WWU Race Musings: In Which I Learned the Necessity of Carrying Calories

Bellingham was cold. From the second I stripped down to my spandex, removing jeans, warm up pants, a flannel shirt, a hoody, and my North Face jacket, to the second I finally stepped into the shower that night, I was cold. Waiting for my race to start? Cold. Sleeping in the trunk of a car while the boys raced? Cold. Riding the tt? Cold. Cold cold cold cold cold. On the plus side, it wasn’t raining.

Bellingham was weird. From the second I arrived at the course, things progressed differently then I was used to. The two PSU girls in my field approached me and asked if I would be ok racing with the Men’s B field. 1) They are obviously much better with names and faces than I am as I have absolutely no idea who they are, but they picked me out right away. 2) No, no I do not want to race with the Men’s B (wanting to be diplomatic about it however, I said I’d go along with whatever everyone else wanted. Thankfully, my boys backed me up and said no way was I racing with the B’s. We did increase the distance of our race by a lap though.)

Bellingham was hard. Six and a quarter 8-mile laps with a steep climb at the beginning of each lap, a steep climb at the end of each lap, a small rise in the middle of each lap, and one sketchy right hand turn with gravel on the road. Once around wasn’t bad. Twice around was fine. By the third and fourth laps, my legs were really feeling the hills.

Bellingham was surprising. As I’ve said consistently, I’m used to getting dropped on hills. So I was pleased when I stayed with the 5 others on the front when our pack split on the first hill of the first lap, proud when I stayed with the Portland and Whitman riders in the middle when the other two in our pack went off the front on the start of the second lap, and SHOCKED when Portland and I dropped the Whitman girls at the start of the fifth lap AND stayed ahead of them for the rest of the race.

Bellingham was painful. This was my first real road race with the A’s (last week’s double flat didn’t count) and I was not prepared. Portland and I broke away with roughly 15 miles to go. We rotated pulls for a while and aside from some comments about whether I ever actually let my legs spin instead of always pushing a big gear, things were OK (And yes, I am aware I keep too low a cadence most of the time.)  But  things just went downhill fast. Usually, when I climb hills, I stand up and try to push it up the last few yards over the crest. When I tried to do it on this lap, my legs buckled in a mass of painful cramps. I literally could not stand up. Portland was watching me, telling me to sit down, spin up the hill, keep a count in my head. I couldn’t figure out if she was helping me because she was concerned, or because she needed me to keep working with her so we could stay ahead of Whitman. Didn’t matter. As long as she was helping me, I didn’t much care why.

Bellingham was humbling. By the start of the last lap I was having trouble moving in a straight line. My brain was fuzzy, muddled, like I was drunk. “Hey,” Portland’s voice intruded into my haze, “Have you been drinking your water? Do you have any food?” Dumbly I shook my head. I’d eaten everything I’d brought with me (which admittedly wasn’t a lot.) “Put your hand out.” Reflexively, I did as bidden. Next thing I know, a half-eaten bar is being shoved into my hand as Portland gives me her food, telling me to eat it. For the rest of the race, she kept an eye on me, reminding me to drink, talking me up the hills, and basically just making sure I didn’t die. I honestly think I would have ended up passingout in a ditch if it wasn’t for her.

Bellingham was AMAZING. On the final hill of the last full lap, Portland turned to me with a grin, “Hey, we freaking did it!” Exhausted, I retorted, “I play rugby. We just say fuck.” She laughed. “Oh, we’re going to get along fucking fantastically then.”  On the next downhill, Portland took off, trying to drop me before the final push for the line. I found it ego-boosting that she actually thought I had any chance of beating her if it came to a sprint. There was no way I could sprint. I could hardly keep moving my bike forward, let alone sprint. She finally ditched me on the next up hill, but we were so far ahead of the Whitman girls, that I could just stumble to the finish without worrying about being caught. Weaving up the final hill, barely able to push the pedals as I still couldn’t stand up without my legs collapsing, contemplating getting off my bike and walking up the damn hill, I finally crossed the line. I have rarely been as proud of myself as I was during that race (likewise, I have rarely been in as much pain as I was during that race.)

Next up: A ten hour drive to Montana and Week 5