Say My Name

The weather was perfect, the temperature rose, the trails were in great condition. As usual with Todd's events, the course was well-marked, the cheerful volunteers were out en masse, and there was free coffee, beer, and burgers for all. It's safe to say that at least twenty of my friends and teammates raced, and those who didn't cluttered the course, heckling, pushing, and offering all manner of aid.

So this is why people pay to do this.

Stuck on intentional repeat in my brain was the new Florence + the Machine song "Spectrum", in which Florence emphatically commands, "Say my name." That's how good I was feeling. Say my name, gravel road climb, root basket on Butter, old dudes on singlespeeds. I don't think I've ever approached a race with such confidence, excitement, joy. That effervescent spirit buoyed me through almost the whole forty miles, deserting me only during the interminable hike-a-bike on Farlow and on the shockingly painful final climb to Cove Creek.

The chips fell pretty early in the women's field--Karen Masson, local ass-kicking older lady, passed me on Daniel as I struggled with chainsuck and I never saw her again. Every spectator taunted me with her phantasmic existence: "She's only fifty seconds up, go get her!" I mistook "Karen" for the name of another super-strong endurance racer, who has given me hours of amusement with her melodramatic encounters with celiac. She uses gluten as a verb, as in, "I went to P.F. Chang's and I got glutened (ominous music)..." so I gave chase and decided that my battle cry was, "The power of wheat compels you!" This is what hours of climbing does to me. I didn't realize my mistake until the end, and was happy to see the victor eating a healthy helping of gluten-contaminated food.

I finished second, fifteen whole minutes behind Karen, but still feeling like a rock star. Everyone from the PAC had stellar races--Kym was hot on my heels and Jenna, Katie, Jordan, Jess, and Erica all had strong finishes. Most of my favorite people packed the top fifteen; props especially to T Cowie, you sneaky bastard, who would've probably won if he hadn't been so damn covert.

It was bike racing at its best, that's for sure.