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.
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.
