Cycling Blogs - Kathryn LaPointe

Reason number 12 to race singlespeed: if you have to change multiple flats duiring a race, putting the rear wheel back on is MUCH easier than when there's a derailleur in the way.

I wrote on my previous blog that I wanted to put in my cleanest, fastest, best effort. I did. Maybe it was because of teammate Steve's chanting mandala blessing, or maybe the multudinous Colorado stars were aligned the right way, or maybe it was just time for that to happen.

However. The ride-of-my-life speed and skill convergence only applied to when I was actually riding the bike, not when I was fixing it.

Even the pros began calling the starting hill "The Wall." Before my race this morning, I tried it in my new gear. Twice. Smooooooooth. My legs felt great, my lungs had forgiven me for hauling them up from sea level, and risking the allergy pill made me feel less sneezy but not sleepy.

Tweeeeeeet. I and the five other gearless girls take off up the hill.

Click.

What's that?

Click.

Huh, that feels oddly like my chain slipping off the teeth. Funny that, since I ditched the cogset months ago. Can't be that.

Click.

Off goes the chain, and away go the other women.

Didn't I switch to singlespeed to avoid this exact problem?

I tried to put it back on, but it refused to cooperate.

I earnestly try not to do this, but I swore very, very loudly. Ran back down to the start looking for one of the team guys. No one. Turned around and started running the bike up the hill. Many helpful people yell at me, "just put the chain back on!" Thanks, I think I'll try that.

Running up The Wall hurt way more than riding it would have, I know this because I had ridden up it twice, already, that morning, and I pretty much gave up running for biking because I hate running and why am I now running up an enormous hill and pushing a bicycle? At the National Championships? Why?

Because for some reason, the installation of my new rear cog made the bottom bracket unhappy, so it took its bolts and went home. Or something. Kerry, team manager, screwed it back together for me at the top.

Eight minutes gone. The entire field of geared women gone, too.

Ok, we're done here.

Since I doubted I'd be able to catch my group, I contented myself with chasing down all the women on shifter bikes. And some guys, too. Ooooh, this is kind of fun.

Being so far back was oddly relaxing, so I settled in, churned up the hill, and flew down the technical section. Got lots of happy cheers from the crag vultures for my successful negotiation of the Shake and Bake drop. (If you fall there, everyone knows it, because you are powder coated with fine black silt.)

Started the second lap, feeling better than ever, and was on track to beat my time on the first one, even factoring out the bracket disassemblage.

Passed more people going up, thank you ever so much, 22 teeth back there.

Wooo hooo, down we go, baby.

Yeah, no.

My rear tire suddenly ceased working. I tried to change it. My pump broke apart into two pieces. Way too long later, I started off again.

And flatted, again.

Since I had abandoned my first tube, all I had left was a flat spare and some patches. I've never patched a tire. I ran the bike for a while, thinking things over.

Sit down again and figure it out or, Kathryn, RUN a few more miles, in expensive hard plastic shoes designed only for turning pedals over.

I sat. I cried. I found the holes. I patched the holes. A singlespeeder named Sherman was stranded nearby also, and I loaned him my pump (which a pedal-less hiking kid had put back together for me)? and he put my tire back?on for me.

By now, though, my legs were cold, my water bottles empty and my morale lost in the duff a ways back.

Aren't I done yet?

I somersaulted down the drop, earning cheers at the same volume, but with a slightly different tone.

Which annoyed me just enough to ditch the self pity and start riding again.

I was pretty thankful for the three cups of cold Gatorade the guys handed me when I finished. I was thankful that I finished. I'm thankful to have gotten to be at this race, at all.

And I did ride really well. But clearly need to work on tire changing. Clearly.

Deducting the repairs would put me in 4th place. Except I'm in sixth or, more accurately, last.

Like the MMA fight I watched the other night, I feel like the fighter that got pummelled but kept getting back up. The winner of that fight was named Cowboy. He wasn't billed to win, but did so through superior preparation.

Kudos for getting back on the bike, and finishing at all, are momentarily soothing. But next time, next time, I want to be Cowboy.

Next time.

Wouldn't that be nice? If I got a next time?