It's Always Something...

Marisa C. Peacock
10.16.05

This past Saturday I raced Iron Cross Lite at Michaux Forest, Pennsylvania. A beautiful day for an A race, if not a little windy, I looked forward to getting on the line. Like usual, as I approached registration, I quizzed everyone I met about the course. Most of them made note of a rather large climb at the start of each lap. I eyed the barriers that sloped sideways on a hill with contempt. Butterflies started in my stomach—but it was more excitement than nerves.

I passed Melanie and Judd; I ran into Beth Mason of NCVC; and some fellow PVC mates. I also ran into a woman from last week’s race. She told me that I missed the Women’s B race. When I told her that I was racing A’s now, she looked stunned. “Wow. I can’t do A’s. I won the B race though.” I couldn’t help but smile. Any doubts I had about doing the A race were relieved. I had no time for sandbaggers.

I made adjustments to my bike, trying to recover what last week’s mudfest had done to my rear derailleur and chain. Though I brought my trainer, I chose to warm up on the road, rather than on the gravel, as I could just imagine the firestorm of gravel ricocheting off my car. Returning to my car to eat and hydrate, Beth passed me as if on her way to the start. She noticed my Luna bar and said, “I should eat something, too. I get so nervous that I forget to eat.” And she turned around. WOW! Beth Mason gets nervous? This was news to me.

I was the first racer to the line. As more of us gathered, we were ushered approximately 150 meters up the course. The USCF official hadn’t wanted to walk all the way down—shortening our initial ascent. There were six of us lined up. Melanie had been excited that I was now racing in the A category, so she moved over for me to be on the front line.

And we were off! The climb up when you’re clamoring for space was tough, but I just kept telling myself to stay on Beth’s wheel. I’d ridden a cross practice with her and was able to stay with her then—I could certainly do it now. Before the race she had mentioned how she hadn’t ridden all week and how she’d be getting over a cold. It was my plan to capitalize on her weaknesses if given the opportunity. I kept on her wheel and then I passed her. On the first climb. I started to panic, thinking that I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t slow my tempo any and take for granted that I was not riding in last place. Like a bat out of hell I flew. The barriers had me breathing hard, but I didn’t care. I pushed that much harder, in case Beth was nipping at my heels. Oddly, though, she wasn’t. I had her by a lot. And I kept gaining more distance.

Before my race I had asked Thom Moore how many laps he did in his 30 minutes. He had done five laps. The course was awful short. Except for the climb at the start and then the dreadful barrier/run up, there was nothing but switchbacks and a ride through the woods. I figured that we’d also do five laps—the most I’d ever done in a race.

Strangely, I began to look forward to the hill each lap. Not only were my legs born for hills like these, the sooner I climbed it the sooner it was over and then all I had to overcome were those darn barriers. I heard the cheers of my teammates and I kept at it. On the beginning of my fifth lap I was over taken by Melanie, Betsy and Heidi. I thought for sure I’d be pulled as I went by the finish area, but luckily I told my legs to keep on going in case I was wrong. Good thinking—because I had to do those dreaded barriers one more time. Lap number six—here I come!

After the race, I was ecstatic. Not only did I not finish last (again!) I had beaten Beth Mason! Could I really be A racer material? Did I have the legs to get by—could I be the future of the women’s A field? I had visions of podiums and wreaths and…then Beth came over and showed us that her front brake had been on the entire race, making her front wheel virtually inoperable. Okay, so I wasn’t really a better athlete than she was, it was purely a technical problem. Humbled and brought down to Earth, I gave a polite smile and headed back to the car.

However, I did feel pretty good. I began to feel like I wasn’t a total fraud to be in the women’s A race. Some of the women waved to me as they rode back to their cars. I looked up to them (literally and figuratively) and hoped that they’d welcome me. I yelled, “Good race!” and they yelled back, “You, too!”

They were right. It was a good race.

Addendum

After the race, I stopped for fuel at exit 14 on I-81 south. After that I called the race promoter of last week’s race to pick up my (okay, Nate’s) wheels (It’s okay, he knows…) that I had left in the wheel pit. He called me back at exit 5 and I followed his directions to his house.

I was feeling particularly good about life, as I had successfully navigated my way to his house and back onto 70 East without writing anything down. This, I considered a great feat, as I usually need to turn myself around a few times. Shortly after I got on 70 East, I stopped at a Maryland rest stop. I had a hankering for a Coke so I went to retrieve my wallet.

Wait a minute! Where’s my wallet? Without thinking, I knew immediately where my wallet was—or better yet, where it wasn’t. It wasn’t on the roof of my car—the last place I had put it while refueling my car.

Anyone else would have broken down at the thought of this. But I knew better. Having been through similar situations before (too many times), I know there’s no time or use in getting all hysterical. What I did know is that I had about a 30 minute window to find the wallet. It had only been about a half-hour since I stopped off at the BP station. It was far too windy out for it to have held on for too long. Most likely, it’s in the vicinity of the gas station and I was on a mission.

You’d think not having a license physically in the car, would have stopped me from barreling down I-81 N pushing 80+ miles an hour. But it didn’t. The mere thought of all the things I’d have to reissue or cancel made the weight of my foot bear down on the gas pedal more.

I pulled into the BP station and ran inside. No wallet. I looked around the pump I used. No wallet. I looked in the parking lot across the street where I had stopped to make a phone call. Still, no wallet. I trolled the grassy patch along the road. No wallet.

Defeated, I told myself to get over it. You lost your f***ing wallet. Moron. I got back into my car, still eyeing the side of the road. I approached the on-ramp of I-81 S, and thought about searching the grassy patch on the side. Again, I told myself to get over it. There’s no wallet. Suddenly, as I merged into the right lane, I saw something about 100 meters ahead. MY WALLET! I pulled over onto the shoulder, put my hazards out and opened my door. With no traffic approaching, I sprinted out into the lane and retrieved my wallet. I saw that my driver’s license had spilled out. I picked it up and ran back to the car and drove home happy.

[The only thing that was missing, ironically enough, was my USCF license, which must have come out with my license and blew away.]