Memorial Day in Amish Country

Everyone else on my team seemed to be traveling to bike races over Memorial Day weekend, but I had plans to go home and help organize a giant garage sale for my family. My grandfather had just moved from his large and lovingly restored home to an assisted living center, and we spent two long days selling a huge number of the things one accumulates over a lifetime, some treasures, some junk. I was glad to be there, especially when I got to chat with long-time neighbors who had fond memories of my late grandmother, and I took away my share of treasures (mother-of-pearl opera glasses bought in Poland years ago) and junk (an electric fondue pot?). Still, I was itching to race my bike. On Sunday I went to the Indy 500 and peppered my stepdad with my endless questions about how auto racing was like cycling: "Do they draft?" "Can you block?" I declared his favorite sport vastly inferior to mine: "What? All they do is drive fast and stop for gas? What kind of tactics are those?" Still, I did get inspired by Danica Patrick's competitive drive to shlep up to northern Indiana and do a little racing myself.

Unfortunately only six women showed up for the Bristol Road Race near Elkhart with the same idea. Darn. Small fields are tactically not very interesting. Four of them didn't look too tough, but the fifth was Tracy "Texas Roadhouse" Huber. Hmmm...I hate to have a bad attitude, but line me up against a cat. 1 national TT champion and I figure I'm racing for second. They decided to mix our little field with the cat 5 guys, even though they were doing 2 laps and we were doing 3. Tracy was having none of that and started attacking on the first roller. I couldn't blame her--every time we went around a corner some guy rode into a ditch. Pretty soon I was chasing her with the lead group of five men, but after two laps we were making little headway. I didn't care if we caught her; I was rather enjoying watching her beat up on the guys Danica Patrick style. Since the other women had all gotten dropped I amused myself by trying to help my new friend Steve, a friendly older guy from Wabash, bridge back up to the leaders after getting dropped on a roller.

After securing Steve a top 5 finish, I had to ride another lap on my own. Boring! Nobody up the road, nobody behind. Plus my computer was reading 92 degrees and I was ready to find some shade. I don't understand these people who find solo breakaways appealing. (Not that this was a breakaway--all my riding partners had sprinted for their cat. 5 finish and I still had one to go.) My only entertainment was my teammate Brian Boyle waving as he rode by and the occasional Amish buggy.

Anyway, it wasn't really much of a race, but I did get a nice second-place check for $65, which paid for my entry fee and onion rings for lunch. Luke kindly drove all the way home while I interrupted my snooze only for a stop at Dairy Queen.

The comeback

If you haven't heard much from me in a while, it's because I've been back on my bike.

I spent a lot of time training and competing in local bike races in 2003 and 2004 – in two years I never went more than three days in a row without riding – but then I had to take a year and a half off. I had stubborn tendonitis in my hip flexors, and worse, my knees had gotten misaligned as a result of muscle imbalances and tightness in various places after ramping up my mileage quickly over a year without giving my body time to develop resiliency. I was in persistent pain, especially after willing myself up 29,000 feet of the Sierras during the Everest Challenge in September '04. My intended three-week "off-season" turned into three months when the pain didn't go away, but I did my PT exercises diligently and had hopes of salvaging the 2005 season.

When 2005 arrived, however, I still couldn't ride for 20 miles without pain, and my once-encouraging physical therapist, the man who'd preserved multi-million-dollar paychecks for LA Clippers, finally told me that he'd done everything he could for me. I resigned myself to the facts that professional cyclists are unique physical specimens; that my body with its abnormally small kneecaps, tilted pelvis, and other imperfections would never be able to endure the kind of abuse of which theirs are capable; that sometimes, where the mind goes, the body just can't follow; and that there are more important things in life than riding your bike (well, I already knew that, but I was in need of a reminder). I watched the girls I used to battle with in collegiate races improve and win both the crit and road race at the 2005 Nationals while I spent a year in the pool and in yoga classes, trying to come up with a dissertation topic, spending a month in Mexico working on my Spanish, and sating my competitive impulses by memorizing all the two-letter Scrabble words.

It was a good year, but still, I dearly missed my bike. When I moved to Chicago in January 2006 and fortuitously learned of a welcoming local bike club, I decided I'd try to start racing again. My knees were feeling better after all the stretching and yoga and PT exercises, and I desperately wanted to meet some new people. I was so exited to get started that I unpacked my bike the day I arrived in town, on December 30, 2006. It was below 30 degrees outside and I only had California riding garb, so I put some plastic grocery bags over my snowboarding socks and headed out to join the Saturday group ride. The team website billed it as a friendly "no-drop" ride, so I figured that was a good way to start getting my legs back.

Wow, that was a miserable day. Only four people turned out in the cold: women's team co-captain Gigi, strong cat. 4 riders Pat and Ansgar, and me. Ansgar pulled us all the way to Highland Park in the northern suburbs at 20 miles an hour, an easy enough pace for a bike racer, but rather challenging for someone who has been off her bike for the better part of two years. After 20 miles I was completely cracked and dangling behind the others.

Ansgar, a horse of a man with a monstrous sprint and a delightfully German accent, dropped back to find out what was wrong with me.

"Come on," he encouraged. "Let us catch up to them."
"You go ahead. I think I need to turn around now."
"What is the matter?" he asked, looking at me perplexedly. "Are you...tired?"

That day I became the only person ever to take the train home from the “no-drop” Saturday group ride.

The next 5 months were an exercise in patience.

I spent January and February doing weights to strengthen the muscles around my knees and get ready to ride again. I could only ride twice a week and felt weak, sluggish and frustrated. People in LA were well into the racing season, and I was barely starting my base mileage.

In March I attended the team’s training camp in San Luis Obispo. I got dropped every day, rode less and suffered more than almost everyone else that participated. I was ashamed to be wearing my old team kit when I was riding so badly. I took a day off to drive up to San Simeon to watch the baby elephant seals trying to scoot their blubberly way across the sand with their fins. That’s about how I felt on my bike.

I raced in a couple of practice criteriums in March. The first one was slow and I sprinted for second in a weak field, but the pace was faster in the second and I was too tired by the end to take advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves. I was completely frustrated. I knew exactly how to get my teammate in a position to win, but I just didn’t have the legs to execute. I put my bike on my trainer to cool down without speaking to anyone and put on my sunglasses so people couldn’t see me crying.

Bit by bit, however, I’ve started feeling like my old self again. A couple of months of sprint practices, intervals, and long weekend rides are starting to show results. In April I did a stage race in Indiana and managed to take 6th in the Women’s Open general classification even though my calves cramped in the road race and I rode a lousy time trial. I pulled off a sprint for fifth in the crit to bump myself into the prize money. It was only a check for $30, but I was pretty pleased with myself.

I raced three times in May, taking tenth in a fairly tough Open field at Baraboo, WI, sixth in the 1-3’s at the Monsters of the Midway crit in Hyde Park after a crash derailed the otherwise perfectly-executed leadout I was trying to give my teammates, and second in a small field at a race in northern Indiana. Every time I felt like I was one of the weaker riders physically, but that I could make up for that somewhat by being smart and having sharp instincts.

Next up is the Wisconsin state championship road race in a couple of weeks, and then the Illinois state championships in a month. And then there’s the Thursday night series of track races at the velodrome. I’m not expecting anything great out of this season, but it’s gone much better than I had expected so far. And I think I can get faster. But the best part has been that after not being able to ride for so long, I can appreciate the joy of coming home tired and fried after a long day in the saddle, of being able to hang on someone’s wheel at 30 mph, and of just being able to ride a bike again.

(Photo by Luke Seemann)