gnat23
11-24-2009, 08:45 AM
How would my life be different if I had less fear?
That was the thought that shot between my ears the instant I touched the brakes. I felt my front wheel jack-knife to the right over the top of the dirt rise, sawing my chain ring into the peak, which resulted in both body and bike (still connected at the shoes) skidding sideways back down the muddy approach.
I cursed, maybe not silently, as I watched my red-and-white prey disappear around the corner.
She was in third place. I had overtaken her a lap back and, with the podium in my sights, I had eased off the throttle a bit, no longer wheezing for want of oxygen. Then my bike ground to a halt in the trenched approach to the run-up and I crashed in slow-motion, coating my right side with mud. I felt her gravity as she zipped around me on the steep downhill, taking advantage of my brief downturn. My chest ignited. Oh no, you don't... The next lap I became primal, stalking her, wearing her down as I chased. I pushed the handlebars into the tight corners, wiggled through puddles to pass other riders, ignored the crescendo of lactic acid in my legs. I just had to keep pace for now where she was stronger, saving the last reserve fireworks to overtake her again on the uphills where I knew I had the advantage.
And then on that tiny dirt barrier, I hesitated. I recognized just enough panic to puncture my self-confidence. I braked, I crashed, and I saw my 3rd place glee clinging to her curved back as she escaped me. I limped my pride up the hill and through the finish line, accepting my 4th placement with a weak smile.
"4th place, that's great!" came most responses, but I scowled and amended that it was out of four racers, the singlespeed women that comprised my category, and we are few in number. Thus, curiously, it's a draw between a personal best and dead-effing-last place. I could have done better, but even if I did get a podium spot, the small field translated it into almost a hollow victory. If I was the only one to show up, I would have won... what exactly are we measuring at that point? That I can pay $30 to go around in circles without dying? Apparently, winning is not why I'm racing. There's something else lurking, a motivation evading my introspection as I hosed my bike off.
To be sure, I had a blast in the race. Racing in the mud was a new experience for me, and I loved every second of it. All my technique and handling was for naught as my bike chose its own lines, ate up every ounce of momentum, and flung shrapnel of cold wetness onto my face and back. At random times, I could no longer clip back into my pedals. When I did crash, twice, it was like falling sideways into a hotel bed that yielded under my shape. I felt like I was 10 years old again, splashing through puddles in my rain boots, actually trying to get as dirty as possible for the sheer spectacle of it.
My annoyance in regards to my placement even evaporated when I looked beyond my own category. Sure, I took 4th out of four in my own category (Women's SS), but when I compared my times to those of the category I typically race (Women's C), I noticed that I would have taken 4th there, too, only this time out of 8 riders. And it would have been a sprint finish for that 3rd place, by the looks of our one-second difference. What a glorious fantasy filled my mind now! I replayed the race with new eyes, new analysis.
I was still irked by the critical moments I felt that I had fouled. I should have ridden the downhill instead of walking it, I should have mounted that flat section earlier despite how crowded it was, and getting out of the saddle would have accelerated me faster out of the turns, even though the ground was uneven. Had all these techniques been in place, the crashes would not have done as much damage. I felt my hesitation at all these places every lap, fearing what could happen, and consciously taking the more conservative approach. I know for sure that my second crash was specifically because I touched the brakes, when the momentum would have probably carried me safely through.
This counter-intuitive logic drives me mental. When off-roading, it's momentum that carries you, floats you over top of dangers instead of dropping into them. When anticipating an obstacle, it helps to actually speed up in approach. My instinct of self-preservation, from deep in lizard brain, trumps this knowledge, my practice, and logic. If I could convince myself to take the chance, to not hesitate, to gun it with only the best intentions: it would probably be ok.
I'm not sure how to ease my way out of this. How do you turn off the fear gene, especially when in unknown territory? How do I try things even though there might be a high chance of failure? Especially when it comes to physical pain, how to you override the instinct of concluding the worst outcome?
That was the thought that shot between my ears the instant I touched the brakes. I felt my front wheel jack-knife to the right over the top of the dirt rise, sawing my chain ring into the peak, which resulted in both body and bike (still connected at the shoes) skidding sideways back down the muddy approach.
I cursed, maybe not silently, as I watched my red-and-white prey disappear around the corner.
She was in third place. I had overtaken her a lap back and, with the podium in my sights, I had eased off the throttle a bit, no longer wheezing for want of oxygen. Then my bike ground to a halt in the trenched approach to the run-up and I crashed in slow-motion, coating my right side with mud. I felt her gravity as she zipped around me on the steep downhill, taking advantage of my brief downturn. My chest ignited. Oh no, you don't... The next lap I became primal, stalking her, wearing her down as I chased. I pushed the handlebars into the tight corners, wiggled through puddles to pass other riders, ignored the crescendo of lactic acid in my legs. I just had to keep pace for now where she was stronger, saving the last reserve fireworks to overtake her again on the uphills where I knew I had the advantage.
And then on that tiny dirt barrier, I hesitated. I recognized just enough panic to puncture my self-confidence. I braked, I crashed, and I saw my 3rd place glee clinging to her curved back as she escaped me. I limped my pride up the hill and through the finish line, accepting my 4th placement with a weak smile.
"4th place, that's great!" came most responses, but I scowled and amended that it was out of four racers, the singlespeed women that comprised my category, and we are few in number. Thus, curiously, it's a draw between a personal best and dead-effing-last place. I could have done better, but even if I did get a podium spot, the small field translated it into almost a hollow victory. If I was the only one to show up, I would have won... what exactly are we measuring at that point? That I can pay $30 to go around in circles without dying? Apparently, winning is not why I'm racing. There's something else lurking, a motivation evading my introspection as I hosed my bike off.
To be sure, I had a blast in the race. Racing in the mud was a new experience for me, and I loved every second of it. All my technique and handling was for naught as my bike chose its own lines, ate up every ounce of momentum, and flung shrapnel of cold wetness onto my face and back. At random times, I could no longer clip back into my pedals. When I did crash, twice, it was like falling sideways into a hotel bed that yielded under my shape. I felt like I was 10 years old again, splashing through puddles in my rain boots, actually trying to get as dirty as possible for the sheer spectacle of it.
My annoyance in regards to my placement even evaporated when I looked beyond my own category. Sure, I took 4th out of four in my own category (Women's SS), but when I compared my times to those of the category I typically race (Women's C), I noticed that I would have taken 4th there, too, only this time out of 8 riders. And it would have been a sprint finish for that 3rd place, by the looks of our one-second difference. What a glorious fantasy filled my mind now! I replayed the race with new eyes, new analysis.
I was still irked by the critical moments I felt that I had fouled. I should have ridden the downhill instead of walking it, I should have mounted that flat section earlier despite how crowded it was, and getting out of the saddle would have accelerated me faster out of the turns, even though the ground was uneven. Had all these techniques been in place, the crashes would not have done as much damage. I felt my hesitation at all these places every lap, fearing what could happen, and consciously taking the more conservative approach. I know for sure that my second crash was specifically because I touched the brakes, when the momentum would have probably carried me safely through.
This counter-intuitive logic drives me mental. When off-roading, it's momentum that carries you, floats you over top of dangers instead of dropping into them. When anticipating an obstacle, it helps to actually speed up in approach. My instinct of self-preservation, from deep in lizard brain, trumps this knowledge, my practice, and logic. If I could convince myself to take the chance, to not hesitate, to gun it with only the best intentions: it would probably be ok.
I'm not sure how to ease my way out of this. How do you turn off the fear gene, especially when in unknown territory? How do I try things even though there might be a high chance of failure? Especially when it comes to physical pain, how to you override the instinct of concluding the worst outcome?