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RACE RANT

I gotta bone to pick. OK, maybe just a rant. After all, I’m the one with the jacked up shoulder now.

A few months ago I was in a crit race out at CBR. We had 2 categories out on the course racing around a 1 mile, 4-corner loop. A nice, clean wide course.

I have been in a lot of these crit races now for about 3 years. Don’t love ‘em, not my deal. I like the clock, the single mindedness of the sprint and NO traffic.

But, I was sent out with marching orders from my coach to “get fitness”. Unfortunately, there is no better way to that end than to race. I say unfortunately because in this race I crashed. It was a good one too. Blood all over me, the course, my kit looked like it had been in a fight between two Pit Bulls, there were bike parts and equipment scattered all over the road and there I lie, in the middle of it all.

There is nothing so painful as hitting the floor when you are on an all out last lap effort. Everyone is jacked up, pushing for position and twitchy as a 3 leg rabbit.

I was coming around the outside of the pack to take position for the sprint. I had 2 corners left to navigate and was on the back straight. Did I mention I was ON THE OUTSIDE? Not the best place in the wind but I was moving up quickly and figured on pulling in on a wheel through the next turn to take second or third slot.

Suddenly, I had the gal next to me come over and lean on me for about 3 seconds. We are racing the back straight and she’s taking a big 100% polyester nap on my shoulder! I thought about flicking her off but decided against it as she seemed out of control and that would just send her into the pack, more out of control.

Finally, she regained her balance, or so I thought, until I felt something “not good” at the back of my bike. A sick feeling came over me just quick enough to realize she had stuck her foot in my rear spokes. CRACK, WHOOSH, BANG! I’m out.

And, as expected, more girls hit the ground as some ran over the top of her when she went down.

So now I’m laying in the middle of the road experiencing that inevitable space of time that feels like forever where you hurt sooo much that you can’t evaluate where you hurt or how bad. The pain just blasts through your entire body like a jolt of electricity.

Finally, the adrenalin and endorphins kick in and you can start to feel the body parts that are screwed.

Now the officials are there and here come the paramedics, oh and the police, my coach and a pack of bystanders who want to see all the carnage.

Through all this my brain is fuzzy cause I already have a black eye (spent the next two days with a concussion) yet I can see the gal who took me out. She’s already been bandaged up for a small patch of road rash on her shoulder and she is asking me if I’m OK. Well, I cannot shake the fuzz out of my brain much less simultaneously answer her and the herd of people now trying to assist me.

I am loaded up in a car, taken to First Aid where I continue to be patched up, cause I have a puncture in my arm that needs stitches. But wait…here she comes again, hovering around to find out if I am OK. So she asks; “are you OK?” I look at her and say,” eh, er, I guess so” (thinking, do I look OK you idiot?”) But here’s the best part… her next reply; “Gee, I don’t know what happened, you ran into me!”

At this point I want to lurch out of the chair and kick her blue spandex covered butt, except I can’t move. I’m thinking, “If you don’t even know what happened, then how do you know I ran into YOU?” Instead, I decide to take the high road and settle for looking at the 3 people working on me. Her conscience now clear, she trots off, no doubt headed back to her parallel universe and planet Clueless.

So, here’s the deal: ya race, ya crash, and that’s how it rolls in racing. But if you take somebody out or even think you might have messed up, say your sorry. Chances are you will get a plethora of expletives hurled at you, but in the end, you will be respected for at least owning it. And that goes along way cause you will race with these people again, probably several times and if you’re bad news on a bike; well, word travels like a pyromaniac with a Zippo.

L.