Not Quite Caned

The aero helmet makes me fast in time trials, right?

Last year when I signed up for the Harpoon Indoor Time Trial I was placed in the elite heat. Although I fluffed my ego a bit thinking that they had placed me there on purpose, the reality is that they probably just put me in there to round out the heat because I'd signed up early. Either way, I was so intimidated by riding with half a dozen elite and world-class cyclists and triathletes that I totally blew it trying to ride beyond my means. It was a learning experience, albeit a painful one.

This year they let us choose our own heats, and you can bet your ass that I wasn't putting my neck out in the elite heat again. My non-elite heat wasn't slated to start until 8:15 p.m., so I was able to put in a shift at the Y and still get home with plenty of time to get my bike and drive into Boston for the time trial. I was leaving with plenty of time to get there and warm up when I reached into my pocket and... hey, that's not my key chain! ...Oh... Fuck! I'd walked out of the Y with the master key set in my pocket. The Y was half an hour to the southwest, and the Harpoon brewery was about half an hour to the southeast. So much for my warm-up. I tried not to freak out too much as my GPS sent me into parking garages and the wrong way up one-way streets trying to find my way to the brewery. I'd panicked last year and it hadn't worked out for me. I was not going to panic this year!

To anyone trying to ruin my mojo, this is all I have to say to you!

When I got to the brewery I snatched my bike from the car and sprinted into the building. "Just so you know, we're running about an hour behind schedule," the girl told me. Phew! In the end I wouldn't ride till after 10:00 at night, but all I cared about was that I had more than enough time to warm up and chill before the race. No reason to panic this year.

Chick on a Pink Bike wasn't registered this year, but Dede Griesbauer and Jarrod Shoemaker were there, along with (of course) Karen Smyers. In reality, I don't really feel either way about Smyers, I'm neither a fan nor routing against her. It's just that our paths cross from time to time, and in my blog sometimes others make something of it. I tried not to stare, but she seemed to always be standing near me. I piled my stuff next to someone else's backpack, and wouldn't you know, it was hers. When they put me on my bike, she (as the leader) watched the race from a podium directly across from me. She walked past me half a million times. I swear I was trying not to stare, but I guess I was doing a pretty lousy job because about the 10,000th time our paths crossed, she smiled and said hi. I pooped my pants.

Shortly after Grease Monkey and Teen Idol showed up to cheer me on and drink my free beer, I set up my trainer and the guy next to me struck up a conversation. It turned out that he had been a pro cyclist, winning the US Pro National Championships in 2003, the 1997 US Cyclocross National Championships, the Tour of Denmark and a few other notable national races. He didn't mention any of this, he just mentioned that he'd raced pro in the past and a google search turned up the rest. He couldn't have been friendlier or more humble. The guy on the trainer on the other side of me, however, was an ogre. Before he even went to race, he'd already dumped a liter of sweat on the floor, he couldn't stop griping about the delay, and when I asked him a question he waved an arm at me as if to say "shut up." I don't know his name, but I bet he didn't do as well as the friendly ex-pro who got fifth overall. Maybe I shouldn't have been so scared of Karen Smyers after all. Anyway, it seemed that my cheering squad were celebrities in their own right. They seemed to know everyone, and had worked on half the bikes that people raced that night. I started to feel like one of the cool kids.

Yep, these are the cool kids.

There was only one other woman in my heat. The last time I'd seen her she'd been on a brand new Kestral or something with her name painted on the side and had been talking the talk like she was all that. That day (a time trial) she'd come in dead last, about 4 mph slower than me. This time she was pushing a brand new S-Works and was talking the talk all over again, how her power output had gone up 40 watts in the past 3 months. "Don't worry, Claire," Teen Idol said. "She's had so many kids that her ass can swallow that bike."
"Oh, I'm not worried about it," I said. "She's got all the gear and no idear." I knew she wasn't a threat. All I was worried about was holding it together better than last year. This year I didn't know what kind of shape I was in, but I knew my body a lot better. My biggest goal was to pace it right.

You think maybe I should have rested coming into this thing?

During my warm-up, my legs had loaded up with lactic acid really quickly, which made me nervous. I knew that I was coming into this race tired because I'd forgotten to remind my coach about this race until Thursday. This week had been a hard week of training. I figured that if anything, it would keep me from taking it out too fast. It's not like this race counted for anything anyway.

They put me on my bike and I began to softpedal. I was pushing about 100 watts, as was the guy next to me. I started spinning faster. This is what going 20 watts harder feels like, I told myself. I could count on one hand the number of times I've been able to measure my power output, so I was interested to see how everything affected it. I had also only ever ridden a Computrainer once before, and I was thrown by how hard it was to start pedaling and build up momentum (way harder than on the road).

3... 2... 1...

The race started and we began pedaling. Even though I'd started in an easy gear, I had to mash down on the pedals to get the cranks turning. For a second my watts shot up above 300 watts, just like they had last year. Oh shit! Keep it under control, Claire! I fixed my eyes on my heart rate monitor and focused on reaching a steady heart rate and sitting on it. Within a minute I'd shot up to 180 bpm (less than 5 beats above my threshold). Breathe. Keep it here. I saw it creap up another beat and I let off the gas ever so slightly. Stay within yourself, Claire. I exhaled and relaxed my arms. When I'd held the same heart rate for about a minute and my legs didn't blow up, I looked at the screen. I was pushing about 240 watts. My average power was still in the high 270's because I'd busted out of the blocks so hard, but I felt like I'd found my spot.

Grease Monkey came up beside me. "Remember to pace yourself." I tapped my heart rate monitor and gave her a thumbs-up.

Of the "8-mile" course, the first six are nearly flat. I found my rhythm and although my legs were burning, I found a groove I could keep up and just sat in it. Every time my heart rate went up a beat, I'd take a deep breath, relax my upper body and try to relax into a spin. Every few minutes I stood up to clear the burning from my legs and noticed that my power dropped about 50 watts every time I did. That wasn't what I was expecting at all!

Not quite a Tour de France ass yet. Photo taken by Teen Idol.

Behind me, Grease Monkey and Teen Idol were cheering encouragement. Grease Monkey came up every once in awhile to make sure I was okay. When she was that close, I felt like there was less air and that my attention wasn't on my pedaling anymore. Not that I didn't appreciate her being there, but it was a bit distracting. Apparently I waved my hand for her to go away. I don't even remember doing it. "Mrrmfph rumphing hrumney!" I heard Teen Idol yell. I looked over my shoulder. "Did you just say I'm making you horney?!" I asked. I'm pretty hard of hearing, and trying to understand what people are saying when there's already that much screaming going on is pretty hard for me.

I needed a bit more personal space during the race.

When I turned back around, I'd hit the hill at mile 6. Instantly my power dropped to 200 watts and below. I stood up, it stayed below. I sat down and my legs loaded up with lactic acid in an instant. I clicked into an easier gear than I would have normally chosen and spun away till my legs burned at a tolerable rate. I couldn't believe my legs were burning so badly and my power had dropped off so significantly. I looked back down at my wrist and ignored the numbers on the computer screen. Just stay at 180 bpm, just get through it! When I looked up, instead of looking at the screen, I just stared straight ahead at Karen Smyers who was up on a platform directly in front of me. There wasn't really anywere else to look. I was the only bike with a clear view of the platform and we stared at each other, although I wasn't seeing much of anything.

My view from the bike.

Finally, I got over the hill. My average power had dropped to about 220 watts now and the hill had sapped me of everything I had. I had about 3/4 of a mile downhill to go. I tried to push, but I was at capacity. "Come on Claire! Bring it home!" Teen Idol was screaming behind me. I tried to push, but whatever was coming out of my legs, this was all I had. No matter how hard I pushed, my heart rate was dropping. I was at 178 bpm now and I had tunnel vision. I watched the last few yards tick down to zero and then collapsed over my handlebars.

Grease Monkey came over to congratulate me, but I couldn't talk. Having someone stand that close still made me feel like I couln't get air, and if I was going to puke, that was the shoulder I was going to have to puke over. I held up the "just a sec" finger and waved her away again. "You killed it!" she said, patting me on the shoulder. I tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a gasp.

Racing my ass off.

Across the way, the woman with the giant ass was still pedaling. She looked like she was dying too. When she finished, she collapsed over her bars and then I decided it was okay for me to get off. Only then did I notice that the pro rider was sitting next to me waiting for his heat to begin. "Congratulations," he said, high-fiving me. Last year I was crushed with my effort and wouldn't accept congratulations. This year I smiled and fist-bumped him.
"Thanks," I said. "Good luck." He wound up taking fifth overall.

For being the first female in my heat I got a case of Harpoon beer, which I gave to my cheering squad. We hung around for a little while longer, listening to the elite men's race while they finished their beers. I stared at Karen Smyers, she said hello to me, and even though I shit my pants a bit, at least I knew that I'd ridden a strong race. Last year I'd been so afraid of what she and the other elite women would think that I'd fucked it up when they weren't even looking. This time I'd practically raced face-to-face with a former Kona champion, and I felt like I'd put my best face forward: red as a tomato, jaw dragging on the floor, and a bit green around the gills, but I'd put together a solid race. That didn't mean that I was about to introduce myself, though.

It took until today for them to post the results, and when they did my numbers were ALL wrong. The official time was over 40 seconds slower than my watch time, and the watts were at least 30 watts too low. Either the computrainer registered my cooldown, or there must have been some other hiccup. However, going by the time on my watch (23:53), here's what I think things would have looked like:

Women's place overall: 12 (not counting teams, unofficially 16th)
Place of non-elite women: 2, not counting teams (who were allowed to draft)
Number of elite women I out-rode: one
Time ahead of last year's time: about 2 minutes
Time ahead of CoaPB's time from last year: about 4 seconds
Time behind Karen Smyers: about 2:50
Time behind Cait Snow: about 35 seconds

Update: I had them check on my results, and my time is now right, but my watts look astronomically high. Like 265 high. Like unless I was pushing about 400 watts for the last mile when I had my eyes closed, that's probably wrong too. Oh well, at least they got the rankings right and now anyone stalking my results will be frightened of me, the big bad monster who pushed 265 watts. By the way, Karen Smyers' average wattage? 265. Homegirl is about 6" taller than me! I feel fat!

Le dopage

With my recent month's focus on strength training, I've been spending time in GNC and the GNC aisle of Rite Aid looking at protein powders and other supplements. They have ferocious pictures of men looking like their limbs are being torn off with overblown claims in nonsensical language that calls up images of biting the heads off bunnies and pencil-like nerds. Words like "warrior," "beast," "unchained," and "monstrous" promise to turn you into a behemoth in language that seems better suited to a comic book than a supplement a few feet away from the Mylanta and diurrhetics that promise to fight kankles. They also have derivatives of words that I recognize from stories about doping cases in the news: "anabolic," "androgen," sterol," "testosterone"... I know that many of these products contain substances banned by cycling and triathlon (not by law), and it's tempting to try them out and see what they'd do to my power.

People walking into supplement shops are already vulnerable. They've come in with the intention of dropping $40 on pixie dust that will give them more of an advantage than food alone. And what makes one substance "bad" and another "okay" anyway? It's pretty arbitrary. I heard an interview once with some anti-doping specialist that said that caffeine was the single greatest legal performance-enhancing drug, and that if it weren't already so entrenched in our culture, it would have been banned long ago. And yet athletes have their careers terminated over traces of some chemical that's found is way into their blood through cold medicine. Sure, caffeine's natural and EPO isn't, but testosterone and HGH are natural and they're not allowed. Alcohol is way more dangerous than EPO (even back in the days when guys on EPO had to set their alarms for the middle of the night to do jumping jacks so that their blood didn't congeal in their veins), but alcohol is perfectly legal. If these drugs are banned, it's not necessarily because they're "bad" for you (or worse than any other pharmaceutical anyway).

The drugs aren't banned because they're unsafe, they're banned because they make you bigger/stronger/faster. Athletes spend hours every day busting their asses to get a leg up on the competition. They eat food that tastes like sand to optimize their power-to-weight ratio and muscle recovery. They take artificial supplements to pick up where food left off with electrolytes, protein, and even some vitamins. For a female athlete who takes iron supplements to fight exercise-related anemia, for example... how different is it physiologically to increase her red blood cell count with a few red blood cells from another person's veins? It's different ethically, but physiologically? When Greg LeMond was shot in a hunting accident, it was okay for him to get blood transfusions (he didn't). When Floyd Landis's hip was necrotic, it was okay for him to get cortisone (a steroid) shots. For those whose livelihood depends on it, the pressure to take that extra step to the other kind of enhancing supplements must be astronomical; especially in sports like cycling that have the perception (true or not) that everybody's already doing it.

So back to me standing in the aisle at GNC staring at the tubs of monster dust. I'm here because I want to burn fat, build muscle, improve explosive power, and I'm willing to pay for it. These bottles are saying they'll give me what I want. Running through my mind over and over with each outlandish claim on the side of a bottle is: I'd never even be tested!

I'm not doping. I have doubts as to whether this monster dust even works for meatheads who only care about bulk (not performance), let alone a spritely little cyclist like me who could care less about getting "shreaded." I'm not about to drop $58.99 on Andro Nitro X Triple Anabolic Formula and Penis Enhancement! If they had something proven to improve my performance though, like EPO, blood transfusions, or human growth hormone sitting there between the Incredible Hulk and Jillian Michaels pointing and smirking at me, I can't guarantee I wouldn't shell out the big bucks and take it home.

I like to ride my bike (and swim and run) because I really like putting the hurt into other people. I love the feeling when someone thinks, I can take her, and then I just blow them to pieces. I hate being on the other side of that story too, and it haunts me for months when I am. In short, I hate it when people think I can't do something. I have classic Little Man's syndrome, and I'm willing to go to great lengths to prove I have bigger balls than all y'all. If there were a button I could press, or a mantra I could say... or a magic pill I could take to never be shown up again... come on... yeah, I'd do it.

I've been watching a lot of old Tour DVDs during my trainer workouts lately. I personally believe that many–if not all–of the major players over the past decade are dirty. Do I care? Not really. Does it make me mad that Lancey Pants is probably a huge drug cheat and possibly a huge hypocrite for his professed dedication to anti-doping measures? Yes. Does it make it any less exciting when he schools Ullrich, Pantani, or Mayo (all of whom have their own sketchy pasts)? Not at all. Hey, all the EPO, HGH, anabolic steroids, and blood transfusions in the world would never make me a Lance Armstrong. Those guys are still fantastic athletes and genetic freaks. So what if there's a little Hollywood in there exaggerating their prowess and making a better show? It's not my career. If they want to gamble with their reputations in order to dazzle me a bit with a thrilling 200-km solo breakaway, I'm not going to object. Sure, I wish the sport were clean, but I also wish that all parking were free and plentiful, organic produce were cheap, and it were sunny every day. It ain't gonna happen and there's nothing I can do about it, so I'm better off not worrying about it to begin with and enjoying what I've got: lying, dirty cyclists who combine two of my favorite things–scandal and cycling!

And don't y'all act like you're better than me and that you would never consider doping. A couple of years ago I asked who would eat food that tasted like sand for an opportunity to be the best athlete in your sport. For those who placed athletic performance high on their list of priorities, many of them said that they would. The rest lied. Rumor has it that many triathletes with the means to do so choose to use performance-enhancing drugs in their quest for elite goals like Kona. With any reward that's tempting enough, a sport that requires so much single-minded dedication, and no consequences for cheating, can you really be surprised that it's happening? I'm not saying that everyone's doing it, but the fact that it's rare gives the athlete who chooses to cheat even more of an edge over his competition and makes doping even more attractive.

So yeah, if I were in the best shape of my life and in a position where I were just on the cusp of true greatness, and then my manager came up to me and said, "Here's a new drug that will enhance your performance 8%; enough to go from also-ran to sporting great. They won't be able to detect for another decade," I don't think I'd hesitate for long before dropping trou for the needle.

Guess who...

... has emails from Chrissie Wellington, Macca, Eneko Llanos, Andy Potts, Normann Stadler, Luke Bell, Gina Ferguson, Chris Lieto, Gina Kehr, Dede Griesbauer, Eduardo Sturla, Jo Lawn, Mathias Hecht, Leanda Cave, Marino Vanhoenacker, Michael Lovato, and Ronnie Schildknecht in her inbox.

Yeah, that would be me!

I feel so cool...

Alright, I'll explain myself. To reproduce a photo on the internet you need permission from its rightful owner. So I've had to write to all the athletes who may be contenders in Kona and ask whether I can use a photo. Sometimes I get a response from a PR person. Sometimes I hear from the athlete themselves. Surprisingly, some of the most successful people reply to their own emails.
I heard from Chrissie Wellington's manager, Macca's publicist, Eneko Llanos in person, Andy Pott's manager, Normann Stadler himself, Luke Bell himself, Gina Ferguson wrote a very nice personal email, Chris Lieto himself, Gina Kehr's manager, Dede Griesbauer herself, Eduardo Sturla's wife, Jo Lawn herself, Mathias Hecht's publicist (they sent me an invitation to a press briefing in Kona), Leanda Cave AND her publicist, Marino Vanhoenacker himself, Michael Lovato himself, and Ronnie Schildknecht in person. So there.

The scariest part? Chrissie Wellington, Macca, Andy Potts, Normann Stadler, Gina Ferguson, Gina Kehr, Dede Griesbauer, Eduardo Sturla, and Mathias Hecht all asked to reproduce whatever I write on their site. Yeah, I know... they get bonuses for media exposure from their sponsors. But these people want to know what I think of them! Holy shit! It's time to learn how to filter what I say!

Aquabike: The pros (and the cons)

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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.