Avogadro's Number
According to the great oracle, Tanyapedia, the volume of an ideal gas is directly proportional to the number of atoms or molecules it contains. When applied to cycling, Avogadro's number suggests that the volume of an ideal team for the Snelling Road Race is directly proportional to its members: Sarah, Lorri, Tanya, Lala, Kim, and Dana. I could say something here about gas, and perhaps laying off the Mexican food before a race, but I won't. Let it suffice to say that this is what I was thinking about (what it means to be a team, not Mexican bean fuel) as we drove away from the race course on a drizzly Friday afternoon discussing Avogadro's number, and why we, a group of women who clearly knows "things," sometimes remain silent out of fear of appearing dumb.
Tanya Keen (aka Tanyapedia), Sarah Clatterbuck, Lala Carrasco, coach Lorri Lee Lown, Kim Natzel, Dana Freedman
When the coffee pot sputtered to life at o'dark-thirty on Saturday morning, I knew I was in trouble. I'm one of those freaks of nature who usually hops out of bed, eager to meet the day (I know, I know, GAG!). This morning was a little different--my limbs felt heavy, my head felt thick, and I wanted to pull the covers over my head instead of bee-lining it to the coffee pot. At first, I hoped it was pre-race jitters keeping me glued to the bed, but when I swallowed, I knew for certain that I was well on my way to being sick. That's when the inner monologue began. Do I tell them? Do I not tell them? Do I race? If I don't will they think I'm chickening out? Am I sick because I'm scared, or scared because I'm sick? Maybe I AM chickening out! In the words of my Jewish grandmother, "Oy, gevault!"
As the morning wore on I managed to psych myself up a little bit. It wasn't so much my body, it was my throat, and what's a little sore throat, anyway? The throat bone is NOT connected to the leg bones (I didn't go to nursing school for nothing, you know)! I did, however, seem to sprout seventeen thumbs overnight, making pinning my number to my jersey a tad more difficult than I had ever imagined. Fortunately, Lorri talked me through it.
The warm up was a blur (though it DID happen, because husband Rick has proof!), and the next thing I knew I was standing around the tent alone with only Lala's (sweet!) bicycle there to reassure me that the race had not started without me.
My whole body was visibly trembling as Sarah and Tanya made room for me at the line. I imagined the giant bullseye on the back of my Jersey as I trembled and shook--There she is, the new racer. Eat her alive, girls! And then we were off!
I instantly found myself in the last place I wanted to be--the center of the pack, while everyone else had formed two beautiful pacelines next to me. I had no wheel, and no confidence--not a great place to be (or, conversely, exactly where I needed to be to face my demons). It was precisely here that the first of several divine interventions occurred. Saint Sarah, calm voice of reason, beacon of heavenly light in the dark night of the soul, and patron saint of draughting, appeared in my peripheral vision, and her voice, like the song of angels, guided me through the promenade safely. My lack of confidence, however, kept me from protecting my wheel, so that by the time the motorcycle pulled off to indicate the start of the race, I had quite a pack in front of me.
I have no idea how long I held on, but it wasn't long. I was still relatively with the pack when Lala flew by shouting, "get on my wheel, Dana." There must be some law of physics that proves it impossible to get on the wheel of someone traveling faster than the speed of sound. Tanyapedia? I did, however, climb on the wheel of a lone cyclist in a red jersey, then invited her to climb on mine as I passed her. It was right about here that Kim pulled up behind me, and it was right about here also, that we turned into the wind.
I can hear the "Wicked Witch of the West" theme music as I type this, and visualize her on her bicycle with Toto in her basket, pedaling fiercely into the tornado, but going nowhere. Kim and I chatted--she was going to end her race at the first lap, and she encouraged me to pedal on. I had an internal debate. I was feeling pretty awful, but I was still having the chicken or egg debate. Was I feeling awful because I was sick, or was I feeling sick because I was off the back and feeling bad about myself? The fluorescent green snot streaming from my nose at a rate too rapid to wipe could have been an indicator, but then again...
Saint Sarah appeared in the distance. Go Dana, go! Catch her! Kim and Kathleen (the cyclist in the red jersey from earlier) hopped on and we caught up to Sarah, who assured us that Lorri was just ahead, and we could paceline our way to her. Quite frankly, the only way I was going to get to Lorri at this point was if someone was going to pull me there...so she, Saint Sarah, did. In fact, Saint Sarah pulled me through the next two laps to the finish line, and I am grateful.
Kim and Lorri pulled off, and I alternated between beating myself up for having to be dragged around the course; sending blessings, silent and aloud, to Sarah for doing the dragging; beaming love and light to Tanya and Lala who were likely still with the pack, and Kim and Lorri, who were probably undergoing their own internal flagellations for pulling off (or not). I was also trying really hard to ignore the pounding that was welling up from behind my right eye. Wow did I feel like crap. Chicken or egg? Chicken or egg?
Saint Sarah continued to pull, educate, and inspire me. She pointed out action from the men's race. A break went by, and then a chase, and later we heard, "Velo Girls, hold your line!" as two men flew by on our right, followed by the pack, seconds later, on our left. She pointed out the snow covered mountains, the calves (bovine, and human), and when the going got especially rough in the wind, on Figmund, in the last lap, reminded me that I was about to finish my first race, and wasn't that something to be proud of? Chicken or egg? Chicken or egg?
I crossed the finish line, but it wasn't pride that I was feeling. My head hurt so much that I was trying not to throw up, but there wasn't any time for that. My foot barely touched the ground before I was clipped in again and pedaling back to the car. I know we took some photos there, but it's all a very dim memory. I can see Tanya's saddle pointed toward the sky. I know that she and Lala did well, really well. I remember husband Rick handing me chocolate milk, and being the dirty hippie that I am, I remember that it was organic, which made me happy. Lorri said, "You hate racing, don't you?" The truth is, I had an awful time of it, but I couldn't (and still can't) wait to do it again. I closed my eyes, and Kim whisked me back to the hotel. We giggled about needing to spend more quality time at "In Shape City," and I commended her on knowing her "self" well enough to know that she should pull out when she did. Then, Tylenol, sweet sweet Tylenol.
And so, Avogadro's Law remains true--the volume of an ideal team is directly proportional to its members. I'm so proud of all of us, and I can't wait to get out there and do it again with all of you on my side! Maybe I can even do a little pulling next time. ;-)
Love and penicillin,
Dana
