I’d like to talk about three little words (well, technically 4 words if you drop the apostrophe): “Wow! You’re strong!” I get this quite often from my male counterparts in my sport and it’s always the less fit, hairy legged ones that look like they spend maybe 3 days a year on a bike. And it always seems to come when I’m out just spinning for fun. I know it seems benign and I know I should take it as a compliment. However, I can't. I used to answer it with, “Really? Why do you say that?” And the answer I got - “Well, you kept up with us really good” – made me want to pull my hair out.
To the gents who have said this to me, let's have a heart to heart. Now apart from cringing at your poor grammar of using “good” instead of “well,” hearing that response makes me now want to answer those three words with, “Why? Cuz I kept up with your fat ass?” I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the surprise in your voice and not the actual words you say. Basically your tone is telling me that you think of yourself as a strong cyclist and find it surprising that I, being a woman, could possibly match or (God forbid) surpass your fitness level. You’re telling me, “Hey, you’re pretty good…for a girl.” I mean, did you look at all the guys around you on the ride today and say, “Wow! You’re strong!” No? Hmmm.
Let me give you the bitter truth. Try not to cry. And try not to feel like less of a man. Not unlike most competitive cyclists, I spend between 12 and 18 hours a week in the saddle. I train constantly with riders (many of them women) far better than me. I train with pros. I race against pros. 100 miles in the mountains? No problem. Suffice to say, keeping up with you on your little 45 mile ride at 17 mph; not exactly hard. And it shouldn’t surprise you.
I'm glad we had this talk. You up for Green Cove road in the morning? 26 switchbacks? 17% grade? No? Hmm...
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Charleston Races: The Alpaca Supremacy?
“I really want it. I have to have it.” Hadley had been talking about it since last year. The team was standing around an island in Len and Linda Hanson’s kitchen at their home in I’on Village. Before us was a spread of food that included fresh fruits and veggies as well as sandwich fixin’s and a curry chicken salad to die for. Hadley’s face was a color similar to the celery – a little pale, a little green. I had never seen her so nervous before a race. “What’s wrong with her?” our host family asked.
We had seen it earlier that morning. It was hanging behind the registration table taunting us; begging to be touched and well within our reach but so far from our grasp. It was not a unicorn this year, nor was it a rug, but it was just as glorious: an Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham!
All talk steered toward a plan to capture the big prize of the day. And with each plan Hadley looked more worried. We still had 4 hours before our race started. Thank goodness for the Hanson’s and thank goodness for their beautiful home and especially the pool which served as a great place to relax. The race approached. 3:55 PM and finally it was race time!
Annie and I were lined up at the front. The officials presented the Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham to the racers. The gun went off. “Alpaca Prime on the first lap! First lap Alpaca Prime!” called the announcer, Chad Andrews. I took off knowing full well I would destroy my legs for the rest of the race. The group was strung out as we rounded a corner into a headwind. Christina came around me with Hadley and Annie on her wheel. We rounded the last 2 corners of the first lap and the sprint started on the slight incline to the start/finish line. The familiar sound of gears changing and wind passing loudly around spokes filled the air as the pace quickened. The sprint was on.
“And the Alpaca Prime goes to…Hadley Trotter, Team 19!” Whew! The pressure was off. Now it was time to win the race. Would it be possible?
Um, yes. A flurry of attacks and chases kept the pace very fast. But in the end, it wasn’t enough to slow down Christina who took the field sprint and the win at the I’on Village Smackdown for Team 19 WSD.
Back at the Hanson’s, our new friends Len and Linda, who had been at the race cheering for us, set out glasses and 2 bottles of Champagne. We celebrated our victories with a toast to each other and a big thanks to our hosts, who were the honorary team members of the day for keeping us well fed and hydrated all day long.
Now the big question – will it be possible to have an Alpaca Prime next year? Four years running? Fingers crossed.
We had seen it earlier that morning. It was hanging behind the registration table taunting us; begging to be touched and well within our reach but so far from our grasp. It was not a unicorn this year, nor was it a rug, but it was just as glorious: an Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham!
All talk steered toward a plan to capture the big prize of the day. And with each plan Hadley looked more worried. We still had 4 hours before our race started. Thank goodness for the Hanson’s and thank goodness for their beautiful home and especially the pool which served as a great place to relax. The race approached. 3:55 PM and finally it was race time!
Annie and I were lined up at the front. The officials presented the Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham to the racers. The gun went off. “Alpaca Prime on the first lap! First lap Alpaca Prime!” called the announcer, Chad Andrews. I took off knowing full well I would destroy my legs for the rest of the race. The group was strung out as we rounded a corner into a headwind. Christina came around me with Hadley and Annie on her wheel. We rounded the last 2 corners of the first lap and the sprint started on the slight incline to the start/finish line. The familiar sound of gears changing and wind passing loudly around spokes filled the air as the pace quickened. The sprint was on.
“And the Alpaca Prime goes to…Hadley Trotter, Team 19!” Whew! The pressure was off. Now it was time to win the race. Would it be possible?
Um, yes. A flurry of attacks and chases kept the pace very fast. But in the end, it wasn’t enough to slow down Christina who took the field sprint and the win at the I’on Village Smackdown for Team 19 WSD.
Back at the Hanson’s, our new friends Len and Linda, who had been at the race cheering for us, set out glasses and 2 bottles of Champagne. We celebrated our victories with a toast to each other and a big thanks to our hosts, who were the honorary team members of the day for keeping us well fed and hydrated all day long.
Now the big question – will it be possible to have an Alpaca Prime next year? Four years running? Fingers crossed.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Alpaca Pack
Looking forward to the Charleston Races next weekend, I figured I’d take a moment to take a look back. Our team has had great success at these races. We will return this year as defending winners of both the I’on Village Smackdown and the SC State Crit Championship.
Flashback to the start line last year and an offer for what is perhaps the strangest Prime prize ever: a 4ft x 4ft Genuine Alpaca fur rug with a unicorn design on it worth $250. Is this serious? Did I just hear that correctly? Yessiree, Bob! First across the line on the first lap gets to take this baby home! As all the racers at the line start chuckling a bit, Hadley turns to Annie and I and proclaims, “I want it!”
The race starts and off goes Hadley at warp speed. “I thought she was kidding,” I yelled to Annie as the pack started chasing after Hadley. Nope! She was serious. She out sprinted one other racer for the rug. Later that racer came over to us, pulled up her jersey to reveal a unicorn tattoo on her shoulder. She had really wanted the rug. Unfortunately, it had a force all its own that would not let Hadley give it up.
Annie ended up taking a Prime as well (a gift certificate which she gave to me for helping out in the race, thanks Annie, those beers were deelish!) that ended up putting her on a solo breakaway that won her the race.
Next weekend the Alpaca Pack, with a few new members, will take to the streets of Charleston for, hopefully, some continued success. One things for sure, though. No matter what, we’re gonna have a good time!
Flashback to the start line last year and an offer for what is perhaps the strangest Prime prize ever: a 4ft x 4ft Genuine Alpaca fur rug with a unicorn design on it worth $250. Is this serious? Did I just hear that correctly? Yessiree, Bob! First across the line on the first lap gets to take this baby home! As all the racers at the line start chuckling a bit, Hadley turns to Annie and I and proclaims, “I want it!”
The race starts and off goes Hadley at warp speed. “I thought she was kidding,” I yelled to Annie as the pack started chasing after Hadley. Nope! She was serious. She out sprinted one other racer for the rug. Later that racer came over to us, pulled up her jersey to reveal a unicorn tattoo on her shoulder. She had really wanted the rug. Unfortunately, it had a force all its own that would not let Hadley give it up.
Annie ended up taking a Prime as well (a gift certificate which she gave to me for helping out in the race, thanks Annie, those beers were deelish!) that ended up putting her on a solo breakaway that won her the race.
Next weekend the Alpaca Pack, with a few new members, will take to the streets of Charleston for, hopefully, some continued success. One things for sure, though. No matter what, we’re gonna have a good time!
Camp Pisgah
Team 19 WSD, along with friends and Significant Others, spent a long weekend in the mountains of North Carolina for team training camp. Pisgah Girl Scouts Camp provided the shelter and the areas surrounding Brevard provided the climbing needed for a great weekend.
I love the mountains. On my bike, it’s a love/hate relationship, but otherwise, I really, really love the mountains. I used to live in this area and I never pass up an opportunity to return. Upon the team’s arrival at Camp Pisgah, there was a flurry of unpacking and claiming of sleeping territory – mostly cots with plastic covered mattresses that made diaper sounds when you moved on them. I discovered a box spring and mattress hiding in a closet, so sorry ladies, I had the best arrangement. With sleeping quarters taken care of, we were off on the bikes for “a little jaunt”. Within 10 minutes, we hit a leg breaking climb that had all of us wondering what we had gotten into. But, after that, we got to climb and, more importantly, descend Cesar’s Head Mountain. For me, Cesar’s Head is the biggest bang for the buck. The climb is gradual over several miles – no too bad – but, the descent is about 6 miles of 40mph downhill, my personal favorite. The ride ended up lasting longer than we had intended and even longer for a small bunch who decided to ride ahead…and then got lost. The sun was going down fast and it had started raining, so we sent the cavalry out for them only to find out they had knocked on the door of a random house, disturbing a man having a shower, yelling at the top of his lungs, who eventually gave them directions back to camp. A friend of ours, Sonja, cooked a heck of a pasta dinner for us all and we sat down and shared stories of the day.
Saturday morning we fueled up on breakfast prepared by Sarah. It is worth noting here, that the littlest woman on our team, Flavia, it turns out, puts away twice as much food as anyone else at camp. Seriously, it’s absolutely remarkable. Anyway, after marveling at Flavia for an hour, we headed out for a long day that included a 20 mile climb on Rt. 215 up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. As we climbed to the higher elevation, ice and snow started appearing on the rock faces and ground. In fact, ice chunks were falling from the rocks at a velocity that could cause a serious injury. At times, I was hoping one would hit me. It turned out the Parkway was closed due to snow and ice, so we had to come back down what we had just climbed.
I love going downhill. It’s really the only thing I excel at in cycling so when faced with a 20 mile downhill, I get excited. Unfortunately for me, and the entire group, it was insanely cold – hands so numb you can’t even tell if you’re braking; legs shaking uncontrollably; eyes tearing then freezing on your cheeks. So, rounding the bend heading back up to camp was a welcome sight. Also, a welcome sight was the baby goat on the farm, Cupid (born on Valentine’s Day), that greeted us each time we arrived back at the cabin. I’m convinced that, because of Cupid, Hadley and Monica will own a goat before the end of March…and they shall call her “Frances.”
That night we headed into town for a little Mexican feast. By dinner’s end, there was only one plate scraped clean without a morsel left of which to speak. I offered Flavia one of my fajitas, but she swore she was full. I still wonder.
Sunday’s ride was the same loop as Friday for some of us. Another group decided on a slightly shorter route, which ended up being longer than they thought when they took a wrong turn (ha,ha). I think they knew they were in trouble when they saw our group climbing toward them. It worked out in the end though. It was nice to have them join us and finish the last ride of the weekend with the whole group in tact. And despite a small misreading of speed on a curve that left me in a ditch going down Cesar’s Head, the day went well. Back at the cabin, we had some lunch and then prepared to say our goodbyes to each other…and Cupid. I was really quite sad as I watched everyone leave to their respective home cities – Richmond, Blacksburg, Chapel Hill, Charlotte. But, as sad as I was then, I am equally as proud to continue to be associated with such a great group of people.
I love the mountains. On my bike, it’s a love/hate relationship, but otherwise, I really, really love the mountains. I used to live in this area and I never pass up an opportunity to return. Upon the team’s arrival at Camp Pisgah, there was a flurry of unpacking and claiming of sleeping territory – mostly cots with plastic covered mattresses that made diaper sounds when you moved on them. I discovered a box spring and mattress hiding in a closet, so sorry ladies, I had the best arrangement. With sleeping quarters taken care of, we were off on the bikes for “a little jaunt”. Within 10 minutes, we hit a leg breaking climb that had all of us wondering what we had gotten into. But, after that, we got to climb and, more importantly, descend Cesar’s Head Mountain. For me, Cesar’s Head is the biggest bang for the buck. The climb is gradual over several miles – no too bad – but, the descent is about 6 miles of 40mph downhill, my personal favorite. The ride ended up lasting longer than we had intended and even longer for a small bunch who decided to ride ahead…and then got lost. The sun was going down fast and it had started raining, so we sent the cavalry out for them only to find out they had knocked on the door of a random house, disturbing a man having a shower, yelling at the top of his lungs, who eventually gave them directions back to camp. A friend of ours, Sonja, cooked a heck of a pasta dinner for us all and we sat down and shared stories of the day.
Saturday morning we fueled up on breakfast prepared by Sarah. It is worth noting here, that the littlest woman on our team, Flavia, it turns out, puts away twice as much food as anyone else at camp. Seriously, it’s absolutely remarkable. Anyway, after marveling at Flavia for an hour, we headed out for a long day that included a 20 mile climb on Rt. 215 up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. As we climbed to the higher elevation, ice and snow started appearing on the rock faces and ground. In fact, ice chunks were falling from the rocks at a velocity that could cause a serious injury. At times, I was hoping one would hit me. It turned out the Parkway was closed due to snow and ice, so we had to come back down what we had just climbed.
I love going downhill. It’s really the only thing I excel at in cycling so when faced with a 20 mile downhill, I get excited. Unfortunately for me, and the entire group, it was insanely cold – hands so numb you can’t even tell if you’re braking; legs shaking uncontrollably; eyes tearing then freezing on your cheeks. So, rounding the bend heading back up to camp was a welcome sight. Also, a welcome sight was the baby goat on the farm, Cupid (born on Valentine’s Day), that greeted us each time we arrived back at the cabin. I’m convinced that, because of Cupid, Hadley and Monica will own a goat before the end of March…and they shall call her “Frances.”
That night we headed into town for a little Mexican feast. By dinner’s end, there was only one plate scraped clean without a morsel left of which to speak. I offered Flavia one of my fajitas, but she swore she was full. I still wonder.
Sunday’s ride was the same loop as Friday for some of us. Another group decided on a slightly shorter route, which ended up being longer than they thought when they took a wrong turn (ha,ha). I think they knew they were in trouble when they saw our group climbing toward them. It worked out in the end though. It was nice to have them join us and finish the last ride of the weekend with the whole group in tact. And despite a small misreading of speed on a curve that left me in a ditch going down Cesar’s Head, the day went well. Back at the cabin, we had some lunch and then prepared to say our goodbyes to each other…and Cupid. I was really quite sad as I watched everyone leave to their respective home cities – Richmond, Blacksburg, Chapel Hill, Charlotte. But, as sad as I was then, I am equally as proud to continue to be associated with such a great group of people.
Little Woman
When I’m on my bike, it doesn’t take much to make me smile. Most of the time I’m so focused on what’s going on around me that I don’t have time. Because in order to survive on a road bike around town, you have expect people to do stupid things. And, believe me, they will.
Unfortunately, car vs. bike isn’t much of a competition and I am constantly surprised at the lengths people will go to let me know they HATE that I’m out there on THEIR road that THEY pay taxes on. I get cursed at, yelled at, honked at, run off the road, turned in front of, spat at…(sigh) and a host of other things daily. So when someone is nice to me out there, it has a very profound affect on me.
Today I was on my way to Copperhead Island just for the hell of it. I came across a little woman in a large brimmed hat who stopped in her tracks when she saw me coming up the road. She stood there and watched me pedal toward her. As I got closer she threw up her arms with her hands signing “O.K.” She yelled, “Good for you! Good for you! Good for you!” with a huge smile beneath her hat. I yelled back at her, “Thank you.” She continued to watch me until I crested the hill. I should have stopped and hugged her. She has no idea how her little cheer made my whole day.
Unfortunately, car vs. bike isn’t much of a competition and I am constantly surprised at the lengths people will go to let me know they HATE that I’m out there on THEIR road that THEY pay taxes on. I get cursed at, yelled at, honked at, run off the road, turned in front of, spat at…(sigh) and a host of other things daily. So when someone is nice to me out there, it has a very profound affect on me.
Today I was on my way to Copperhead Island just for the hell of it. I came across a little woman in a large brimmed hat who stopped in her tracks when she saw me coming up the road. She stood there and watched me pedal toward her. As I got closer she threw up her arms with her hands signing “O.K.” She yelled, “Good for you! Good for you! Good for you!” with a huge smile beneath her hat. I yelled back at her, “Thank you.” She continued to watch me until I crested the hill. I should have stopped and hugged her. She has no idea how her little cheer made my whole day.
24 Hours of Booty
Grandma died of Cancer 20 years ago. I was 13. It’s strange you know…the things you remember. I try to remember her as my Jelly Stone Park camping buddy; as my Disney World Escort; as the popcorn sharer while we watched Fivel search for his family.
But there are other memories that come to mind – the grapefruit I cut up so perfectly that she couldn’t eat; driving the brick road that made her grimace as her stitches pulled; the red nightgown and the wig; the dreaded phone call.
20 years after the fact and these memories are still able to break me. And I don’t even fight it.
First year: 12 hours, 179 miles. It was eerie in the middle of the night; after the traffic was gone and after a lot of riders had gone to bed. The bugs were loud, but the night was otherwise silent. The street lights were on, but the red lights on the backs of bikes stole the scene. A lot of us rode with memorials of loved ones pinned to our jerseys and in the calmness of the night it was like you could hear those loved ones cheering you on from a far away place that was as close as your handlebar. And every now and then, someone would ride up next to me and ask about the picture of Grandma on my back. We’d share stories back and forth for a lap and then they’d be off. I would not recognize them again in the light of day.
This is 24 Hours of Booty. Second Year: 17 hours, 260 miles. Third year: marred by intense thunderstorms. This year: who's counting?
But there are other memories that come to mind – the grapefruit I cut up so perfectly that she couldn’t eat; driving the brick road that made her grimace as her stitches pulled; the red nightgown and the wig; the dreaded phone call.
20 years after the fact and these memories are still able to break me. And I don’t even fight it.
First year: 12 hours, 179 miles. It was eerie in the middle of the night; after the traffic was gone and after a lot of riders had gone to bed. The bugs were loud, but the night was otherwise silent. The street lights were on, but the red lights on the backs of bikes stole the scene. A lot of us rode with memorials of loved ones pinned to our jerseys and in the calmness of the night it was like you could hear those loved ones cheering you on from a far away place that was as close as your handlebar. And every now and then, someone would ride up next to me and ask about the picture of Grandma on my back. We’d share stories back and forth for a lap and then they’d be off. I would not recognize them again in the light of day.
This is 24 Hours of Booty. Second Year: 17 hours, 260 miles. Third year: marred by intense thunderstorms. This year: who's counting?
Notes From a First Year: A First Time For Everything
Have you ever heard of delusions of grandeur? If you took Psych 101 in college, then you know what I’m talking about. It’s when you believe you’re much more important than you really are. For instance, if your neighbor actually believes he is the President of the United States. In cycling it translates to this: You believe you’re the next Lance Armstrong. You like to think at the beginning of the season of your first year that you are going to come out striking and surprise the whole field and have everyone saying, “WOW! Who on earth is that? That is the best cyclist EVER!” So the thought of something going wrong during a race doesn’t really enter your head until you see it happening to you.
Sunday, July 23rd, 2006. French Broad Cycling Classic, Asheville, NC. A city I love. A city I used to call home. A city with old friends watching. I lined up with the Cat 1,2,3, riders. It was my first weekend racing as a CAT-3 (an honor I had recently acquired thanks to a good showing in the Lenoir race). Halfway through the Criterium I found myself being dropped. Panic set in and an argument starts between my brain, my legs and my heart.
Brain, “Why the hell aren’t you pedaling faster?”
Legs, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the beer you decided to recover with after yesterday’s race. And you call yourself the smart one!”
Heart, “Please don’t fight! Please don’t fight! I don’t like it when you fight…oh my God you hate each other!”
Brain, “Heart, you’re annoying go away!”
Legs, “hey don’t talk to her that way, this is your fault!”
Heart, “Give me a J…Give me an O…Give me a D…give me a…”
Legs and Brain, “SHUT UP!”
Okay, let’s give it one more try.
I pushed and clawed my way back up to the group with the help of a lot of cheering from fans. I grabbed onto a back wheel just in time for someone up front to attack…alone again. Pulling out of the race was not an option. No way. And so I rode with my heart, even after hearing the announcer say, “This rider is off the back of the group. Number 321, Jodi Winterton.” Thanks, dude. You could have refrained from using my name.
Now, after you’ve been by yourself a while you figure the pack is going to come up on you at some point and so when you go around the corners you take a quick look back…okay nobody there, good for now. But nothing you tell yourself prepares you for the first time you look back and you see the headlight of the motorbike creeping up behind you. You feel it happen – your body just gives in. Like you went from being a juicy ripe grape to a raisin in the matter of a glance. You don’t even try to look at your teammates as they blow by you.
Brain, “Just finish the race. Go straight to the car. Go home. Maybe no one will notice.”
Legs, “I have failed you and I am so sorry.”
Heart, “You will finish your last lap and you will punch the air with your fists as if you won this thing!”
Then a strange thing happened. I started hearing strangers on the sidewalk calling my name as I rode by. People I didn’t know had heard my name announced and were willing me to finish strong. As I was coming up to the line on my last lap, after the sprint finish was decided, I sat up and put my hands in the air and much to my surprise, the spectators responded with thunderous cheers. Heart, “See, I told you so!” It was a silver lining to my otherwise gray and cloudy day.
I still took the advice of my Brain, though. I got out quickly and went home. I beat my head against the wall with absolute disappointment in myself. I questioned ever making the decision to race in the first place. My heart dropped with every thought of my teammates. The next Lance Armstrong, I will not be. I sank low, lower and lowest as the night went on and I went to bed that night with the image of the motorbikes headlight glaring into my eyes.
Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, right?
Sunday, July 23rd, 2006. French Broad Cycling Classic, Asheville, NC. A city I love. A city I used to call home. A city with old friends watching. I lined up with the Cat 1,2,3, riders. It was my first weekend racing as a CAT-3 (an honor I had recently acquired thanks to a good showing in the Lenoir race). Halfway through the Criterium I found myself being dropped. Panic set in and an argument starts between my brain, my legs and my heart.
Brain, “Why the hell aren’t you pedaling faster?”
Legs, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the beer you decided to recover with after yesterday’s race. And you call yourself the smart one!”
Heart, “Please don’t fight! Please don’t fight! I don’t like it when you fight…oh my God you hate each other!”
Brain, “Heart, you’re annoying go away!”
Legs, “hey don’t talk to her that way, this is your fault!”
Heart, “Give me a J…Give me an O…Give me a D…give me a…”
Legs and Brain, “SHUT UP!”
Okay, let’s give it one more try.
I pushed and clawed my way back up to the group with the help of a lot of cheering from fans. I grabbed onto a back wheel just in time for someone up front to attack…alone again. Pulling out of the race was not an option. No way. And so I rode with my heart, even after hearing the announcer say, “This rider is off the back of the group. Number 321, Jodi Winterton.” Thanks, dude. You could have refrained from using my name.
Now, after you’ve been by yourself a while you figure the pack is going to come up on you at some point and so when you go around the corners you take a quick look back…okay nobody there, good for now. But nothing you tell yourself prepares you for the first time you look back and you see the headlight of the motorbike creeping up behind you. You feel it happen – your body just gives in. Like you went from being a juicy ripe grape to a raisin in the matter of a glance. You don’t even try to look at your teammates as they blow by you.
Brain, “Just finish the race. Go straight to the car. Go home. Maybe no one will notice.”
Legs, “I have failed you and I am so sorry.”
Heart, “You will finish your last lap and you will punch the air with your fists as if you won this thing!”
Then a strange thing happened. I started hearing strangers on the sidewalk calling my name as I rode by. People I didn’t know had heard my name announced and were willing me to finish strong. As I was coming up to the line on my last lap, after the sprint finish was decided, I sat up and put my hands in the air and much to my surprise, the spectators responded with thunderous cheers. Heart, “See, I told you so!” It was a silver lining to my otherwise gray and cloudy day.
I still took the advice of my Brain, though. I got out quickly and went home. I beat my head against the wall with absolute disappointment in myself. I questioned ever making the decision to race in the first place. My heart dropped with every thought of my teammates. The next Lance Armstrong, I will not be. I sank low, lower and lowest as the night went on and I went to bed that night with the image of the motorbikes headlight glaring into my eyes.
Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, right?
Notes From a First Year: Hush, Hush
I read an article recently on a cycling website about “Labial Swelling.” Guys, before you quit reading, bear with me for a minute; your cyclist girlfriend will much appreciate it. Besides, I have enough guy friends to know you suffer from something similar.
The problem is no one will talk about it. It’s like when you first start dating someone and you don’t want them to think you do something as human as farting. So, you hold it in and the gas just builds up until the pressure has you cross-eyed. Then, after you’ve been together a while, you get a little more comfy with each other and you finally admit it. After a year of controlling your sphincter not to release some air that’s backed up in your intestines, you finally have had enough. Ah, relief at last!
No one took me aside when I started cycling and said, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: Your butt is going to hurt. You will get rashes. You will get sores. Certain areas may get very red and swell painfully.”
I’m sorry; to what “areas” would you be referring?
I figure it is my duty to speak frankly – your genital area as well as your butt will get very sore. There, I said it. Please take a minute to blush and be embarrassed…Good, now get over it and let’s discuss this. I am lobbying to “Out” this hush, hush. Anyone that spends any amount of time on a bike is going to experience soreness in lots of areas – including all the spots that come in contact with the saddle.
At this year’s “24 Hours of Booty,” I spent a total of 17 hours in the saddle; a long, long time. By the time it was over and I got home, I was tomato red and swollen from my pubic bone to the top of my butt crack and halfway down my thighs. I had 2 skin ulcerations in the shape of my saddle on my lower cheeks; one on each side. There were several sores situated around my groin muscle. I had all of this despite the application and re-application of chamois lube and changing of shorts throughout the ride. My post ride shower was absolute torture. Cold water cascading over the open sores stung me to tears. Echoes of Phil Ligget calling out riders on the Col du Galibier bellowed in my head, “And here is Jodi Winterton. She has absolutely cracked. Bob, she is in her own personal per-ga-tree!” “Purgatory” sounds about right. I screamed as I applied the soap.
Upon exiting the shower, my significant other was ready with all kinds of remedies; aloe, Solarcain spray, and even Preparation H. And I will tell you, of those three, only the Prep-H didn’t sting like hell. I know what you’re thinking – hemorrhoids? But, actually, Prep-H is for sensitive irritated skin…which was what I had. I lubed up, threw on some loose fitting boxers and lay down on my bed.
Now, it is important for me to include a disclaimer here for a few reasons. Firstly, you are most likely not going to go out and ride 17 hours very often. My case was a bit extreme. You are more likely to experience a little chafing and maybe a small rash, both of which are bearable and very treatable. Secondly, I am not endorsing Preparation-H as a remedy. It happened to be in the house and it felt good, so I used it. Anything to stop the pain.
The point is this: You need to take care of yourself. There are lots of chamois crèmes on the market. Try a few and find a favorite. I like the Assos crème…and not just cuz of its name. It has a menthol tingling feeling when you apply it which keeps you cool on warm days. Remember: cycling is great fun, but at some point you may want to use these areas for more fun than just supporting your weight on a bike. Your significant other will be grateful.
Get the crème! And consider yourself warned.
The problem is no one will talk about it. It’s like when you first start dating someone and you don’t want them to think you do something as human as farting. So, you hold it in and the gas just builds up until the pressure has you cross-eyed. Then, after you’ve been together a while, you get a little more comfy with each other and you finally admit it. After a year of controlling your sphincter not to release some air that’s backed up in your intestines, you finally have had enough. Ah, relief at last!
No one took me aside when I started cycling and said, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: Your butt is going to hurt. You will get rashes. You will get sores. Certain areas may get very red and swell painfully.”
I’m sorry; to what “areas” would you be referring?
I figure it is my duty to speak frankly – your genital area as well as your butt will get very sore. There, I said it. Please take a minute to blush and be embarrassed…Good, now get over it and let’s discuss this. I am lobbying to “Out” this hush, hush. Anyone that spends any amount of time on a bike is going to experience soreness in lots of areas – including all the spots that come in contact with the saddle.
At this year’s “24 Hours of Booty,” I spent a total of 17 hours in the saddle; a long, long time. By the time it was over and I got home, I was tomato red and swollen from my pubic bone to the top of my butt crack and halfway down my thighs. I had 2 skin ulcerations in the shape of my saddle on my lower cheeks; one on each side. There were several sores situated around my groin muscle. I had all of this despite the application and re-application of chamois lube and changing of shorts throughout the ride. My post ride shower was absolute torture. Cold water cascading over the open sores stung me to tears. Echoes of Phil Ligget calling out riders on the Col du Galibier bellowed in my head, “And here is Jodi Winterton. She has absolutely cracked. Bob, she is in her own personal per-ga-tree!” “Purgatory” sounds about right. I screamed as I applied the soap.
Upon exiting the shower, my significant other was ready with all kinds of remedies; aloe, Solarcain spray, and even Preparation H. And I will tell you, of those three, only the Prep-H didn’t sting like hell. I know what you’re thinking – hemorrhoids? But, actually, Prep-H is for sensitive irritated skin…which was what I had. I lubed up, threw on some loose fitting boxers and lay down on my bed.
Now, it is important for me to include a disclaimer here for a few reasons. Firstly, you are most likely not going to go out and ride 17 hours very often. My case was a bit extreme. You are more likely to experience a little chafing and maybe a small rash, both of which are bearable and very treatable. Secondly, I am not endorsing Preparation-H as a remedy. It happened to be in the house and it felt good, so I used it. Anything to stop the pain.
The point is this: You need to take care of yourself. There are lots of chamois crèmes on the market. Try a few and find a favorite. I like the Assos crème…and not just cuz of its name. It has a menthol tingling feeling when you apply it which keeps you cool on warm days. Remember: cycling is great fun, but at some point you may want to use these areas for more fun than just supporting your weight on a bike. Your significant other will be grateful.
Get the crème! And consider yourself warned.
Notes From a First Year: Hitting the Wall
After taking 2 weeks off the bike to deal with my Grandmother falling sick and passing away, I knew it would be hard work to get my fitness back. Generally, according to my coach, for each week off the bike, it will take 2 weeks to get back. So, I was looking at a month to get back to form. I had been doing so well with my program for 6 months, rarely missing a workout if a t all, and the thought of being a month behind wore on my mind. I had to get to it and I wanted it to happen fast.
The Saturday after my Grandma’s Funeral I decided to do the 8 AM Bolt Brother’s ride, a ride I had done plenty of in the past, a 50 mile ride around Waxhaw, NC. A quick call from my teammate, Christina, and the plan was to meet at her house at 7, ride to the bike shop, do the 50 mile ride and return to her place. By the end, we would see 80 miles pass us by. Perfect! Just what I need - a good long ride to remind my legs of what we love most!
The Bolt Brother’s ride turned out to be a little faster than normal. The Boltie teammates were attacking each other left and right and my teammates and I played along with them. It was a good day in the saddle and by the time I got back to Christina’s house, I had been convinced to go on a hilly ride the next day – 70 miles around Wilkesboro, NC. It sounded like a great idea. Besides, the Blood, Sweat and Gears ride (13,000 ft of combined climbing) was the following weekend and I had yet to ride some good hills. I was excited.
The pinnacle climb of the trip was a 6 mile climb up Brushy Mountain. The climb started about 30 miles into the ride. We started the day nice and slow, trying to spin out the aches from the previous days ride. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. I couldn’t find a comfortable gear; not even on the flats. At the bottom of Brushy Mountain, there is a sad face painted on the road that reads “6 miles.” I was confident I would conquer the climb.
Unfortunately, that confidence quickly waned only a half a mile into the climb when I started falling quickly off the back of the group. Within a minute, everyone was out of sight and I found myself struggling to turn the pedals over. I fought at my own pace up the never ending 6 mile hill. After turning what I thought was the last bend, I saw someone coming toward me. It was one of the riders in our group, no doubt coming back to see what was taking me so long. “I’m just looking for a place to go to the bathroom,” she said. She was being nice. I rounded another bend and saw the rest of my group in a church parking lot. A parking lot surrounded by trees. Trees perfect for going to the bathroom. We descended the hill and stopped for refreshments at a gas station. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I had eaten plenty, drank plenty. I even took some salt pills. I simply did not have it in my legs.
After our rest stop, we continued. I looked at my odometer - 40 miles left. How the heck was I going to survive this? I was told the worst climbs were behind us, but I had been lied to. My legs were so worn out that even the smallest bump in the road had me falling back huffin’ and puffin’. I had never felt like this on the bike before. I was so helpless, so weak…so pathetic. Then we hit another steep one. I saw everyone disappear around a switchback ahead of me. When I arrived at that spot I got out of the saddle and gave it all I had…and came to almost a complete stop. My legs were absolutely killing me fighting back at my will with searing pain. A tear dropped from my eye – what is wrong with me? Was I crying? Seriously? Crying? Sadly, yes. Arriving at the top of the hill, everyone in the group was off their bikes and having a little siesta beneath a huge oak tree. For a minute, I thought I even saw sombreros and cervezas. The hallucinations had begun.
The ride continued. Every turn of the pedal started a stinging bolt of pain through my thighs. Even coasting downhill, the burn in my legs did not cease. There was not an energy drink in the world that could save me now. I just needed to get back to the car.
There comes a point when you’re hitting the wall when those around you start willing you on by telling you you’re “almost done.” If this happens to you, do not believe a word those sadistic bastards tell you. They will start saying that crap 10 miles out from the finish and when you feel this awful, “almost done” means something more like 100 yards. 10 miles feeling this bad could easily take over an hour! That’s not what I need to hear…I need someone to go get the car while I sit here on the side of the road and teeter between unconsciousness and death. So go on…go finish your stupid ride…leave me to my maker…let me go in peace.
Snapping back to reality, I finished the ride. We refueled with large burgers for lunch. We laughed at me. I promised not to suck so bad next time. It was a hard lesson to learn…but at least it was a learned lesson!
The Saturday after my Grandma’s Funeral I decided to do the 8 AM Bolt Brother’s ride, a ride I had done plenty of in the past, a 50 mile ride around Waxhaw, NC. A quick call from my teammate, Christina, and the plan was to meet at her house at 7, ride to the bike shop, do the 50 mile ride and return to her place. By the end, we would see 80 miles pass us by. Perfect! Just what I need - a good long ride to remind my legs of what we love most!
The Bolt Brother’s ride turned out to be a little faster than normal. The Boltie teammates were attacking each other left and right and my teammates and I played along with them. It was a good day in the saddle and by the time I got back to Christina’s house, I had been convinced to go on a hilly ride the next day – 70 miles around Wilkesboro, NC. It sounded like a great idea. Besides, the Blood, Sweat and Gears ride (13,000 ft of combined climbing) was the following weekend and I had yet to ride some good hills. I was excited.
The pinnacle climb of the trip was a 6 mile climb up Brushy Mountain. The climb started about 30 miles into the ride. We started the day nice and slow, trying to spin out the aches from the previous days ride. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. I couldn’t find a comfortable gear; not even on the flats. At the bottom of Brushy Mountain, there is a sad face painted on the road that reads “6 miles.” I was confident I would conquer the climb.
Unfortunately, that confidence quickly waned only a half a mile into the climb when I started falling quickly off the back of the group. Within a minute, everyone was out of sight and I found myself struggling to turn the pedals over. I fought at my own pace up the never ending 6 mile hill. After turning what I thought was the last bend, I saw someone coming toward me. It was one of the riders in our group, no doubt coming back to see what was taking me so long. “I’m just looking for a place to go to the bathroom,” she said. She was being nice. I rounded another bend and saw the rest of my group in a church parking lot. A parking lot surrounded by trees. Trees perfect for going to the bathroom. We descended the hill and stopped for refreshments at a gas station. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I had eaten plenty, drank plenty. I even took some salt pills. I simply did not have it in my legs.
After our rest stop, we continued. I looked at my odometer - 40 miles left. How the heck was I going to survive this? I was told the worst climbs were behind us, but I had been lied to. My legs were so worn out that even the smallest bump in the road had me falling back huffin’ and puffin’. I had never felt like this on the bike before. I was so helpless, so weak…so pathetic. Then we hit another steep one. I saw everyone disappear around a switchback ahead of me. When I arrived at that spot I got out of the saddle and gave it all I had…and came to almost a complete stop. My legs were absolutely killing me fighting back at my will with searing pain. A tear dropped from my eye – what is wrong with me? Was I crying? Seriously? Crying? Sadly, yes. Arriving at the top of the hill, everyone in the group was off their bikes and having a little siesta beneath a huge oak tree. For a minute, I thought I even saw sombreros and cervezas. The hallucinations had begun.
The ride continued. Every turn of the pedal started a stinging bolt of pain through my thighs. Even coasting downhill, the burn in my legs did not cease. There was not an energy drink in the world that could save me now. I just needed to get back to the car.
There comes a point when you’re hitting the wall when those around you start willing you on by telling you you’re “almost done.” If this happens to you, do not believe a word those sadistic bastards tell you. They will start saying that crap 10 miles out from the finish and when you feel this awful, “almost done” means something more like 100 yards. 10 miles feeling this bad could easily take over an hour! That’s not what I need to hear…I need someone to go get the car while I sit here on the side of the road and teeter between unconsciousness and death. So go on…go finish your stupid ride…leave me to my maker…let me go in peace.
Snapping back to reality, I finished the ride. We refueled with large burgers for lunch. We laughed at me. I promised not to suck so bad next time. It was a hard lesson to learn…but at least it was a learned lesson!
Notes From a First Year: Neopolitan Ice Cream
I don’t have a farmer’s tan. I’m not a farmer. I don’t have a redneck tan. I’m not a redneck. I don’t care if you make fun of it, but call it what it is: a CYCLING tan.
It is inevitable…after a long cold winter of riding with frozen feet and fingers, the mercury starts moving in the other direction and you start shedding layers leaving particular areas of skin exposed. Men may not care so much, but the ladies generally like an all over even tan; something you simply cannot have has a cyclist. You can have great legs. You can have low body fat. You can have a VO2Max that’s off the charts. You can have a bike that costs more than the car you carry it on. But you CANNOT have an all over even tan.
I use sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen every time I ride. Well, not every time. Once, I showed up late to a race barely having enough time to put my helmet on, let alone lather up with sunscreen. But, if my sunscreen actually is all of those things, then why do I think of Neopolitan ice cream when I look at myself naked in the mirror? I am vanilla in some spots (use your imagination) chocolate in others (tops of my knees) and strawberry in small patches I missed with the sunscreen (on my forehead through the holes in my helmet).
In most races, the USCF will require you to wear a jersey with sleeves so most team kits do not come with a sleeveless jersey. You are pretty much guaranteed a nice tan line halfway down your bicep. And, although I have not officially checked the rule book, I assume you are required to wear some kind of bottoms (lycra, presumably); mid-thigh tan line. Factor in the gloves, socks and sunglasses and you might as well cancel your summer beach vacation.
Or so I used to think, until I started looking around a little. Think about it. How many hours on the bike in the sun must you ride to get that dark of a tan through sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen? How many professional cyclists do you see without bad tan lines? The answers: a shit load and zero. So, go ahead and make fun of my tan. I don’t care. I work hard for this tan.
It is inevitable…after a long cold winter of riding with frozen feet and fingers, the mercury starts moving in the other direction and you start shedding layers leaving particular areas of skin exposed. Men may not care so much, but the ladies generally like an all over even tan; something you simply cannot have has a cyclist. You can have great legs. You can have low body fat. You can have a VO2Max that’s off the charts. You can have a bike that costs more than the car you carry it on. But you CANNOT have an all over even tan.
I use sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen every time I ride. Well, not every time. Once, I showed up late to a race barely having enough time to put my helmet on, let alone lather up with sunscreen. But, if my sunscreen actually is all of those things, then why do I think of Neopolitan ice cream when I look at myself naked in the mirror? I am vanilla in some spots (use your imagination) chocolate in others (tops of my knees) and strawberry in small patches I missed with the sunscreen (on my forehead through the holes in my helmet).
In most races, the USCF will require you to wear a jersey with sleeves so most team kits do not come with a sleeveless jersey. You are pretty much guaranteed a nice tan line halfway down your bicep. And, although I have not officially checked the rule book, I assume you are required to wear some kind of bottoms (lycra, presumably); mid-thigh tan line. Factor in the gloves, socks and sunglasses and you might as well cancel your summer beach vacation.
Or so I used to think, until I started looking around a little. Think about it. How many hours on the bike in the sun must you ride to get that dark of a tan through sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen? How many professional cyclists do you see without bad tan lines? The answers: a shit load and zero. So, go ahead and make fun of my tan. I don’t care. I work hard for this tan.
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