Photo Credit: Kenji Sugahara

Halloween race.  Astoria, Oregon.

I’m on the rivet and oxygen eludes me. I could be hallucinating or I could be in hell – either way, I’m wearing a satin bridesmaid dress and riding my bike as fast as it will go in an epic battle against Sarah Palin and Jesus Christ.

Palin folded early, but Jesus proves harder to drop.

Is it possible to beat Jesus Christ in a cyclocross race?  He can walk on water, but can He charge the barriers at speed?  Can He shoulder the bike?  How fast can He really descend?

I have been following His wheel for two laps when I decide to throw it down. As I pass by my team tent, the cowbell is all-consuming.  The moment is right.  I attack.  I’m going to drop Jesus Christ.

A spectator yells, “Hey!  You can’t pass Jesus!”

But I do.  As I pass, I notice that Jesus looks like a beautiful, twenty-something girl.  In fact, He looks just like one of my arch-rivals, a girl named Anna.  I admire His crown of thorns and lovely styrofoam cross as I go by.

Another spectator: “Hey Jesus, there are at least two devils up ahead of you!”

A ninja cheers for me as I make a right-hand turn into loose gravel.  Up ahead, a spectator is dragging a cowgirl from the course.  She is still clipped into her bike – wincing as she’s pulled across the grater.  Tiny rocks embedded in soft skin.

Wait!  I know this cowgirl.  This cowgirl is my friend!

“Oh no!” I shout as I approach.

The spectator screams back, “She’s fine!  Keep going!”

A girl from my wedding party is gaining on me.  A teammate I love.  A girl made of legs and grit and dirt and tenacity.  A girl I would love to beat. Just once!

Eyes crossed, lungs heaving.  I am lapping riders from the beginner’s field.  Over-taking bumble-bees and kitty cats and super heroes.  I take a sharp corner fast and look behind me as I do.

Jesus is gone.  The Other Bridesmaid is gaining. I see a woman in a bath towel headed in the other direction on another part of the course.  There is robot man.  Here is a Tron character.  Someone is dressed up like a porta-potty.

I am losing my fucking mind.

The spectators have gathered in numbers around a small jump on the course.  I make an aggressive pass just as I head into it and hit it hard.  Flying. When the front tire hits the ground, my right foot comes unclipped from the pedal and I lurch unexpectedly forward.

I can see the future.  Endos and bike cartwheels.  Carnage and injuries.  Mayhem. I am about to give the crowd the destruction that they’ve been waiting for.

Only I don’t go over.  I save it.  Swerving to the right with my foot dragging on the grass I pull the bike back into a good line and breathe an audible sigh of relief.

Every error is time lost.  I go backward with every bad line.

Concentrate.  Focus.  Breathe!  The brain demands blood supplies that do not exist.

Lap five.

I am no longer riding the bike.  The bike is riding me.  I am a danger to myself and everyone around me.  Muscle failure.  Fatigue.  Exhaustion.  Delirium.

Heading into a loose off-camber section, I am reduced to mono-syllabic self-coaching.  “Focus.  Slow.  Careful.  Turn.  Pedal.  Turn again.  Turn now!  No, not too much!  Too fast!”

I’m on the ground before I know that I’m falling.  Stunned and panicky, I jump back on the bike and tuck back into my cockpit. The skin missing from my right leg is not missed.  I have to get back up to speed.  Pedal, legs!

The Other Bridesmaid catches me.  Goddamit!  Where is Jesus when I need Him!  Where is my cyclocross miracle?!

I imagine Sarah Palin and Jesus Christ holding hands somewhere behind me, snickering as The Other Bridesmaid pulls away.  In a brief moment of clarity, I remember that The Other Bridesmaid is my friend.  And she has a name.

“Good job, Sierra!” I call after her.

“You too!”

I accelerate in an attempt at damage control.  I can’t match her on the bike right now, but we’re headed into the barriers, and I’m prepared to launch an all-out assault.  It’s my last ditch effort.  It’s all I have left.

I pass her on the third barrier and we cheer for each other again.

My gain is short-lived.  She pulls away on the climb and I simply cannot follow.  My boyfriend Sal is ringing a cowbell in my face as I will the pedals to complete one revolution after another.  The climb happens in slow-motion.  My face betrays desperation, agony and pain.

The thoughts come in fragments:

Last lap.  No more after this.  Almost done.  No glory in giving up.  Rest coming soon.  All over soon.  Pedal.  Legs.  Lungs.  Fire.  Explosions. Pow pow pow!

I’m seeing stars and little black dots.  In between them, I pick up bits and pieces of the ground surface in front of me.  I am no longer racing.  I am trying not to pass out.  I’m trying not to eat shit.

The path turns into a series of horse stables.  Long straight-aways – dark, cool, dusty.  Tight 180 degree turns in between them.  I veer wide, narrowly avoiding the wall in front of me.  Instead, I push off of it with my left hand – forcing my bike into the right lane.  I take the next two hairpin turns in the same fashion – bumper bikes.  Bouncing off buildings.

Steering is overrated.

Screaming descent down the meadow.  I lap another teammate from the beginner’s field and yell at her as I go.  No brakes, gaining speed.  Only chance to catch The Other Bridesmaid.  Big risks, guts out.  If I make a mistake bombing down this hill, it will be a season ender.

Through the meadow.  Up the hill.  Over a set of barriers.  Long pavement climb.  I can see her.  I can see her but I cannot pull her back.  Too far gone.

The finish line is a freak show: Little Red Riding Hood and a sparkly pineapple woman.  Clowns commingling with Hula Girls.  Dolly Parton, a set of fairies, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and a ladybug.

Eventually, I find Sarah Palin standing near Jesus Christ.

“Good race?” I ask.

“You betcha!”

I grab a water bottle, stifle the urge to vomit, and roll out to find the bridesmaid that got away.