The Dirt Field

The Race: Parx Casino Philly Cycling Classic
The Course: 5 laps of a 12-mile course, finishing at the top of the Manayunk Wall
The Field: Pro women
The Finish: Right next to Freddy Rodriguez

Oh, Philly. What a day.

When the Liberty Classic race was cancelled earlier this year, I was crushed. It was a great race – one of the few UCI events on my schedule with the added bonus of being a 3-hour drive from my house. Then it was revived as the Parx Casino Philly Cycling Classic, with a slightly modified course and equal prize money for the women. I was thrilled. When I was at a race press conference last Thursday, it was all I could do to keep from grabbing the microphone to babble about my gratitude and how awesome it was that people had come together to save the race. Instead I grabbed the microphone and babbled about something that my mind has been kind enough to completely blank out.

All signs pointed to a great day for a race – the weather was beautiful, I had still been feeling sick all week, the weather was beautiful, Team Colavita couldn’t get enough of the port-o-johns, the weather was beautiful, etc. The race started at the top of the Manayunk Wall, which meant a fast descent at the beginning when everybody is already willing to run over their mother for a good spot in the peloton. Surprisingly, things stayed safe until nine miles in, when a crash erupted and I went down as collateral damage. I toppled over a curb and landed mostly unscathed on the grass, but my foot stayed attached to the pedal, which proved problematic when helpful people tried to pull the bike off. [Helpful hint: it is probably faster to give me three seconds to unclip than it is to sever my foot with the force of your yanking.]

Once I was detached and upright, the field was gone. It took two laps of surfing various fragmented groups before I was back in the peloton and able to get to the front to do my job of setting the pace leading down the end of Kelly Drive and into the turn towards Manayunk. It was a good feeling – I had come back from the crash and was where my team needed me to be! Score! Earning my cash money, yo!

And then people exploded in a crash as we rolled through Manayunk and somebody slammed into my bike from behind. It was startling but I stayed upright and was super gloaty about that for the five seconds it took to realize my rear shifter cable had snapped on impact.

I dismounted on the side of the road in a flurry of profanity (and possibly some anger tears, whatever, don’t judge me), and neutral support and my team car both rolled up. Since our team car had to be swapped at the last minute due to caravan restrictions, we didn’t have any spare bikes, so I ended up on a neutral bike. While the mechanics were setting that up and my director was telling me to chill the hell out, I noticed that the cleat was falling off my shoe.

Because WHY NOT.

That’s when I started laughing. It was either that or start chugging beer from spectators, and I’m not sure my already taxed immune system could take that attack. So I laughed and switched my shoes and got a fresh bottle and decided that there was no way I wasn’t finishing the damn race after all of that nonsense. I got rolling again, tried to acclimate to the neutral bike for the two blocks before the Wall, and then started climbing.

I joined a few riders but chasing was a moot point; the field was long gone and my group didn’t seem fired up to change that. At one point I heard a spectator yell, “They’re six minutes ahead!” like he thought maybe if we just pedaled a little harder, that would be no biggie.

I spent that lap taking long pulls and just trying to make the most of the experience, because it was still a race and I was determined to finish. When we ascended the Wall for the fourth time, I was thinking, SWEET! One more lap!

Then the official at the line pulled us.

For a moment, I was hugely disappointed. I had come out to do five laps, five trips up the Wall, and I couldn’t believe that after everything that had gone wrong, I wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of finishing. It was a sad moment, right up until I decided to just keep going. There was a moto ref trailing behind, so I slowed up and gestured for him to come talk. We had a fragmented conversation in which neither of us understood what the other was saying, and I took that to be permission to keep going. When I picked up speed and took off on the downhill, he didn’t follow.

I rode the rest of the lap alone. It was exhilarating and mortifying and funny all at once. When I rolled onto Lemon Hill, the field of spectators that had stopped watching the race that had already ended slowly turned and started cheering. The announcer even called out my name to the crowd while I debated about whether it would be less embarrassing to die right there or try to hide against the barriers and pass through quickly. By the time I hit the town of Manayunk, people were hanging out in the street and had to jump out of the way as I rolled through.

And then I got to the Wall. I’d spent the whole lap debating about what to do at the end: I wouldn’t feel satisfied if I didn’t make that final climb, but I knew I couldn’t cross the line and risk getting in trouble. My plan had remained undecided – I guess I thought I’d, like, get near the top and then climb over a barrier and run? – but when I turned onto the Wall, I was greeted with the backsides of a few dozen pro men climbing to their start line. I rolled into a group of them and they instantly parted, saying, “She’s still racing, clear the way!” just as I was saying, “Hide me! Hide me!” Then I looked over and saw Freddy Rodriguez and we exchanged a few pleasantries as I finished my race and he went to start his.

Fifty feet from the line, the men were already staging and the police ushered me aggressively off the course. It was a relief – I had basically finished anyway and totally avoided all trouble with the officials. Win! And then a volunteer saw this going down and became outraged on my behalf. He started yelling at the police officers, “You have to let her finish! She needs to cross the line! Let her finish! SHE WON’T GET A RESULT!” This led to an argument between him and the police while I stood there with my borrowed bike, trying to become invisible and melt into the pavement.

The police won and I was escorted off the course. Then I passed the staging group, got back on the course to take the bike back to SRAM support, and ended up crossing the line anyway. Five laps completed. Unofficially, I was last place. Lanterne rouge. It was a happy moment and I was grinning like an idiot. I felt like an idiot. A stubborn, tired, bruised, satisfied idiot.

Back in the actual race, my teammate Mary rode to an impressive 10th place finish, fueled entirely by beets, Puffins, and the magic that comes from sharing a hotel bed with yours truly. She kicked ass and absolutely earned that result.

Philly didn’t turn out like I’d expected. I didn’t get a great result or contribute much to my team’s success. Pretty much everything conspired during those 60 miles to keep me from crossing the line at the end, but each time something bad happened, it only made me more determined. It started to feel like I could have been struck by lightning and chased by wolves and lit on fire and yet I was still getting to that damn line. The result was that I finished knowing that I had wanted to be there more than anything. That even though climbing the Wall hurt, it was a choice that I wanted to make. So often in racing, it’s not just about fitness but having the mental strength to be willing to suffer more than the other riders. I’ve had doubts recently about my riding, my confidence, my ability to suffer. Philly was awesome because I wanted more than anything to stay in that race and be able to suffer through until the official end. The next time there is a moment between accepting more pain or accepting defeat, the choice will be much clearer.

The next time there is a moment between listening to the officials and not, however…that’s still a little murky.