The Dirt Field

The Race: Wilmington Grand Prix
The Course: 25 1-mile laps, 8 corners
The Field: Pro 1/2 women
The Finish: 1st

Wilmington was one of my favorite races last year – the course suited my riding, I had my best finish yet in a national-level event, and it was one of those days where hard efforts feel fun and invigorating. (That last part makes me sound like a yoga instructor.) When this year’s edition fit neatly into my race schedule, I was excited for the big day.

That is, until it actually arrived. Blame it on stress from work, insufficient sleep, or whatever, but come race day morning, all I wanted to do was hang out at home and watch “Dance Academy” on Netflix. (This show is like crack – mindless, cheesy tripe about ballet-dancing Australian teenagers that leaves me slumped on the couch in a fog of bliss and shame.) My attitude stayed crappy all the way until…well, until like halfway through the race. There may have been a point on the trainer warm-up where a teary-eyed Lindsay whimpered, “I just wanna go home,” but I would never admit to such humiliating absurdity.

Joe Jefferson told me before the start that I was getting a call-up, so I didn’t have to try to medal in the staging race. The first few laps were unremarkable and I moved into good position in the first ten wheels, where I was able to stay for most of the race. Then the attacks started. Various riders were up the road for the majority of the race, and the field spent a lot of time judging the people up the road and deciding when to chase and when to wait. One pair of women got a gap that at one point grew to 45 seconds (Oh Shit zone in my book), but then we got motivated in the field and shut it down hard and fast.

Because I use these reports as a tool to honestly assess my race performance regardless of result, I have to say my legs did not feel good through the race. When attacks or chase efforts would go and the front of the field would take off, responding hurt a lot and it felt like there was no snap in my legs. Even the hills on the course hurt, and those were where I had excelled last year. I was worried about how I’d fare in a field sprint against the top sprinters and unsure if I’d have the legs to hold any breakaway attempt.

None of that doubt and uncertainty mattered. The field caught the two riders who had been away for a while and, with three laps to go and right before we hit the first series of corners, I attacked without a second thought. I railed the corners, increased the gap on the long straightaway, and never looked back. (That’s a lie; I actually looked back a number of times, but nobody tells an emphatic story and ends with, “…and then I kept looking over my shoulder.”)

In the final few laps, when I was hammering on my own and hurting like hell, there was no choice but to find more and more reserves. How could I nearly taste the win and then let it slip away because I wasn’t willing to accept a little more pain? When I came through the start/finish with one lap to go, Joe Jefferson had the spectators so riled up that they were screaming for me like a thousand ecstatic copies of my mother and father. He told them that it looked like I was going to win, and that sealed it – I was going to die of exhaustion before letting up. The last lap was both extremely short and an eternity of pedaling my ass off while thinking HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO WIN. And then I did. Crossed the finish line and for the first time ever, I threw both arms up in the air and felt like a million bucks.

It was an honor to share the podium with two of the best crit racers in the country…and Kim Kardashian.