My last day at of class smacked me with the reality that I would not set foot on the track again unless I kept it up on my own — and so commenced my quest for a track bike. But first things first …
Our lesson plan included a progressive pace line, flying 200s from a standing start, rolling starts and some other mock races. I worried about keeping up with the men, but then decided worrying is no fun and that focusing on beating some of them was way more energizing.
The first race was a “miss and out,” in which the last person across the line every two laps is ejected from the race until there are two riders left. I managed to stay in the game after the first sprint. Then, I kept it up for the second sprint, and much to my sheer delight that meant I remained in the race longer than Chris. The third sprint sent me packing, but only by inches; if I hadn’t been so conservative I could have held on for one more sprint. Sigh.
The most hilarious moment of the night involved holding another rider’s bike for the standing starts. Standing starts take some muscling. You must go from zero to fast enough to make it around the first bank. I managed to stay upright upon release and into the corner. But then I had to hold another rider.
Four-foot-eleven-inch Jen gets paired up with the tallest dude in the class. (And really, for stability I have to wedge my foot in front of his back wheel with only a sock between the two?) Eventually you inch yourself from holding the bike lengthwise to holding it from the back by clasping the bar underneath the seat with a few fingers ... and then you must let go at the moment the rider is ready to pedal the heck out of there. As my late grandmother would say, “jeepers cats.” I envisioned my fingers being caught on the seat as he took off with me dangling behind until we ended up in a bloody, splintered pile on the ground. Everyone had a good laugh watching the freakish pairing, but we made it through without any crash and burn. Sweet. The shortness thing constantly amuses.
Anyone who has seen a track race knows how they usually start: at the top of the bank holding onto the rail in a single-file line and then rolling out (and down) in no particular order. I think it looks freaky. It is. I strategically placed myself at the back. My hand stuck to the bar. My pedals wanted to move, but my hand wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t help but look down at my wheel’s precarious angle rather than focus on the track ahead where I wanted that wheel to go. Mere seconds passed, but it felt like five minutes before I released my death grip and sailed down the track. I wanted to scream “wheeee.”
By the end of the night my quads burned, and let’s be real here, so did my crotch. Riding in such an aggressive position on such an unforgiving seat nearly brings tears to the eyes after awhile. But my spirit soared. Riding the track gives me a runner’s high on steroids. I barely slept and woke up as filled with adrenaline as the night before.
And that concludes our track class adventures. Stay tuned, though. I have another project cooking for those of you who enjoy the bike reads.
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