scared the sh...nevermind.)

The last 500 meters was a hill, so that was fun.

I finished!

I felt great!

(Yay me!)

OK, so then...

I see that VeloForce is putting on "Dirt Crits" at Castlewood State Park.

I am NOT an MTB chick.

The last time I had ridden my mountain bike was March 2007.

Ty LOVES mountain biking.

This is something Ty and I can do together! Cool!

Why I thought I should jump into an MTB race when I had not touched my mountain bike in over a year is beyond me.

The race starts and I am between Ty and Susan.

I knew Susan and I could catch Ty in the hills because we were stronger. Unfortunately, Ty wiped out on it and went over the side. Holy sh*t!

He was OK, but now "Mama Bear" had her panic on. That was my baby!

We keep racing but I am no longer focused.

I hit a tree root and go airborne and crash down on my entire right side.

Unfortunately, my left foot was still clipped in and that made something magically painful happen to my left knee. I get up fast so that the other racers, including Ty, can get by and I get back on and continue riding.

My left foot is going numb and is a bit tingly.

I pedal on and come up to the creek that I am supposed to cross.

I must have thought they said "crash", because that is exactly what I did.

Wiped right the f*ck out because I couldn't get my now numb left foot out of the clip when I started to lose my balance on the unfamiliar terrain of loose rocks.

I am happy to see that there is a photographer there at that very moment with his camera poised to exploit my suckage.

(Oh GOOOOOOODY!)

I figure I am going to simply now pick up my bike and run across the creek with it.

I am confused by the weight of this monster and realize that I have become too accustomed to the carbon of my sweet and sexy road bike.

*sniffles like giant pansy*

I'm pretty sure I said some pretty choice words at that exact moment as I feel my knee tremble under the weight.

"You may as well walk up the hill now," says some snarky, non-racing bastard with a smirk at the creek.

"Oh, ya think so, wise ass?" I think to myself and imagine pushing the fat bastard into the creek face/belly first.

What I actually say is, "Thanks!" and give him my best damsel-in-distress-aren't-you-the-big-effing-hero-look laced with pure sugar and magic.

I climb up the hill and pull over for a second to look at my left knee.

It looks like I have 2 knees...on the left side. That cannot be a good thing. I hop back on the bike and ride on. I cannot clip in. I cannot move the knee or feel my toes. I "one leg drill" it back to the "almost start" and take myself out of the race.

I of course, DNF.

This time I really don't care. It's almost funny at this point and I think I am expected to DNF. At least I had a "battle wound" this time to show for it. I felt good though. It was wicked fun.

Fast forward a week...

Another Dirt Crit. It pours rain 5 minutes prior to race time. Fantastic.

I have puddles in the front of my shoes at the start. Ty and I agree that we will take it slow as it is as slick as slug sh*t. The course goes the opposite way that week. We know there is a drop into the creek this time. A now muddy and slippery drop to add to the rocks. SWEET!

We are somewhat stuck behind this one dude and we work with him a bit and think positively...

1 lap down. Cool.

Just as we ride past the officials, the dude we were stuck behind DNFs. He just rides off the course to his car as his buddies razz him about "getting back in there". He doesn't.

We hit the drop to the creek again and I hit the side with my left foot. It then won't clip back in and I tank at the creek and have to walk up. I try several times to clip in and cannot. I pull over and grab onto a tree and try to force my foot in. No go. As I am covered in mud and have mud in my eye, I think that I have lost my cleat. I pedal on, but now feel less confident.

Dammit! I was having fun! I was DOING it!

I get to the close of lap 2 and realize that I will never recover while not clipped in and slippery, and soaking f*cking wet. (I say "f*ck" a lot, huh?)

I DNF.

...but...

I am wicked bouncy about the blast that I am having.

I am covered in mud.

I am a little stinky.

Next Thursday can't come quick enough!!!

*makes zooom zooom high pitched fast forward sound*

It's next Thursday now... (Last night.)

Hmmmm...

I had suffered a panic attack the previous night on the Team Rev ride.

I knew we were racing the course the same way as we did week 1. It was cake.

I felt lethargic. I waited until the last imaginable moment to register for the race.

I chug a Roctane GU and wait for "it" to happen.

I roll up to the start and am still not entirely certain that I am going to actually start. I really wanted a nap.

"Ultra endurance energy gel"? Holy hell! If this is energy, I am pretty sure I must have flatlined just prior to taking it. I yawn. Twice.

"20 seconds...", the official calls.

*sigh*

Too late to roll away now. I guess I better ride.

*yawn*

Even as we come up on the first turn, I see my car and look longingly at the empty bike rack and want to put my bike up on it...

I roll on.

Ty is ahead. I know I will catch him on the hill. I do. We hit the creek. We nail it. We haul ass over the lip and head toward the climb. Ty stops and I am forced to crash the wall or hit him and possibly rip his leg up/off. I go left and hit the wall.

Did you read that? LEFT. I crash LEFT. Slam my LEFT knee ito a pretty rock and I am quite sure I said something resembling, "Well, there goes my effing knee. I'm out."

Ty feels awful.

I tell him it's not his fault. It wasn't. I didn't afford him the space to get up that climb.

I tell him to roll on and I pull off to check the damage.

I jump back in.

Just as I come up to the close of lap 1 and am about to DNF, I reconsider.

Screw it. I didn't log enough miles this week and need the work out.

I come up on that creek again and nail it. Just as I fly up the hill, I see Ty over to the side. He has crashed. He is pissed. He screwed up his wrist. (Did I mention that he is pissed?) I ask him if he wants to ride together. He takes some time and we roll on.

I am unaware that he is no loger behind me when we close lap 2 until I get there. The official says, "You're done."

I am puzzled. It's 3 laps. That was 2. I may not be George W. Bush, but I have the Math down. I am NOT done.

I call out to Traci that Ty is hurt and may DNF and to look out for him. She does. I roll on. Slowly. Sort of bored.

This "energy gel" shit is like that bowl of bong water I imagined earlier. I know I wanted to chill, but this was ridiculous. I chilled like mad. You could have put a basket with a puppy on the front of my bike and it would have been OK.

I let some B racers fly by a couple times, see Karen, cheer her on, and then follow her. I hit the creek and nail it knowing that I will not see my injured son there.

I am in the home stretch now. I sprint to the finish, feeling pretty happy that I did not DNF and see my little boy waiting at the finish, injured and mentally beating himself up.

*sigh*

It's just a race.

Next week, we will both finish...or break something trying!

The Same Dead Beaver and The Non-Poopy Pants

A white truck pulled over on Hwy 100, the driver got out, stopped traffic, and scooped up a dead kitty from the road. Until that moment I was completely clueless that someone actually had the job of scooping up road kill. I'm not entirely sure what I thought happened to road kill, other than it getting super smooshed into the road and eventually washed away with rain and tires. When I ride, I see dead animals all over the place, so I am not completely dense in my not realizing that there was a person who held this job.

What does his business card say?

Does he tell his children what he does?

Where do the dead animals go?

As this happened one block before the coffee shop and I was not fully awake, I may have contemplated this for longer than the average caffeinated folk would have.

Then I got told yesterday (completely randomly by someone who was not in my head on the morning that I discussed the above with myself) that the State of Missouri has decided NOT to pick up dead animals anymore due to the constantly rising price of fuel. I wanted to thank them for seeming to consider our tax dollars, but on the other hand....EWWWWWW! A few weeks ago, Steph, Sam, and I rode past a dead beaver on the side of the road. And while Lisa would say that that is a fantastic name for a punk band, I am not excited to know that the same dead beaver (a better name for a punk band) may just be there when we ride by tomorrow.

See? I've been thinking about stuff more important than destroying complete strangers' lives by deleting them from my MySpace page. *snicker*

So then there's that. Oy! The drama. I did it. So what? I left the page open for a while so confused people could catch up and then I made it private. Oh well. I deleted people who I either didn't know, didn't get me, or posted too many effing bulletins. I wouldn't care if they were interesting bulletins, but they weren't. All I was learning about many of those people was that they were either angry, sad, victims, or a sad cocktail of it all. I didn't delete anyone with a bike. At least not on purpose. (With the exception of a few Lance Fanatics.) Marone a mia!

There's still one person I need to talk to regarding the "major" changes, but I chose to not write her until I could write something nice. That day has not yet arrived. I am afraid she will come to her own conclusions before I get to her, and that might be the better way for her to go. I know I am being passive/aggressive. I know. Tell me something that I don't. However, after being faced with her love for confrontation, what would be the point in trying to convey an articulate point of view to her. I do not communicate with people who lack communication balance. It is exhausting. I'd rather run the NYC marathon...braless...on the first day of my menstrual cycle...with a regular absorbancy...nevermind...you get it. If you don't, well...WOW! I hope you are wicked pretty!

Speaking of races and discomfort, I raced in my first ever road race this past weekend! (Yay me!) I bet you think I am going to pat myself on the back and gloat. Nope. I know I posted the podium pics. It's more of a joke between Stephanie and I on how I was going to taunt my ex-husband ("Super Cyclist Extraordinaire") with my Grand Prix podium while he brags about all his riding miles and gets larger and larger and is on the committee organizing the Tour de Donut. (Seriously. It's a real event!) Ehhhhh, it's all in good fun and we like to tease each other. His event is allegedly really fun and they always have a good turn-out...but then again, StL is one of the fattest cities in the nation, so there's that. At least the donuts aren't deep fried...oh...wait...

OK, so the skinny on the race is pretty funny. To set it up, I had played golf all day Friday with clients. We drank a few mojitos. I had salmon, green beans, smashed potatoes, and raspberry sorbet for dinner. (Yummmy, right?!?!) I then went to get a relaxing massage to make sure I fell asleep at my scheduled time so that I was well rested for the morning.

I came out of the massage to a friggin' storm that would have frightened Christ himself. Then there was effing hail. I love when my beautiful car and freshly massaged/relaxed self get pelted with giant balls of ice. It gives me that warm and fuzzy feeling...much like being married. I then had a less than pleasant conversation about "feelings" and "how much I suck but never the right thing" with someone French while driving home and crawled into bed. While on the phone being a girl about the conversation with the French person, I started to feel physically uncomfortable. That escalated to painful discomfort...which escalated to acute abdominal pain.

For a moment I thought my appendix was exploding and possibly having babies. I crawled to my bathroom in a sweat. I started to get that distant, tingly feeling where you can hear stars in your ears... I sat on the toilet and the room started to spin...sort of. I ended my phone call. (I know. I know.) You don't need to know what happened between then and this next part. Use your imaginations. I really can't say if it was all day in the sun, bad salmon, nerves, getting pelted with hail, or all of the above, but I slept on the bathroom floor while doubled over in pain and dehydrating.

At some point I passed out and bit my tongue. I have a huge bruise on my thigh so I don't know if I fell off the toilet or what, but I think I'd rather not know. (If you have met me, you will assume I fell off the toilet.) I woke up and drank Gatorade like Tatum O'Neil smokes crack. (Is it too soon to make that joke?)

I drove out to the race with no intention to race and ended up switching cats to ride in a less fierce group. I threw up twice and spent the last 6 miles trying not to poo my pants... (I was successful in dehydrating myself just enough to not poo my cycling shorts but not dehydrated enough to pass out in front of a truck while climbing that last effing hill 1000 meters from the finish....ummmmm...YAY!)

...and that's the all too glamorous story of my race and the past week or so as a whole.

Today, my kidneys are recovering and I am writing snarky blogs. The end.