Breaking Up

I need you to let me go.

I don't know how to do this with you anymore.

I feel that it has gone on long enough.

We had a good go of it, but clearly we are incompatible.

We agree on nothing.

You are selfish and smothering and mean.

You have brought very little to the table from which I can draw something positive...

I know I sound detached...

I know I sound as if I am not grateful for the things you have taught me, and I need you to know that that is not the case.

I will never forget you.

There will likely never be a day in which I do not think of you...

When I see you with someone else, it will make me unbelievably sad...of this, I am sure.

You had to see this coming.

We were never really a good match.

I was young and was overwhelmed by you.

You were so sure of yourself and knew what you wanted and I was unprepared for how that would make me feel.

I cannot tell you how many times I have almost allowed you to take me over...

Either to completely submit to you or to simply allow your identity to become my own.

I feel stronger now.

I have come to terms with how much pain you have caused me and although I have reached a certain level of acceptance of you in my life, because your selfishness knows no boundaries, I am left with an incredible, palpable anger toward you which can barely be contained.

I don't want to fight with you anymore.

I simply want you to leave.

I don't want you to take anything other than what you came with, as I have shared and given enough over the years.

I don't want this to be ugly.

I do not want a mess.

I simply want you to leave...

...and let me go.

I know it will hurt you at first, but I hope some day you can look back on me as "the one who got away"...

I wish I could say that I love you and that it will all work out for you, but I have to admit, I too am selfish and have never loved you.

I am also so angry and unforgiving that I know that I will do everything in my power to see you fail.

I know this makes me appear to be a bad person, but I'll survive.

Cancer's Supermodel

*Disclaimer: You may not like this blog. If you already dislike me, you probably shouldn't read this blog as it wouldn't be fair to either of us. You won't be objective. If you have a yellow wristband on, there is a 52.6% chance (I totally made that number up) that reading this blog will make you feel dirty...and not in a cyclocross sort of way. You will feel your teeth grit. You may want to slap me. You may ring my doorbell with a yellow bracelet in a bag and a picture of a relative in your hand. It will not change my opinion....and likely I will not change yours. However, this is my blog and I get to write my opinions, thoughts, feeling here. Blogging is free. You too can get your own and do the same and I may or may not read it. That being said, do not say you have not been forewarned. (Plus you had to click a cute little button acknowledging you were aware that there might be "objectionable" content here, so the gloves are off.) I cannot believe that we live in times when you have to warn people that your opinion may offend them, but everyone reading clicked, so....Game on!

I don't like him.

I don't.

Lance Armstrong.

Guess what?

I'm allowed to not like him.

I have that right.

(And because I got this comment once before, I will head you off: Yes, actually I was riding bikes before anyone other than his family knew who he was. He is 11 months older than me but he didn't shoot me a memo when I was 4 and he was 5 with a photo of him riding his bike, so there's no telling who actually got in the saddle first. I simply got on my ugly yellow bike with the obnoxiously flowered banana seat and rode it.)

He's significantly better at riding a bike than I am. Hands down. There is no comparison on or off the bike being attempted to be made to Lance Armstrong.

I am simply stating that I do not like him, and I have made my peace with that fact.

Just because we both got cancer and ride bikes doesn't make us instant blood buddies.

There are plenty of people with (and without) cancer whom I like and others I do not like.

It's not a fucking club.

We don't have a secret handshake.

I suppose we could flash our super cool scars like the Bloods and the Crips, but considering where our scars are located, I think I'll pass.

Cancer doesn't give someone a soul.

If you were an asshole pre-cancer (he openly admits that he was, as do I...take that how you like) then likely you will be an asshole during cancer and after cancer is gone.

(We can always hope that isn't true, but people are tricky.)

Look, the dude had a pretty shitty childhood...regardless of how cool his mom was.

He was an angry kid.

Then he lost a nut.

I'd be pissed off too.

That being said, Lance never asked anyone to like him.

Ever.

I've read his books.

I've read his interviews.

He's a prick...and he makes no apology for this.

Nor should he.

Lance is being true to Lance.

It is the general sheep-herded, need-a-salvation, Lance-is-cooler-than-Jesus population that has made it required that you, me, your sister, your kids, their kids, and the family dog like, respect, and worship Lance.

Sorry. I attended 9 years of Catholic school. I'm all tapped out on cuckoo.

I bow before no man. (My ex-husband will support this statement.)

Lance is like an evangelist.

He doesn't give a crap about anyone but Lance...so long as you send the LAF your money and wear his pretty yellow bracelet (Which are interestingly enough, not bpa-free...).

He loves what you have made of his image.

Image.

Not a person.

Lance is a person.

Lancefanatics have been sold on the image.

Don't misunderstand, I support the work that the intelligent and dedicated people who run the LAF do to raise funds and awareness for the fight against cancer.

There are a LOT of people doing a LOT of really spectacular things in that organization.

A LOT of people. Not one man.

Lance is cancer's supermodel.

A face. A nut, if you will. (I "may" have been speaking about his testicle there...but I reread the statement and feel I should leave it open for interpretation.)

*snicker*

Honestly, I don't give a crap if you love Lance.

I care about as much as I care if people love Jesus or the GOP.

(Not a bit.)

I may not understand you, but I really don't care who/what you like.

What I care about is that I have my freedom to not like/worship Lance.

People who judge me for disliking him are assholes and hypocrites.

If someone could articulate to me in an educated and informed manner as to why I am required to like/respect Lance Armstrong, I will listen...openly.

The fact is, you cannot force someone to like someone else.

Having a different opinion on whether someone is fantastic is normal and OK.

If it was an important matter and not merely opinion and yawn-inducing, I could understand.

No one is liked by all.

I am regularly loved and loathed.

I assure you that like me, Lance does not go home and tuck himself into a fetal position because there are people who do not like him.

Frankly, when he leaves the US, it's pretty much a coin toss as to how he will be treated.

He knows this and deals with it...pretty well.

Lance handles not being liked...why can't his fans?

He is just a dude on a bike.

He shits, showers, and shaves just like the rest of us.

...he just shits yellow cupcakes.

The Abyss of Nothingness and Everythingness

I'm fucking tired.

I am.

I am not unique in this.

I have nothing and everything, depending on the day and of who's perspective.

I am alone and supported.

Loved and loathed.

Some days the latter pleases me and gives me a rest from needing to be everything or anything to anyone.

Most days, I just don't give a shit what anyone thinks other than me and my kids, because no matter how close you are to people, there are only so many people directly affected by your choices. My kids are those people.

Some people wonder "what Jesus would do" or what The Joneses think...

I wonder if my kids will be proud of me...

If a decision I am about to make will hurt or hinder their life experience...

I don't care what Jay or my friends think, because they are supposed to love me regardless, so long as I stay on the correct side of moral decency and principles...and I must do the same in return.

I've made some tricky decisions over the past year that have kept in line, but have made me walk the line between quality v. quantity of life.

While this topic is always a rich one, I have always been on the side of quality.

Most people have supported this and others are too confused or scared or selfish to consider such support.

In November of last year, at the start of cyclocross season, a tumor posed a problem. It was advised that I undergo surgery to remove it.

I told them to find another option.

They told me that all they could do was better prepare my body for surgery.

They destroyed me.

By the end of November, I could barely make it through a cyclocross race and couldn't ride my bike except on race days.

They told me they could "make me comfortable"...

Jay and I packed my things that Tuesday before Thanksgiving and planned one last bike ride before he drove me to the hospital...

As we took to the road in the dark, my mind went a little mad...and free.

The pain ripped through my insides as I made each revolution of the pedals and I felt myself burning as if my body was a paper cut doused in lemon juice...

Yet as the cold air hit my face, I realized that the pain meant I was alive...

I was not numb or "comfortable"...

I knew who I was and who this man riding next to me was...

I didn't want to stop this.

I remember the cold night air and every detail because at the time I was mentally recording it in the event that I did not see such a night again...

When we got back to Jay's house, we talked, cried and thought hard about my options...

We went home and talked to the kids.

I wasn't ready to be "comfortable".

We worked my plan as the pounds fell off.

16 pounds in 2 weeks.

Where was I going?

They were killing me.

I showed up at 'cross races every Sunday and died a little bit, but lived a little more...

Some races I didn't have the energy to even lift my bike over the barriers.

At Cross Nationals, my body simply fell apart.

"They" almost carried me off the course until I gathered what remaining composure I had and crawled under the tape to safety...

My world started to shut down.

My body was now too weak for surgery.

Fast forward to a year of trying to get a taste of racing...

A year of trying to make my body stronger.

A year of living life to the fullest with the kids and trying to cover every base...

I am now faced with the very real reality of interviewing surgeons and making plans for what I had hoped I could always put off...

Placing myself in a temporary state of denial while I prepared for my favorite race season, while in hindsight wishing I had sacrificed the road season with surgery so that I could be there for every single 'cross race in The Lou and surrounding areas...

As it is, I will be going under the knife in the far too near future, to remove the tumor in my stomach.

While I plan to schedule the surgery on a weekend when I have "nothing going on", my doctors have reminded me that while that is so sweet of me to squeeze them in, I will not be in the saddle the following weekend...though they readily admit that they know I will try every imaginable way to attempt it.

As my birthday weekend wound to a close today, it was with heaviness that I had to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for certain hell that is about to become my life....at least for a few weeks.

Tomorrow I will begin preparing my body for battle.

My bike rides will be very different.

My sleep will be very different.

My food will be a joke.

*sound of life, blog, thoughts screeching to a halt; in the distance, something clicks/snaps*

You know what?

I started writing this to update friends and family and I really don't know how to do that.

Typically I tell people what is going on after it's done.

I don't know what to say here.

I'm so fucking lost and confused and scared and in pain that it's all a fucking mess.

I just want them to cut the bitches out of me and let me get on with my fucking life.

I don't want to just be a survivor. I want to be cancer-free.

I want that for everyone.

I want that guy that I saw in Chicago without shoes but with mangled and gnarly toes to have good feet and good shoes...and a bath and toothpaste and a straight spine...and I want to be cancer fucking free.

(Jeeze that was random!)

I don't want anymore fucking stitches.

I don't want to hear the drone of anymore pathology reports.

I don't want a fucking repeat of 1999 when they apologized but informed me that they didn't get it all and I would have to do "a little chemo".

You know what?

There is no such fucking thing as a little chemo.

My organs are still suffering the damage from the shit they injected into me to fuck my world.

I had everything I needed before that...then lost it all.

I built it back up and had it all again...only better...and they did that shit to me again and I lost it all again.

*rinse and repeat*

I am not fucking willing, nor do I believe I have the strength, to lose everything and build it back up again.

I am old for my age and fucking tired.

I want zero stitches, many cow bells and endless hot chocolates with Baileys after I kick someone's (anyone's) ass in every 'cross race I enter.

Besides, it's going to really piss off X-Factor if I bought that Ridley and can't race it for some candy-assed reason like stitches, cancer, blah, blah, blah...

...and I'm sort of on his side for this one.

My Name Is...

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

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

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

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

...or racing a bike.

...or walking upright.

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

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

But I will get up...

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

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

It doesn't matter that I suck.

I'm doing what makes me happy.

Even when I suck.

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

Those things demand pity.

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

Pity me?

I think not.

I bombed this weekend. Sure. I know.

I have no regrets about taking part in those races.

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

So what.

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

Oh well. My bad.

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

Stupid.

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

...and likely a little sun poisoning.

I completed my time trial.

I did it.

I didn't stop to puke.

I didn't cry.

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

I didn't die.

I wasn't spectacular.

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

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

*WOOP! WOOP!*

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

I didn't poo or pee my pants.

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

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

I imagine plenty of people were doing the same.

I wasn't special.

I was simply sunburned and exhausted.

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

I was moving slowly.

Painfully.

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

I knew the course and rode it often.

In my mind, it should have been cake.

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

Stupidity made me roll up to the line.

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

*DAMMIT!*

Now we have to chase her!!!

*YAWN*

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

I knew what we had to do.

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

There!

Done!

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

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

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

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

I went to stand and my legs gave way.

Hmmmm...

That should have been cake.

I'm a stander.

I stand.

It's what I do.

My legs laughed at me.

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

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

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

My mind went blank.

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

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

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

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

My body in knots.

My muscles twitching.

My breathing challenged.

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

I was freezing.

I was sweating.

I felt my hair standing up and neck stiffened.

*Not today. Not today. Not today.*

I was being swallowed.

Sounds were far away.

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

I started to hear things again.

I shivered under my down blanket.

It was 80 degrees out.

My stomach raged its fury.

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

I eventually got my legs back.

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

This is what it's all about.

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

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

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

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

...and my name is Cory.

Not:

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

Just "Cory".

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

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