Monday, May 18, 2009

Go Fast. Turn Left. Repeat.

I've been meaning to write about learning to ride the velodrome for a few days now. Unfortunately, life and work and racing and training and pollen have gotten in the way of my extracurricular writing activities over the last week. So I've got to catch up with ruminations on the track, two Monday PIRs and my first race as a Cat 3. And simultaneously convince my body that ignoring pollen and breathing through my nose is a good thing. I am MISERABLE right now.

So, yeah, I finally got on my track bike two Fridays ago. Independently of the context in which that finally happened, riding the track is awesomely fun and totally addictive. The context is what I want to write about first, because it was one of those, "Shit, I am totally acting like a mature ADULT right now" moments.

D was the one who convinced me to build the track bike in the first place. Then we broke up and I ended up with this piece of equipment that I was not completely sure that I wanted anymore. It was tangible relationship baggage. But it was also shiny and sleek and BRIGHT RED and I pretty much had everything that I needed to build it. Figured that if I decided not to ride it, or if I ultimately rode it and hated the track, I could sell it for more than it cost me to build it.

Through a series of fits and starts, D and I rebuilt our relationship over the spring. I grieved, lashed out, got over it and now we have a friendship built on the fact that we will never be able to bore each other talking about bikes and bike racing. Dorks need other dorks to dork-out with.

So this is how I found myself looking forward to spending a beautiful Friday afternoon with my ex-boyfriend, learning to do something that admittedly freaked me the hell out.

It turned out to be the perfect learning environment. First, he was an excellent teacher. Second, I am proud and horribly stubborn and there was no way in hell that I was going to outwardly be intimidated by the velodrome. I was simply going to have to harden the fuck up and ride. Third, when things did get scary, I had absolutely no problem calling him all sort of foul names in my head. I had a lot of practice with that over the winter. Like the first time we went all the way up to the rail--I came up with a string of expletives that my grandfather (who could curse the life back into any piece of farm machinery) would have been very proud of.

All it took was 75 minutes and I was totally hooked. Went back again for a more formal clinic on Saturday to work on race-specific skills and, had it not been for the fact that I needed to eat after a few hours of practicing (AGAIN-I can barely make it 90 minutes these days without needing to eat something), I could have stayed out there all day. I'm feeling like I'm now ready to start up with the Friday night racing. Good for the legs and good for my liver...Friday nights recently have not been so kind to that organ.

Which basically means that all you will need to stalk me for the rest of the year is the OBRA calendar. And a lot of energy to keep up.

1 comment:

CBIGS said...

Whatever FT. The only way your liver is safe is if those Friday night track races last until midnight...