I don’t really know how to race a bike, but I do know how to suffer.
Yesterday I proved that:
At 5:00 in the morning an alarm goes off on the other side of the bed and I lay perfectly still. There are rules in this household and one of those rules is that the The Princess doesn’t move on the weekends until a warm cup of coffee is placed in her hands. I consider this my just desserts after a full week of waking up at 4:30am. Luckily, I have a boyfriend who agrees with me.
My coffee arrives at 5:15am and so begins what we now refer to as another “Cyclocross Sunday”. Continue reading
I prayed for rain. Seriously – I prayed all night long.
The weather report last night said 70% chance of rain and I thought, “Oh my god! God still loves me!!”
And then today… nothing. Not a goddam drop.
I guess god is still really still be pissed off at me for sleeping with my church camp counselor ‘cuz he didn’t squirt out a single little shower for me last night or today. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Continue reading
I hate this shit.
I just want to get it out there. I really do.
I hate sticking my neck out every day and trying to convince people that competitive sports provide this amazing opportunity and outlet. I hate the little Pollyanna optimist in my gut that keeps getting kicked in the teeth every time another athlete gets nailed or finally admits to doping. Continue reading
This year, cyclocross is a completely different ballgame.
I have a team.
I’m not afraid.
No. I’m ravenous. Continue reading
It’s finally goddam here.
My first race is tomorrow. I’ve been home from my three week world tour for 2 days. I’ve been on my bike 2 days in the past month.
I could give a shit.
Wanna know why? Where do I start?
Western Nationals starts today in Salem. We got a 3:00pm draw and my parents are driving down from Seattle to see the game. It’s a massive three-day, double elimination tournament. Winner goes all expenses paid to World’s in Oklahoma.
No pressure. Continue reading
Sometimes the best birthday presents come from the least expected places.
Sunday, the best birthday present came from the opposite field.
My party on Saturday was a smashing success. I had friends in from far and wide – we drank and ate and made merry. My best friend Maggie’s parents showed up late in the night, after attending a Gordon Lightfoot concert. They were in fine form and demanded dancing music while her father sipped a vodka-redbull and her mother downed white wine and told us about her old “tequila days”. Sal bought cakes from the best bakery in Portland and the crowd delivered a well-lubricated version of “Happy Birthday” in the light of thirty blazing candles.
It went well.
I went to sleep, woke up, ate a helluva a hangover breakfast, drank two killer bloody marys, and then remembered I had batting practice that evening.