Sick Happens

I had been feeling increased muscle fatigue during training since Monday, but it wasn't until late Thursday that more serious symptoms began to set in. Friday morning I drove over to Olathe from Lawrence feeling pretty awful, but determined to push through whatever it was and race that night. While doing race prep at my family's house I collapsed and spent the rest of the day in bed. For three days I didn't leave bed except to shit and piss. Those three days in bed were a paincation with all the accoutrements: muscle aches, joint aches, headaches, nausea, fever, and fatigue.. it was the total package. Oh baby, did I get my money's worth.

Being sick is pretty unremarkable, being sick in June with the flu is more of a head turner; I'll admit. My best guess is that I contracted the swine flu. I really don't care about falling ill; yeah, it's inconvenient, it's painful, it's whatever. Bottom line, it sucks. What bothers me is that it's a waste of time. After last weekend I can't help but feel like I missed the party, and with this weekend rapidly approaching, I'm sure, at best, I'll be attending the affair a tad under dressed. That's life though mate. You put three stars on your calendar for two weekends in a row, manage a pretty spotless rest period, do two-a-days to get back in shape; eventually, just to see most of it sweated off in bed.

You've just gotta take the ego blow and get ready to rumble the next chance you get. That's precisely what I intend to do.

Urgency's the Word

It's been one and a half years since I toed the line at the 2009 edition of the Spring Fling, my first bike race. Funny enough, I was more afraid of not winning the race, than actually losing it. I was so nervous then, and eager, that I went almost from the gun. It must have been some sight to see; a chunky kid, wearing outlandish girl-shades, riding an orange bike that no-one rides, lapping most of the field. They called the finish blessedly early, I collapsed off the bike begging for water. Two days later I laid up in bed, with a raging fever, on account of pushing myself to exhaustion in back-to-back days of racing in the spring cold. Though that early March race was my first, I wouldn't consider it as the start to my racing career. For me, my start was when I made the decision that this was for me, and I went all in. I had been tooling around on bikes with Brad for, probably, two months prior. He'll never let me forget that I refused to ride during the day, on account of how hot it was. Instead, we would patrol the local bike paths during the evening. On those rides I rode a Trek mountain bike. Still, my passion was fueled by Tour de France stages and Brad's regailings of races past, and so my love never waivered from the road. As such, the Trek had every tweak-able component tweaked, flipped, or switched for roadie sensibilities.. or so I thought! The first order of business to get her road ready, was to flip her 30 degree stem upside down, then replace the flat bars with bull-horn handlebars; and finally, jack the seatpost as far up as it would go. Despite the fact that I hybridized almost everything I could to ride on the pavement, it would be awhile longer before I agreed to wear a helmet (owing to that they made my head hot); and even longer still, until I wore a proper kit. In the time being, Brad was kind enough to gift me an old pair of bike shorts and gloves. Unfortunately for me, or rather those riding with me, the bike shorts were so stretched by my large frame and threadbare from use, that I had to wear boxer briefs under them to be considered truly street legal. Somehow, back then, all this didn't seem so absurd. That was it, that's how it all started. I was a 21-year-old, 235 lb. ex-rugby player, wearing the most outlandish road outfit possible, and riding a mountain bike gender changed to the road. All of this considered, I looked Brad straight in the eye and told him that I intended to cat-up to 2 in my first season, and that I also intended to go pro. In hind-sight, I realize that I had no right to say such a thing. If I knew then how hard it was going to be, how many life choices I would have to make to get even here, how many things I would inadvertently give up; I may not have been so bold. I think ignorance played to my advantage though; not knowing. My answer to everything was to just put my head down and charge ahead, to always give it everything I had. As a cat 5 I was riding 60-70 miles, and hard too. The whole while being completely clueless as to what I should or could do. Not getting the time of day from serious roadies didn't bother me; honestly, I didn't want their approval, I intended to earn it when the time came. The one thing I was certain of then, was that I wasn't there yet. My master plan has always been to earn respect with my legs, to achieve, to win. This logic is two-fold; a blessing and a curse. Such a mentality has motivated me onward and upward, much as it still does today; however, I'm never completely satisfied. The taste of victory doesn't last long and the grass is always greener around the next podium. To put it plainly, urgency has always been the word. To succeed. To win. To cat-up. Though that may be, you still have to stop and smell the roses, and appreciate the small things. There's a lot more to be gained from racing, than victory on the finish line. Racing, training, and riding can change you, it can make you a better person. Finally, one day, you look in the mirror, and you're proud to see who's looking back.