While I was boarding my flight home from Redlands today, I ran into another racer who was on his way home. “How did you do?” he asked as we made conversation at the gate. I didn’t know how to answer that question. He was looking for numbers; I wanted to talk about feelings and revelations and moments. Since the flight was already delayed (thanks, American Airlines!), I settled for a noncommittal answer and hurried to my seat.
I don’t know how to explain to most people how I did at Redlands. Prior to this season, results were measured in numbers alone and I rode and answered only for myself. Every race was a chance to be a supernova, a unicorn, a winner. I wanted badly to win, over and over, and why? So I could get on a professional cycling team.
Now I’m here and it’s like learning to race all over again. I’m no longer a mercenary chasing a win at every race. Now I’m part of a machine that is working its way towards being a well-oiled hot rod. My personal successes and failures at each event now become only part of a collective total of successes and failures that equal our overall team performance. Nothing matters more than the team as a whole.
I am an only child, but suddenly I have nine sisters. They are more than friends, because it doesn’t matter if I like them or not (fortunately, I very much do) – they are my teammates, my family at races. I will fight for them, sacrifice for them, give up my race to make theirs happen if that is what is required. If one of them needs a bottle or a leadout or a launch to a better spot in the field, then I will do everything I can to provide it. When I can’t, that’s when I feel like a failure. When my legs can’t get me over a climb fast enough to stay next to a teammate, I still curse my shortcomings, but now it’s not because I’m less likely to win but because I’m less likely to be able to help.
This feels very different than being a solo rider. It’s reassuring in many ways; I don’t always have to try to win – most of the time, I can focus my attention on helping a teammate get there. But when somebody asks how I did in the race, it’s weird to explain, “Well, I was there to do a job, so I finished in 98th place…” I am learning to let go of any ego about my riding. This is a good thing.
There are a lot of other good things about being part of a pro team. Post-race massages, group meals, trips with far too many people and bags and wheels shoved into vehicles, mechanics that ensure the bikes are always clean and running smoothly, wet towels after races and chairs waiting to hold tired riders. And a group of friends at every race who are wearing the same clothes and carrying the same bags and sharing food, stories, anxieties, jokes, viruses, and most importantly, the same goals.
That’s what it comes down to, I suppose. Team Colavita is in this racing thing together and that makes everything less intimidating and overwhelming. I know that no matter how hard the race is, I will have allies. Redlands was a good, tough, fun race for us – we learned lessons about how to manage tactics and better help each other. While the end result wasn’t a podium or a jersey, we figured out how to be a stronger team. I did not win a stage or get my photo on CyclingNews.com (oh wait, I did, it was hugely unflattering, let’s not talk about it) and I don’t have results to brag about back home. But the occasional win or podium earned on my own were fleeting and didn’t make waking up in strange hotels to race alone and chase more results any more enjoyable. Being part of a team and putting that same effort into building something strong and successful feels like a wise investment. On my own, I’m good at some things. As a group, we are good at all of them. The results will come.