20090328poc-start-1 Neutral rollout - before the pain sets in.

What a difference a year makes.

2008: I decide to give road racing a shot. My first race goes well – a relatively fast-paced Banana Belt 3. The pack stays together until the field is obliterated up the last climb and I finish comfortably in the middle of the pack. I consider this a success.

Then comes the Piece of Cake road race. Flat, windy, boring. The day of the race brings rain and hail. In an attempt to relax, I come into the race casually and forget to do some major pre-race rituals, including giving my bike the once over. Long and short? I start with the brakes rubbing, explode fantastically, pop off the back, neglect to identify the problem and then ride 17 miles, alone, with my brakes on.

Rad.

I quit road racing.

No, really. I quit. That was my last road race of 2008 and my second one ever.

This off-the-back crap? This buzzard-circling bullshit? Not for me. Even with a pseudo-mechanical for an excuse. No sir. No more pack-riding, no more kvetching ladies, no more aggressive fighting for wheels and good lines.

Famous last words.

Here I am again. 2009 Piece of Cake road race.

I’ve been sick for two weeks but I wake up and pack a race bag anyway.

Didn’t I swear I wouldn’t do this again? Why am I here?

In the sky? Classic Portland spring weather. Rain showers, black clouds, blue skies, blinding sun, more rain showers. Mother nature is all over the map and doesn’t plan to reveal her plans for me until the gun goes off. I pack every piece of cycling clothing that I own, grab a spare set of wheels to throw into the support car, and jump into a carpool with two other women from my field.

Start line. Chatting. Ironclad has a gang. Hammer Velo is out in numbers.

Here’s my plan: hide. Stay out of the wind for as long as possible. Let the teams work. Pick good wheels and follow them. Ride in the front third to be in position to go with a break.

But mostly the plan is not to get popped. If I finish with the group then I have won my day.

In a nutshell, I’m going to try my hardest not to suck.

Neutral roll out through a few turns, easy going. Railroad tracks indicate that neutral is over. A few more corners. Stand up and sprint out of them and look around. A train of riders comes rolling up the right hand side and I recognize a friend at the front of it, dragging a mob behind her.

Maybe she knows something I don’t but I’m going to sit back here in this draft for another 20 or so miles.

Click, thunk, click. Gears getting bigger all around me. “Hey! Hey! Hup!” Women jump up out of saddles, bodies snaking over bikes, shoulders on the move. I can’t tell who’s attacking but everyone is reacting. I jump and go. Thunk, thunk – my chain drops down to smaller cogs.

In a moment we’re strung out in a single line, hanging on for dear life. 27mph then 28. Then 29.

I stop checking the computer and grit my teeth. It’s 4 miles into the race and this can’t go on forever. Either the bandits will get away or we’ll all come back together. One way or another they’ve got to sit up at some point.

…don’t they?

Just when I think they won’t, they do and here we are at cruising speed again. I look around and assess the damage. No one’s gotten away, all legs are nice and warmed up, and we’re turning into a tailwind.

The peloton is a mysterious entity comprised of our collective bodies and energies, but with a mind and trajectory all its own. The peloton rests. The peloton surges. The peloton gets to have its own action verbs.

The peloton owns you.

Road racing is like this.

Tina Brubaker (affectionately referred to as Manbreaker in some circles) once told me, “Swift, you just ride your own ride, ok? You just ride your own ride and don’t worry about anything else.” We were climbing the backside of Springville and I was nearly choking on my own lung as I tried to keep pace with my faster, more experienced Veloforma teammates.

Then one day The Manbreaker took me on a pre-ride of an upcoming race course and as we climbed she said, “Remember what I said about riding your own ride? That’s only in training. In races, you ride everyone else’s ride. Got it?”

You ride the peloton’s ride. If the peloton speeds up, you speed up. If the front of the peloton attacks, you chase so as not to let the attack become a breakaway. And if you happen to be wearing your She-Ra Rockstar undies on a particular day, you are the attacker. And maybe you’re the break. But you’re still riding the peloton’s ride. You’re riding your bike like you stole it, because they’re breathing down your neck.

Today no one gets away and so the peloton is under control. Intact. Solid.

The pace slows. Then rises. Then slows. Then rises. I keep track of the wind and hide on the lee side, using other riders to block the crosswinds that rip across the dead-flat farmland. Defending position is a constant effort. I get hung out to dry a few times and battle my way back to a good wheel.

Lap one passes almost without notice and we head into the final 17 miles snaking around a few turns, accelerating into them and then hacking our way methodically through the headwind. I sit on the front for about 5 miles, riding near my friend Lindsay – a powerhouse and steady wheel. She makes me calm.

We turn into a tailwind section again and an attack goes off on the right-hand side and we chase it back. My legs are cooked and I let the group come around me and latch onto the back.

A look behind: empty space and a follow car.

One minute I’m on the front of the race, the next I’m dead last. None of it matters except for where you are when everyone crosses the white line.

Still – I know better than to tail gun the back of the group. If an attack goes off now I risk getting caught behind a split in the field. Worse yet, if there’s a crash anywhere in the field, it’s sure to slow me down.

I find a line up the gutter and slog back into the middle of the field, latching on to one of my favorite trains – the Hammer Velo local. A few more attacks. A few more trips into the wind. At 30 miles the fireworks start.

4 miles to go. Ironclad brings the heat and the race starts going forward. My legs are killing me and the field is coming around me again. Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal. I’m on the back of the group again. Goddamit.

This is the important part. This is the part where I need to be near the front. What am I doing back here?

My left calf is seizing. I can feel the cramp vibrating under the skin. Miniature convulsions objecting to increased torque.

A bike length opens up. Two bike lengths. Three.

I’m losing the field! I’m losing the field in the final push! Two miles to go and I’m getting dropped!

The calf continues its fit – contract, expand, contract, expand. Stab stab stab stab. The pace is too fast to reach for an electrolyte pill or even a swig of electrolyte drink. This is it. This shit is going down right now and I’m either in it or I’m not. I did not race this hard for 32 miles to finish off the back. I remember the sensation of getting dropped the year before on this very course.

My mind says, That thing with the calf? That’s not really happening. Just go.

So I put my head down and bury myself until I find the back of the group. Either they’re slowing down, or I’m recovering, because I make my way up to the middle of the pack again just in time for the final left hand turn.

500M to go and the accelerations are in earnest now. Grasping, desperate, and final.

Two Ironclad riders pass me on the left and I jump on the back wheel and ride it until 200M. We’re sprinting, but we may as well be in slow motion. There’s no sound, just big gears and gritted teeth.

I’m hitting 35 miles per hour but I feel like I’m not moving. Big, slow revolutions and muscles full of blood, pressing against skin. The front of the group is up on the right and I take the left lane, separated from the fray. They’re coming back to me.

Every half pedal-stroke gains me one position and I take them, one-by-agonizing-one. 5 riders, then 10, then 15 behind me.

The white line shows up and stops our pedaling and I look to my right to see I’ve been edged out by a few. I’m fourth. Fourth place with my mouth hanging wide open, coasting now – still in slow motion. Hands in the drops, feet at 12 and 6, stopped in outright refusal to push another stroke.

Gasping. Coughing. The return of sound.

I think “I never want to do that again” but thirty seconds later I have already started thinking about the next race. The next week’s training schedule. The next amazing moment of high-speed agony.

The pain is addictive. The speed is beautiful.

My mouth tastes like blood and redemption and my calf is a detonated landmine. This might just be a perfect Sunday afternoon.