Maternity Leave (38 page)

My race was ruined and everything else seemed insignificant. Of the six stages left, only two were mountainous, so I would have very little opportunity to improve my overall position. A podium spot or top-five finish was now out of the question and a top-ten was a long shot. I wanted to call Danny, but I was such a bitch the day before that I didn’t know what to say. I thought about calling my parents, but even if they weren’t anti-cycling, they were very anti-feeling-sorry-for-yourself, and would tell me to cheer up since I wasn’t starving, deformed or suffering from cancer. The last thing I wanted to do when I was throwing myself a pity party was to think of the triviality of my situation. Granted, it wasn’t the end of the world, but I had trained five hours a day and risked disbarment, jail and poverty to compete. I felt entitled to do well.

The next day, my legs recovered as if nothing had happened. I placed third on the stage and leapfrogged some people, moving into eleventh place. Once again, Sonny howled at me throughout the entire stage. Despite my good finish, Erica was suddenly more annoyed than usual by Sonny. If I was going to suck in this race, I at least had to do so with a well-behaved dog. Just as I was thinking of a solution to the psychotic dog situation, Julie called to tell me that one of her dogs dug up “the” dildo in my backyard. I told her to overnight it to tomorrow’s host house in Astoria, Oregon.

I took the rediscovered dildo, Sonny’s favorite, as a good omen; clearly my luck was changing. I called Danny, said I was sorry, and asked him to meet me for dinner if he wasn’t halfway to Tampa already. He told me he was sorry, too, and that he was still local at a local bar drinking Jameson.

We met for dinner and it was as though nothing had happened. Both of us wanted things back the way they were, so we talked about everything except Danny being in love with me and me being gay. After we ordered, I announced, “I’m better. No more wallowing about a broken heart or damaged ego or whatever the hell it was. No more racing conservatively. I have nothing to lose. I’m testing out that dildo tomorrow.”

“Pardon?” Danny said.

“Julie sent me the original dildo that Sonny loved. Tomorrow, I’m going off the front from the gun, so we’ll see early on whether Sonny wants to bark at me or chomp on his favorite cock while I’m racing.”

“The stage is one hundred and four miles long, I wouldn’t take off from mile one,” Danny advised.

“Why not? It’s the perfect day for it. It’s a flat course the day before the last tough mountain stage. The leaders will want to rest, so they’ll probably let me go since I’m over eight minutes behind and no longer a threat.”

“Then go for it,” Danny said. “You’ve worked hard, you can still get back into the top ten, maybe even the top five, if you have a good day tomorrow and the
peloton
gives you a little latitude.”

The next day started cold and rainy, and the forecast was for more of the same throughout the day. This was good news. If the pack went slow because of the weather, it would be a long, cold ride, which I hate. I’d rather ride hard so that I can keep warm and get through it quicker. Plus, when it rains, water and mud sprays off the wheel of the rider in front of you directly into your face. I had no desire to be cold and have mud flung in my face for five hours. I wanted to gut it out in the rain all day.

When the gun went off, a group of three attacked off the front immediately. I jumped away from the pack to join them. The pack chased this group down pretty quickly. Another group of four then went away. I waited until this group got 200 meters away, then jumped away from the pack again, closing in on the group of four almost immediately. Instead of catching the foursome and joining in their rotation, I flew past them. One of them gave chase, which ruined their cooperation. The pack behind quickly caught the three that didn’t chase me, then reeled in the fourth rider shortly thereafter.

The race was being controlled by the eight teammates of the woman in first place, as well as one or two of the teammates of the women in second and third place. The leader’s team seemed content to let me go since I was over six minutes behind and would be dangling in the wind all by myself for one hundred miles. This was not an uncommon cycling strategy, as the eight teammates of the leader could easily share in setting the tempo throughout the day to keep me within striking distance, and let the sprinters’ teams chase me down in the last hour since they always want their shot at glory. It’s relatively easy for a group of fresh riders to pull back a tired rider over the last twenty miles of a race. After ten miles, I had a two-minute lead.

Even in the atrocious weather, it felt good to be on the open road by myself after so many days in the
peloton
. There was a slight tailwind, which helped move me along quickly at only seventy percent effort. As a bonus, the dildo worked. Sonny completely ignored me on my bicycle ten feet in front of him in favor of chowing down. I could hear Danny and Erica on the race radio laughing at Sonny and encouraging me to keep it up.

At the sixty-five mile mark, my lead over the
peloton
had stretched to eight minutes. This was the first time I really thought I could win the stage and get some of my time back that I’d lost the day before. Over the race radio, Danny encouraged me with his best Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen impersonations. Liggett and Sherwen have been cycling commentators since the invention of the wheel. Both are British and perform live commentary for every televised cycling event in English-speaking countries, including America. Partly because they’re British and partly because they’re stuck commentating about people on bicycles for five hours straight, they tend to use bizarre words and phrases, which have become legendary among cyclists.

In a bad British accent, Danny said, “Well, Rosen sure has packed herself a suitcase full of courage today. She is either superhuman or a fool. We shall see.”

All of my teammates got the joke, as the “suitcase of courage” is a very familiar reference. The other girls started chiming in on race radio as well. Lynn said, “Rosen is pushing a monster gear, her legs must be screaming.”

“Monster gear nothing,” Erica said. “Rosen is just dancing on the pedals in a most immodest way. She seems to have sprouted wings.”

“She sure does look resplendent in that Sunshine Cycling kit,” someone said.

One of the riders announced there was a crash and Erica broke character to respond. “Is everyone okay?”

It obviously wasn’t serious because Lynn kept up with the impersonation and said, “Nothing but a touch of wheels.” This was one of my favorite lines. Liggett or Sherwen say it every time there’s a crash that does not subsequently involve a rider being airlifted. “Just a little touch of the wheels and they’re off again.” It doesn’t matter that the rider left half of his kit and one-third of his skin on the road and that he’s dripping blood.

Alyssa had joined in the commentary and involuntarily, I thought, does this mean Alyssa and I are on speaking terms? Then I banished the thought and the jokey commentary in my ear so I could keep my focus on the task at hand. I was regaining huge amounts of time and could wind up back in the top five or ten, depending on when the
peloton
started to chase me, and how hard. I knew the chase would start soon, because if I kept my pace and they kept theirs, I’d be in first place at the end of the day; something the leader’s team would never let happen.

At the ninety-mile mark, it was clear I would win the stage though my lead had shrunk from eight minutes to four. I became giddy at this realization and started pedaling with renewed energy. With three miles to go, I passed over a drawbridge. Even though I knew I would win today’s stage, I was still killing myself to make up the time I had lost in the overall classification. The last five-hundred meters were lined with cheering locals oblivious to the weather, probably because they lived in it daily, even during “dry season.” Instead of lifting my arms in celebration for the last two hundred meters as is customary, I continued to ride hard, trying to gain back as many seconds as possible. Finally, I crossed the line, pulled my jersey down proudly, put my hands up in the air and rode over to the team car to give Danny, Erica and Sonny a big wet hug. I tried to act modest. After all I was only able to escape because I was no longer a serious contender. However, I had just won my first professional stage after being in the lead for one hundred and four miles and I couldn’t get the dopey grin off my face.

According to race radio, the
peloton
was three minutes behind, but based on their speed, they would cross the line two and a half minutes behind me. This would put me in sixth place, not too far behind the third place I was in before my legs crapped out on me. However, I now had a stage win, and with a little luck on the last mountain stage, I could climb back into the top five or even onto the podium.

I changed into dry clothes and peed into a cup for the doping controls. Doping controls are required for the winner of each stage. I was flattered to finally be good enough to be tested for doping.

I went to the podium area and waited for the second and third place riders to join me. But something was holding up the
peloton
. Erica told me that the drawbridge was raised and appeared to be broken, trapping the
peloton
on the other side. Man, was I glad not to be sitting on the other side of that bridge in wet clothes. The minutes ticked by and still the bridge was not fixed.

It took over nine minutes to fix the bridge so the
peloton
didn’t finish until more than thirteen minutes after I crossed the finish line. Race officials seemed confused about how to score the day’s stage. The obvious and fair resolution was to score me four minutes and thirty-four seconds ahead of the
peloton
; the gap that existed when I crossed the line, but cycling has a long history of inequities.

In the 1922 Tour de France, there was a rule that each rider had to fix their own mechanicals without outside assistance. Eugene Christophe, the first cyclist to wear the yellow jersey in 1919, was leading the race again in 1922 when his fork broke in the Pyrenees. He hauled the bike to the nearest blacksmith and forged the fork together while a race official looked on. Though Christophe completed the repair himself, he was still penalized for allowing a small boy to help him fan the fire. His penalty was tacked onto the time he had already lost repairing the fork. To add insult to injury, Christophe’s repair failed and he was forced to abandon the race when his fork broke on the descent of the famed Galibier Mountain in the Alps.

Fast-forward almost one hundred years and cycling was still being altered by happenstance. In the 2006 edition of the Paris-Roubaix road race, the race leader crossed a railroad track thirty seconds ahead of the three men chasing him. As the second, third and fourth place riders approached the railroad crossing, the warning arms were lowered, though the train was far away. The three riders crossed the track. Objectively, there was no danger, but the riders were disqualified for breaking the rule against proceeding through a closed railroad crossing. Ironically, the fifth through seventh place riders, who stopped because there was a train in the way, went through the warning arms as well, albeit after the train had passed. This second group of violators was not disqualified even though they’d broken the same rule. Such is cycling on the open road.

On the podium, I was given champagne and flowers. I set the flowers down and sprayed the champagne in celebration, then drank some straight from the bottle. The bottle was neither expensive nor refrigerated, but Dom Perignon could not have tasted better.

After the award presentation, I went to find out if my overall placing had been determined yet. To my surprise, the race organizers had me in first place overall. The drawbridge delay would not be discounted. I knew this was horribly unfair, and would cause all of the racers and spectators to hate me. I tried to protest, but the European coach of the rightful overall winner was already fighting that battle for me. He was engaged in a hysterical argument with the race officials and I didn’t want to interrupt. The coach wasn’t speaking English, but it was clear he thought the ruling was a bit unfair.

As the argument wound down, it was my turn to be the martyr, a role I was unfamiliar playing. They told me to come with them to the podium again, this time to get my yellow leader’s jersey. I made the case, but it fell on deaf ears. Their minds were made up. Still, I opted to forego the ceremonial presentation of the yellow jersey. There was plenty of precedent for this, especially when the first place rider crashes and the second place rider comes into the leader’s jersey without “earning” it. To my knowledge, eleventh place has never inherited the jersey from first place as a result of a broken bridge, but I felt the protocol should be the same.

I was proud that I’d won the stage, but the officials’ decision ruined my celebratory mood. I was somber during my massage.

“Sometimes,” Danny said, “it’s tough having the world revolve around you, isn’t it?”

“I never thought I would say this, but yes it is. This sucks. If I win, it’s because it was handed to me on a silver platter. If I lose, it’s a huge choke. Plus, what if the newspaper reports this and it gets back to my office?”

“Now you’re just talking crazy,” Danny said. “You think the
Tampa Bay Times
is going to report on Stage Seventeen of women’s cycling in the state of Washington?”

“True, but it still sucks. I need to figure out a way to put myself back where I should be. Maybe I’ll just stop before crossing the line and wait about nine minutes before finishing.”

“You can’t. They’ll enforce the time cut and you’ll get disqualified.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t disqualify everyone except me today, since they’re such sticklers for the rules.”

“They never enforce the time cut against the majority of the
peloton
,” Danny said.

“Maybe I’ll just give back a little bit of time each day until I reach nine minutes and thirty-four seconds, the undeserved amount of my lead.”