Schooled

If you were around for my last post, you will remember that I was a little fish thrown into the shark tank at an indoor time trial at the Harpoon brewery this weekend. My heat seemed to include every professional rider and triathlete in the Boston area, and then my own sorry ass. What I noticed on the amended schedule that was released a day or two before the event was that there were, in fact, dozens and dozens of women registered for this race. I, however, had somehow found my way into the ELITE division. Where had I gone wrong?! Frantically, I tried to figure out how I'd gotten there. Had I entered a seed time when I signed up? Did I check the wrong box? Surely I couldn't have been that dumb! I am completely unknown in the local cycling scene, so I wrote a frantic email to the local race organizers asking what the hell I was doing in the elite heat, and if I was there by mistake would they please let me know so that I could ride with a bag over my head. I actually suggested riding with a bag over my head in this email. At the end of the correspondence, the overburdened race director promised me that I would not be DFL (dead fucking last – my words, not hers), and I would be fine in the elite heat. She had better be right!

The problems started in the morning. I seemed to be winning the fight against my first cold of the winter the night before, but when I woke up the yucky cold feeling had moved down from my head into my chest. Farther north, in the sinus region, there was a mucus problem. When I stood up I got that dizzy, heart-rate-spiky feeling you get when you're sick. Since it was still early and my race wasn't till noon, I decided to just have a cup of tea and wait awhile before breakfast. The tea made me so nauseous that I toyed with the idea of actually throwing up to help me with my weigh-in. Once I got food in my stomach, though, the nausea calmed down. I knew my body was out of whack, so just out of curiosity, I put my heartrate monitor on in the car to see how bad it was. I was in the 80's (normally my resting HR is in the mid-50's). Then came the venti coffee, which I was counting on to make up for the shortcomings in my training. As I walked into the brewery, my heartrate was in the mid-130's. Not a good sign.

And that's the last excuse I'm going to give for my shitty performance today. I would say that the lousy showing that I wrung out of my body was due only about 30% to me feeling under the weather, and 70% to me riding like a total idiot. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

To my surprise, I was not on the list for the Women's A heat when I got to registration. Without notifying me, they had moved me to the 2:30 heat. "We can move you back to the 12:00, if you want. There are still slots," the cute hippie-looking girl at the registration table said to me.

"Just give me a second," I said. I started shaking. It was partly due to the caffeine, somewhat because I was flustered, but mostly because Dede Griesbauer had just walked through the door and was coming right for the registration table. I made a decision long ago not to let myself get star-stuck by pro-athletes (follow the link to see what an horse's ass I can really be), but if there was one person that I didn't want overhearing this conversation, it was her. So I did my best to disappear as she wheeled her beautiful bike up to the rack and checked in. I wanted to throw up again. I thought the panicked thoughts that people think when they're making a life-or-death decision. When The Truly Elite had cleared the area, I announced my decision to the cute hippie girl: "What the heck, I'll ride at 12:00." Like it was no big thang.

It was, in fact, a very big thang, and I nearly took it back as soon as I said it. There were 2 reasons that I decided not to chicken out:
1. I knew that I would hate myself forever if I passed up this opportunity, even if I was going to make an ass of myself. Even though I could easily compare my times later to those in the elite heat, I would always wonder what if...
2. I was supposed to visit my grandmother in the hospital this afternoon, and would have really felt like shit if I missed visiting hours because I was too chicken shit to ride with the big girls.

I was, truth be told, chicken shit. I was just too dumb/proud to do anything about it.

I was afraid of a weigh-in, so I had let myself get dehydrated to get ready for it. Stupid, but that's the way I roll. When I didn't see a scale, I started hitting the water like it was my job. When I had downed about a bottle, THAT was when they brought out the scale. I'd gained 3 lb since breakfast. I weighed exactly 125 lb. Fatty, fatty, fat, fat fat!!!!!!!! my Inner Critic screamed at me. My inner critic has had a lot to say to me today. I warmed up on the trainers they provided (the first one I tried was broken, just my luck), and I could tell right away that I was in deep shit. Sometimes when you're sick, it goes away when you exercise. Today was not one of those days. It wasn't that I was achey, my body just didn't want to kick into a high gear. Everything felt like a huge effort.

One by one our cast of characters showed up. We've already introduced Dede Griesbauer, who (the announcer made a point of reminding us every 2 minutes) has been top 10 in Hawaii twice. I spotted Karen Smyers who, (the announcer also reminded us every 2 minutes) has won everything ever. I spotted Chick on a Pink Bike, whose bike today was blue, but she was wearing a pink top, pink bandana, and even the cable casings on her blue bike were pink.

A note about Chick on a Pink Bike. You may have noticed that I have changed what the C stands for. I've been doing a lot of thinking on the matter, and decided that if I disrespect someone for being unsportsmanlike, I am certainly not being the better person and a good sport by going around naming them after a vulgar word for genitalia. So she's outspoken, slightly stuck-up, and maybe a bit negative for my tastes. I may never want to sit and have a beer... er... tea with her, but she deserves more respect than what I've been giving her. I even wanted to offer her my beer tokens after the race, but that's hard to do when someone's ignoring your very existence.

Finally, Masters Cyclist Chick turned up, only a few minutes before we were loaded onto the computrainers. She waved, and I dragged my finger across my neck to say I'm dead meat! "My stomach's been doing flips all day," she confided in me. "I've hardly eaten anything since Thursday night. I almost didn't come."

"Well I'm glad to see you," I said. "Please keep them from eating me alive!"

There were other people there too: The women's over 65 world time trial champion, some other girls that have done impressive things which I can't remember. "I have no idea what I'm doing here," the girl on the bike next to me said as the announcer introduced the people of note.

"Me neither!" I confided in her. It was good to know that I wasn't the only one who had been burdened with "elite" status without my explicit consent.

One interesting thing before I give you all the gory details of the race. A few minutes before the race, the announcer took one more chance to introduce the riders of note in the group (of 14 riders, about 6 had titles worth mentioning). When he got to Masters Chick, who we'll call Grace (as in "Handled with..."), he started listing her achievements. "And on bike number 8, we have Grace Bikerchick, crit rider, track rider, and one of the most winning women in New England!" Remember: I knew that Grace was sick, but I hadn't seen her talk to, or mention it to anyone else. She knew that she was going to ride like crap today, she knew that everyone would be watching her simulated rider on the screen and expect great things from her. She knew that she was going to disappoint. What did she do? Give an excuse? Make a face to let people know she wasn't feeling well? Any of a number of things that I might have done in the same position to save my pride? No, she raised her hand, smiled, and waved.

Optional reading: How it worked: We would all be riding the same simulated course through the magic of computrainers. There were 16 computrainers set up (2 were empty), in 2 rows, facing our statistics, which were projected on a wall. At the top was the profile we would be riding: an 8-mile course that was mostly flat, except a 1-mile hill at mile 6 that would not exceed a 5% grade, followed by a brief downhill for the last half mile. Below, you could see your placing (relative only to the half of the riders on your side of the room), how many feet between you and the rider in front of you, your watts, speed, distance completed, and other such information I didn't have the wherewithal to take in.

I had thought that the resistance when we stopped pedaling would be equal to the resistance when we were told to start again, but when the announcer yelled "GO!", the resistance had gone way up. So for a few long seconds my average watts were up above 350 as I moved down into the right gear. It didn't last.

I was pushing about 250 watts for the first mile or so. For a minute I felt good. Then my mouth dropped open so I could gulp in more air. After another minute, my breathing became labored. But I was in first (on my side of the room: with none of the superstars), and time trials are supposed to hurt. So, like an idiot, I pressed on. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I knew I had managed to somewhat comfortably push an average of over 200 watts for about 45 minutes before (if the computrainers at the gym can be trusted). I hadn't been riding at race effort that day, so I tried to shove 225 now. I was still barely hanging on to first. Someone came up behind me and asked how old I was. "Twennnnfi..." I gasped, and held up 2 fingers, and then 5. That's when I dropped to second place.

About 30 seconds later (or maybe around the 2-mile mark), my legs asserted themselves. I had to jump up one cog to an easier gear and try to spin my legs out. I knew my race was already over.

Meanwhile, Dede Griesbauer had taken the lead, and Karen Smyers was on her tail. As I fought for dear life, the announcer narrated as Dede, and then Karen flipped into their small chainring to climb the hill. I listened to what a great ride Chick on a Pink Bike was having in fourth place, and wished I were dead. By the time Dede Griesbauer finished in under 21 minutes, I was feeling very ill indeed, and still had over a mile to go. When Karen Smyers finished just over a minute behind her, I was struggling with a big decision.

I had decided that I didn't mind getting my ass kicked, if only I pushed myself hard enough to puke. That was my goal for this race: puke on my bike. Now, I was there. I was riding much more slowly than I expected, but regardless, if I continued to ride at this effort level I was most certainly going to puke. What did I do? Rather than keeping my promise, I eased off. I went up to an easier gear, and spun as fast as I could. When I dropped back another position, from 4th to 5th (on my side of the room), I stood up for a minute so that I could push a bigger gear. But soon enough I was facing the same decision, and had to sit down and back off again. I'm not saying that I WANTED to puke, I just wanted to know that I couldn't have pushed any harder. When it came time to serve up breakfast for round 2, I chickened out. Sure, I'm sure everyone else in the room was glad I did, but I was furious with myself for not having what it took mentally to do a simple thing like vomit into my own lap in front of about 50 people.

The chick in front of me was very tall, and when she finished and sat up, I couldn't see the screen anymore. Without that distraction, all I could do in the last minute or so was take an inventory of my suffering: other than the nausea, I had a strong metallic taste in my mouth, my lungs were on fire, I was wheezing, I think I was coughing, and it felt like someone had sucked all the power out of my legs. I just couldn't push hard on the pedals.

It took me a second to realize that I'd finished, because the tall girl had her big, fat head in the way. When I did realize it was over, I went into a very, very easy gear and turned my legs around as slow as they would go. I still thought I was going to puke. Grace finished within seconds of me, then the 67-year-old shortly after that. My average heartrate had been 183, with a max HR of 187, which says to me that I pushed too hard in the beginning, and my heart was playing catch-up for the rest of the race. I noticed that I was the only one in my immediate area that had a pool of sweat under my bike. Gross.

There was one girl still riding. She was nearly a mile behind me, and I was pretty close to last. People started taking their bikes off the trainers before she even finished. My heart really went out to her. In as bad shape as I was, and even though she couldn't see me, I stayed on my bike until she'd finished. Still, I was glad I wasn't her.

Once I stood up, the metallic taste in my mouth became overpowering. As one of the helpers expertly took my bike out of the trainer, I was sure I was going to boot all over him. I was surrounded by people and bikes and trainers, and I couldn't figure out how I was going to get out in time. Eventually, I was able to move back out into the warm-up area, and I dumped my bike against the first available wall and sat my ass down against a palette of beer. It didn't help that the place smelled like a bad hangover. I wanted to be ashamed that Dede Griesbauer, Karen Smyers, and Chick on a Pink Bike all walked by and conspicuously gave me a sideways glance before politely looking the other way, but I preferred this humiliation to the igmony (is that even a word?!) of being "the girl who puked 5 minutes later." Finally, Grace walked by looking even greener around the gills than I felt. "I need to go to the ladies room!" was the first thing she gasped to me. I think that it was an excuse for not talking to me more than it was a request for help, but I got up off the floor anyway and helped her put her bike back on a trainer before she ran off to the bathroom to hurl.

Now that I was somewhat recovered, disappointment really set in. I went over to my backpack and changed out of my bike jersey right there in the middle of the floor, not caring WHAT world-class professionals saw my gut. When I was decent again, a man in a skin suit came up and asked me how the course was. "Not bad, really," I offered. What did he want to know? It all depended on how hard you rode it, duh!

"How was the hill?"

"It was nothing," I mused. "I hardly noticed it." It's true. By the time the hill rolled around, I was suffering so bad that I wouldn't have noticed if you'd whacked me over the head with a 2x4.

"Not so bad if you're a climber!" Chick on a Pink Bike told him. Her tone showed no evidence of having heard me, or realizing that the question hadn't actually been addressed to her. In all the times that I've been standing right next to her, she has never once looked directly at me. "It sucked!" she offered, in her characteristic sardonic way. I couldn't imagine how she could tell the difference between the "hill" and "flat ground", since once you pick a gear, what your legs feel on a computrainer is pretty much the same.

By the time Grace came back down, I was already packed up. I went over to her bike to say goodbye. "You're dressed awfully quickly," she said.

"I don't want to go anywhere near my bike right now," I offered as explanation for not lining up with the superstars for cooldown. My mouth still tasted metallic, like blood, and I thought my lungs might never recover. I was now coughing constantly.

"You did great!" She was a saint for saying so. I shook my head in disgust. "You rode better than I did..." she said. I assume she meant relatively, since we rode almost exactly the same.

"Aw, you just did that to make me look good," I said. "I've been able to push bigger wattages than that for twice the time." She'd never seen me ride, I wanted her to know that I wasn't this bad! When I crossed the finish line, my average power had been only 198 watts. I was sure I could have pushed 215 if I'd been smart about it. I had finished in only about 19.1 mph, compared to Karen Smyers' 21.8 mph (I don't remember exactly what D.B.'s finishing time was).

After handing my beer chips to 2 guys standing at the bar, I went out to my car and loaded up my bike in a daze. I backed out of the spot and heard a sickening crunching noise. At first I thought it was my front wheel, but much to my relief, the wheel was in the back seat when I checked. It must be a soda can or something, I thought, and took my foot off the brake again. Again, a sickening crunch. That's way too big to be a soda can, I thought, and ever-so-cautiously pulled back in. I got out, and there, in a dozen pieces with the central pipe squished down flat, was the remains of my floor pump. It wasn't the world's greatest pump, but it worked and it was mine. I picked up the pieces of my mangled equipment, and hurled them into the passenger seat of my car, thinking about how the last time I priced pumps, they started at $50. It was the cherry on top for a truly shitty day.

The silver lining: I'm not so much of a Negative Nancy that the positives of the day are completely lost on me. Someone somewhere at some point must have decided that I was a strong enough rider to be placed in the elite division. Based on what evidence, I have no idea. But I was there and the race director did insist that it wasn't a mistake. Also, I'm sure it would be many people's dream to ride with such illustrious company, even if I was over a mile behind the leaders at the finish. I am not someone who willingly throws herself out of her comfort zone often (at least socially), so being forced into this position was (I'm sure) good for me.

Also, I know that I have a lot of room to improve. I was sick. I had hardly touched my bike all winter until 2 or 3 weeks ago. My pacing strategy was terrible, even for me who couldn't pace a sprint across an intersection prudently. I have just never tried to pace myself on a trainer before. Also, although I finished nearly last, I was within a minute of most of the riders (the ones whose names don't appear in the newspapers, anyway). Most of all, I know that humiliation is not something that I suffer lightly. You can bet that the next time I rock up to a race where my face might be put with my name, I'll come better prepared and won't let myself be left behind.

So there it is, my introduction into "elite" cycle racing, and its disappointing outcome. Let's hope that running over bike pumps doesn't mean 7 years bad luck or something.

Update: It was even worse than I thought. The results aren't divided by heat, so I'm spared the knowledge of knowing how I did relative to the other girls in my group, or even girls in general. But my numbers SUCKED. I rode a full minute slower than my oxygen-deprived brain remembered, and my average power was 16 watts less than I remembered, over 30 watts less than I hoped. I'm so angry at myself, I could spit. If I had only paced that race prudently, rather that using up all my juice right from the gun, and ridden how I KNOW I can ride, I think I could have ridden 2 minutes faster (based on the average power of girls whose names I recognize, and their relative size compared to me). I can't believe I was stupid enough to make such a rookie mistake. I hate this short stuff, but even more I hate myself for fucking it up so badly.