The air is cold and fresh; the early snap of spring is carried through the air on the wind. Eighty-five racers stand over their metal and carbon machines, cold hands swathed in windproof gloves, gripping the hoods tightly. The final countdown goes by in a blur and then one hundred and seventy legs push off of the pedals and we’re off. I am suddenly surrounded by a field of testosterone, burly legs, stubble and the occasional beard, all dressed to the nines in brightly colored spandex. It is the first few races of early spring and I am racing with the dudes.
As I’m sure many of you know, who are of the dude persuasion, racing amongst your brethren is very different than racing in a mixed gender bag. I’m sure a lot of you enjoy the sausage festival that is your very own race, where you can grunt and swear at each other and rip each other’s legs off to your heart’s content. However, throw a female into the fray and it seems to change the dynamics a bit. When I am racing with the guys, they don’t quite know what to do with me.
As I snake my way through the field, brushing an arm here, squeezing through a spot there my presence is met with both surprise and disdain. I have to admit I do enjoy the surprised exclamations I get when I sneak my way into a spot a few wheels up the field that is too small for some of the bigger guys to get into, but it seems that some of the guys are less than pleased to see me moving up the field.
It is kind of annoying to be dogged around a field by someone who seems to be pissed of by my very existence. Yes I am a chick. Yes I am racing in your field, please get over it. Fighting me for a wheel like your manliness depends on it when we are fifteen back and there are four laps to go is a bit silly, but by all means, establish your dominance by squeezing me off that wheel! You are doing me a service, as my petticoats could get caught in the chain, and if I crashed, my embroidery would go untended for weeks. Seriously guys.
For me, racing with the dudes is kind of like racing next a bunch of bulldozers. I could be plowed over and buried in the ground at any given moment. Touching wheels with a woman of comparable size to you is slightly different than touching wheels with a guy that looks twice your size. For this reason I try to stay clear of tussles and wheel-bumpers who would seek to drive me towards another illicit affair with the pavement. Ah, pavement, we have met several times before. Our rendezvous have been short and intense and I think we both left each other with lasting impressions. Me, with the imprint of your love along my leg and forearm, you, with pieces of my skin that I had bestowed upon you. However our love was merely a tryst, as we are from different houses, I cannot, and do not want to see you again.
It’s not all mud-flinging and shit fights, however. Some dudes take it with a grain of salt, pulling through after I jump to catch the break, letting me rotate in on a hard pull, or just generally being friendly.
“Are you that girl that crushed the elite ‘cross field last season?”
“What? Um, no.”
“Really? Because you’re pretty strong.”
“Dude, are you asking her out on a date?”
In the end we are all here for the same reason. We’re here to race bikes. That’s why I’m here, that’s why you’re here. So dudes, don’t mind me if you see me in your field. I want the same things you want: to have some fun, and crush some souls.
See you next weekend.
