2008 XC: #3 Hot Girls on Bikes

I left San Diego at dawn, hoping only to arrive in Santa Ynez in time to watch the pro cross country races.

This particular contest was part of the national series, with the best riders in America hoping acquire more of the points required to ensure a place on the Olympic team.

By 11 a.m., it was already blazing hot at the Chamberlain Ranch. The racers in the elite categories warmed up with ice bags shoved into the backs of their jerseys, and spectators jostled for the few shady spots under majestic oak trees.

Despite the heat, the pro women sprinted away from the start as if they didn't have an hour and a half of intense effort ahead of them."Where is Georgia Gould?" the announcer wondered some time later. She had been on track to extend her winning streak, leading all comers with only moments remaining in the final lap. Wild rumors circulated: she had heat exhaustion, passed out while riding, had a horrific crash and was life flighted out. (Close, just subtract the crash and helicopter.)

The same confusion surrounded last minute course changes for the start of the other race categories.

Due to the heat, laps were shortened or eliminated altogether. Instead of being two twelve-mile laps, I was required to repeat just the first hill, then complete one full lap. Before my start, I rode up to the intersection to make sure I would know where to turn. "Here?" I asked the marshal. "Yeah, just like the sign says."

Okay, then.

If I was the complaining kind, I'd write a letter asking why the Sport women are always started behind the Clydesdale category. I know those 200 pounders are strong, but this time their burst of speed wore off right about the time they reached the first, and steepest, climb. Then all of us women arrived, zipping along, only to find some very large men walking their bikes up the single track. Most of them tried to move aside, but even then, they were, uh, still in the way.

Mistake number one: running uphill, while pushing twenty-eight pound bicycle and skirting obstacles, when the thermometer is heading toward triple digits. After some fussing and grumbling, we all were remounted for the bumpy single track descent.

I never underestimate how fast some of the larger guys can plummet downhill, but in this instance I got caught behind a cautious one. Go. Faster. Please. I was watching his back, willing him to hurry up, watching the women in my category pull away, watching I don't know what, but I suddenly realized we were was heading around into the back hills of the course.

No. It can't be.

Mistake number two: I missed the turn. And, I'm stuck. Big man in front, big man in back, donkey trained on a narrow one lane shelf. Slope up to my left, hill down to the right, no way to turn around.

What now?I knew I had about ten miles of hard riding left. I also had a possible disqualification to look forward to, even if I could convince myself to do that hill at the end, while exhausted.

How could I have missed the turn?

A murder of crows roosted in my head. "You should be home doing laundry. Who do you think you are? All that preparation and you still can't follow directions?"

I wanted very much to simply ride back to my car and lay down in its sliver of shade.

And, did I mention this already? It was really rather warm out.

Five hills later, I pulled over and put my head down between my legs. I was hyperventilating, dizzy, overheated, miserable and dead last.

Somehow, though, upending my brain dislodged the internal heckling birds. They wheeled off into the shimmering air, and I got back on my bike.

I pedaled into the finish area and told the first timer, "I missed the turn; can I do that hill now?"

The volunteer waved me ahead to the next, slightly more official looking person. I was forced to repeat myself, "Can I do the first loop again? I only did it once."

I was referred to the race director. He consulted his clipboard and asked, "how could you possibly miss the turn?"

Listen, if I knew that, I wouldn't be embarrassing myself right about now.

"I was following a bunch of people."

"Well, how many other women missed the turn?" he shook his head, "Just finish here."

I thought the last of the crows had left, but apparently not. I ducked under the sideline tape and took off toward the hill anyway.

This time I was alone.

The spectators were at the beer tent and even the aid station had been abandoned. I dodged the Gatorade cups littering the ground and started climbing. Even if I wasn't disqualified, I knew I was already in last place. This was a solo pursuit of my own dignity.

With no sense of urgency, nor other racers to contend with, I enjoyed the sweeping views of the vineyard and the native poppies on the hillside. My front wheel startled sleeping monarch butterflies. A perpetual cloud of orange wings welcomed me back to California racing. I finished, again, and skidded to a stop in front of the director.

"Now I'm done."

I've never been happier to lose a race.