Good Guys Sometimes Finish Last. Or Not at All.

If you follow me on twitter, you've already read this blog; live, not memorex. And 140 characters at a time.
I'm just now getting to the place where I can emotionally write about Preston's latest race without crying, and it's a little premature to say that I won't. The race took place in McMinnville, Tennessee, about 4 hours from home. We made a weekend of it, staying at the local Best Western, which was filled to the last room with cyclists. There was so much lycra on so many men, the locals, I'm sure, spent an extra hour at church that Sunday, praying these people would come toward the light.

Anyway, it was a family event, so my dad and Vic's parents joined us for 2 days of racing. We chose not to enter Preston in the 13 mile road race. It was on open roads, so that means cars were allowed on course, and again, he was the youngest racing cyclist.

Preston's goal for the day was to conquer the time trial. The time trial is a beautiful event to me. Vic never has liked them; one, because they are so painful, and two because there's no scampering for position, and no strategy to attack the field. He's such a guy. Anyway, this time trial started on an 8% grade, no flat spot to get going, just a straight-up hill. Preston was the 3rd to take off and he immediately struggled with finding a cadence he could handle.

We jumped into the van and started driving up the mountain alongside him. It was then that I looked up and saw this monster that loomed in front of my baby. My eyes felt like they were seriously bugging out. Going so slowly, our minivan had issues with gears and I could imagine what it felt like to climb this mountain on a bicycle. "HOW LONG IS THIS MOUNTAIN? HOW LONG IS THIS TIME TRIAL???" I shouted, already knowing. 2.7 miles. 12% grade in places. WHAT? He was almost going backwards as it was.

He pedaled continuously for over a mile. He stopped, drank some water and used his bronchial inhaler (yes, he would have tested positive). He had at least 12 juniors pass him on their way up; each one mumbling encouragement to him even as they were in agony. It started sprinkling at this point, and I parked the van and went to him and said, "Listen, we had no idea this mountain was this steep. Let's just get in the van and tackle this bear again next year, ok?" He looked straight at me and said, "I do not want a DNF (did not finish) after my name. I can do this." When he asked how far he had gone, his Daddy, trying to be positive, said, "You are one-third of the way through it, Buddy." I knew immediately when Preston realized that meant he had two-thirds left to ride when he grimaced. I shot his Daddy a look from hell.

So, he got back on, (again, no flat spots to get a running start), and turned the pedals as hard as he could. If you've ever seen someone start pedaling up a steep hill, they go so slowly that the bike wobbles terribly. It's also very easy to crash this way. Cyclists will tell you it is safer to crash while going fast than while going slow. His dad ran alongside him, talking to him, encouraging him.

I was in the minivan, followed by my dad and father-in-law, both squalling at this point. He got to the halfway point of the race, and had to get off again and walk. I'll never forget the picture they made. Preston, walking that tiny Felt up that mountain, and Vic in compression socks, walking alongside him in the rain.

There was thunder all around, and the rain began coming down harder. They kept walking, although I knew Vic was trying his best to convince Preston to abandon this race. When cloud-to-ground lightening started, they moved over from the guard rails but kept walking. At this point, an executive decision had to be made. He hadn't been passed in several minutes so I knew they were no longer starting cyclists due to the weather. My father-in-law looked ready to whip both his son and grandson if they didn't get in the vehicle. At about that same moment, I saw Preston running toward the van, with Vic behind him carrying the bike. Preston got inside the dry vehicle and with a quiver of his bottom lip, absolutely broke my heart.
I can't remember everything he said, but most of it centered around now having a DNF after his name. He looked right in my eyes and said, "I visualized myself walking across the finish line with my bike. I saw it with my own eyes. I could have finished, I know I could have."

At that exact moment, he became background noise, as hail the size of quarters started pounding the vehicle. I'd like to think it was God, sending an exclamation point for the executive decision to pull this 9-year old's butt out of that race.
He straightened up a little after that, realizing that he would have been out in that mess if we hadn't pulled the plug. We talked about pros who don't finish races, whether it is due to mechanicals, illness, crashes, or sometimes weather.
Our biggest concern was if he would still want to race the criterium the next morning, and he was all about it. It rained all night and the course was very damp. There were many crashes through the corners, but Preston took it easy and went safely around each one. He was last out of 14 juniors. But he finished and was tickled pink to have done so.
The weekend was a rough one for all of us, though Vic rebounded beautifully, and wound up on the podium for his Cat 5 crit!

I've looked back at that weekend and thanked God that He turned on that storm. I know it's awful, but I was miserable watching my child walk that mountain and push that bike. I know that moments like that build character. I also know that moments like that break a mother's heart.

The tweets I got that day were amazing, as they always are when Preston races. I always show them to him afterwards and he loves the encouragement and the fact that strangers are cheering for him. He was somewhat worried what his "Twitterati" would think of him not finishing. I explained that they realized it was our fault for making him leave the race and that all of his "fans" wouldn't ride in lightening either. That seemed to ease the burden of the DNF a little.
I don't know for sure, but I think Preston will go back and whip that mountain some day. I just hope the weather cooperates.

What Would Jens Do?

He could have refused to start. He could have crashed around the first corner. He could have had a massive asthma attack mid-race. He could have dropped out after the 9th or 10th person passed him, leaving him to struggle up the hills, lap after lap. But he didn't.
Instead, as he came by my corner during lap four, he yelled, "I'M NOT QUITTING".
I didn't know it at the time, but during the third lap, he had told his dad (who was at the corner diagonal to mine)that his throat was killing him. His dad told him if he was that miserable, just to stop down at the finish line and tell the officials. Vic casually picked up his bicycle and rode on down to the start/finish, looking for Preston. No Preston. He rode on down to the corner where Preston's grandpa sat. Preston, Vic's dad told him, had already ridden through the corner and was midway through lap four. Vic was puzzled. He had given him the go-ahead to stop if he was hurting. He didn't try to push him or make him continue. Vic was trying to keep Preston from hating cycling. He didn't want this first race to be a negative experience, even knowing that Preston was the youngest in the race, and by far the least experienced.
As Vic rode back to his corner, Preston was just rounding it. "I'M NOT A QUITTER, DADDY," he yelled as soon as he saw Vic. I'm not sure Vic will ever be able to tell that story without his eyes filling with emotion.
Instead of refusing to start, crashing, having an asthma attack, or dropping out, my son became the bully of the race. He bullied his bike. He bullied his sore throat, his aching legs, and he bullied last place. Three kids dropped out. Preston finished. That's when I knew that my son had won. He wasn't even racing against these 18 year olds. That wasn't Preston's race. Preston was racing himself. As a parent, you always want your child to finish first. But this day wasn't about being first. It was about finishing. It was about conquering fear, hurt, and the desire to quit. And he bullied them all. Sometimes, you gotta man up and finish things. Not for your parents. Not for bragging rights. Sometimes, you gotta finish to show yourself you can.
I have a feeling my son learned a hell of a lot more from losing this one race than he'll ever learn from winning one.

Almost ten years ago, someone sent me a really sweet e-mail about having a child. The e-mail was written from a mother's perspective about her feelings for her child at every age. One of the lines stood out as I read it then, and has presented itself to me time and time again. It said something like, "Mothers must be prepared to wear every emotion on their sleeve; to have every wound drenched in salt & alcohol, to have every elation magnified by 20. That's because mothers experience every emotion of their child in addition to their own." It's a feeling like no other.
That line has crossed my mind in times of heartache & in times of happiness. When my son was 5, he slipped on a tandem bike, cutting his knee open on the oily chainring. While holding him down in the ER, as he got seven staples in his knee, I cried harder than he cried. As horrific as his pain was, I know mine was worse-not being able to take his away. As crazy as it sounds, I felt that pain. I throbbed & ached. I swear I could feel every agonizing second. It haunted me for weeks as he showed off his cool new scar in the shape of an "S" for "SuperPreston".
If I only felt those negative emotions, motherhood would really suck. But, thank God, I get to feel really great emotions as well. Today was one of those days.
As Vic loaded up our bikes to head to a nearby community college parking lot, Preston was readying himself for his maiden voyage on a real roadbike. Preston has spent quite some time on the trainer during our exceptionally cold winter & has been dying to get on the road. Preston was in his cold weather gear & ready to conquer the world. After some advice from dad & a couple of failed attempts to get going & hop onto the seat, he hung his head & tears the size of Texas began falling. "I can't do it," he said. My heart began to break for him as he thought he'd automatically know how to do it. His dad was amazing as he gently coaxed him into trying again, wiping tears away, and never letting his boy go. I fought back my tears too, as I knew he wanted to do it perfectly. He did try again, and with success! He wobbled a little as his foot struggled to turn the pedal over to find the clip...as it did, his speed increased and the boy sat more into position. He leaned with the bike, not against it; no fight to balance, no problems with finding the best placement for his hands. He looked so beautiful out there. He yelled, "I DID IT!!" as he continued to ride away from us. This was the beginning of what would become just under 4 miles of riding for him today. I took some pictures with my phone but they were a little shaky. The emotion in me was overwhelming. I felt his feelings again. It wasn't the feeling of accomplishment or success like I thought it would be. It was feelings of freedom, of the joy of future rides with friends & family, and of pure sunshine. Today was my Mother's Day.

Football or Cycling?

Many of you know that my son got a road bike for Christmas. It is sweet!

Since getting the bike, Preston has only been able to ride it on the trainer due to weather, which is fine, because he has learned quite a bit about shifting, positioning, and has built up his legs some. It won't be long until he's ready for the road. That's where the blog really begins.

In the past three months, I've really opened my eyes to the dangers of the sport because of Preston's desire to get out on the road. I've read Neil Browne's interview with Lucas Euser, who was hit on the road last year. I knew all about his crash and rehabilitation. What I didn't know, was that Lucas's girlfriend was also hit later in the year.

Maureen McCormick, (AKA Marsha Brady) was interviewed recently by Bicycling Magazine, and revealed that her greatest fear is being hit by a vehicle while cycling. Her husband had been hit and it took him almost a year to recover.

Trials involving motorists and cyclists are being retweeted almost daily, and even the pros have nasty run-ins rather frequently as they spend so much time on the road doing their job.

An up-and-coming cyclist named Nate Weston (@Nate_Weston on Twitter) was hit by a car last December in Atlanta on a training ride. With help from an excellent chiropractor and sheer will, Nate is ok and ready to take on Europe with a development squad in Belgium.

Don't even get me started on crashes. I wasn't the only one holding my breath when our favorite man-boy, Taylor Phinney, crashed last year in the Cascade Classic. And Saul Raisin's book, Tour de Life, is as frightening as it is heartwarming, especially for the parents of a wanna-be cyclist.

So what do we do? Teach, model, and preach safety? That's a given. Provide a safe place to ride? That too. Provide them with top-notch equipment? Got it. Supervise continuously? Yeah, yeah.

I don't want him to live in a bubble, but am I crazy to push this sport? It's not like I have a choice in the matter. It's in his blood.

So, do football and rugby moms go through this?

Yeah, I'm a Fraud.

I absolutely love cycling. I can't ride worth a flip, but I love it. I tell my husband all the time how thrilled I am that I fell in love with the sport. Now that our son adores it as well, I know that we can spend a lot of family time together, on bikes, and outdoors. However, I am still not a cyclist. If you know me, you know I'm not. I appreciate that many people will still let me participate in cycling conversations or humor me when I want to "speak cycling" as Dr. Rick says. I appreciate that my twitter friends don't say, "What the hell do you know about it?". Well, they may say it, but thankfully, I'm in my happy place and haven't seen it. I've tried very hard to learn as much as I possibly can learn about this sport without participating in it. I've also tried very hard to be a cyclist. I'm just not one. My bike is a beautiful Electra Petra Zillia that weighs about 40 pounds. Go up a hill at 12% grade on that baby, why don'tcha?

I had a bicycle wreck when I was 15 on a friend's bike that I had no business riding. I came down a hill and all I remember is scraping the asphalt with my face, a la' Jens Voigt. I didn't come away with major injuries, but I sure as hell wasn't anxious to get back on the horse. So I didn't. I didn't get on again until I was over 30. And, I stipulated that I would not be riding a bike that wasn't the cutest one in town. Honestly, I didn't think there was such a thing, therefore I would never have to ride. Problem solved. However, my desperate hubby found and bought the cutest bike in town. It's absolutely the most ridiculous-looking bike an adult could own. AND I LOVE IT.

The most I have ever ridden at one time is around 8 miles with the family. I don't ride on the road, only paved trails, and I don't have clipless pedals. I would kill myself with those. My legs still flail from time to time, and I have just learned to take one hand off the handlebars to scratch an itch on my face. I don't have a bottle cage, because I can't take my hands off the bars long enough to get a drink. It's ok. I have a gingham-covered wicker basket to hold my wine for when I live through the ride.

The best part is when I navigate a turn, make it up a hill or handle a descent and my son says, "Good job, Mommy. You dug deep in your suitcase of courage for that one."

Modesty is overrated....

When I began dating the man who is my husband, he was on the bicycle for 12-15 hours a week. I'll never forget seeing him in cycling shorts for the first time, and looking everywhere but 'there'. I blushed ridiculously. He was oblivious. One day, I asked him if he was embarrassed to wear 'that stuff' in public. He looked at me through his confusion. He explained that he had spent half his life in lycra and around others wearing it. He told me about changing clothes at races where there were no bathrooms; changing on the street, with white behinds glaring at those passing by. He told me that he felt no modesty, ever. It was ok. I was embarrassed enough for both of us. Not that he didn't look great in his clothes; he did! I think that was the issue.
After years of marriage and watching, then obsessing about the sport of cycling, I did finally relax around the men in lycra and think little of it now (well, you know that's not exactly true...#cyclingeyecandy, aside). I don't flinch at seeing the 'pale moonlight' of a young crit racer just trying to avoid saddlesores from a sweat-soaked chamois. I don't blush when I see a guy looking like he has two pairs of tubesocks and a rolled-up bath sheet in the front of his bibs.
It's carried over to the next generation. My son wishes every pair of shorts had a buttpad, and was born thinking every household does at least one load of cycling laundry a week. I guess he'll never be modest either.
I feel sorry for his first girlfriend.