Omloop Van Borsele

I’m laying in bed sore and exhausted trying to digest everything that happened. Trying to make sense of it, trying to justify the craziness of a european race. Trying to learn from so many mistakes, trying to figure it out, because I have to try again tomorrow.

My first race ever- Omloop Van Borsele. After a two hour drive, we sat around the usa cycling van and waited. I tried not to panic but it was hard not to. I was surrounded in a blur of foreign words and foreign kits. Although it was a small race- only a UCI 1.2, some big teams were here. After sign in, I rolled to the start with the other USA girls.... and we lined up at the front. I tried not to laugh. Starting front row, almost center, at my first euro race ever seemed absurd.

I can only go backwards from here.

After 40 minutes of waiting at the line, foreign words were shouted and a gun went off. Clip in. Elbows everywhere. Sprint! Brake! That panicky, familiar smell of burning brakes and skidding tires! I fought to stay at the front the best I could. It was a constant battle, as everyone said it would be. I didn’t have the skill the other girls seemed to for moving up through gaps, but I tried my best. No time to rest, even mentally.

We rounded a corner, still only 10k into the race when- SLAM.

I was on the ground.

shit. I

grabbed my bike. Broken shifter. Don’t panic. I put up a hand and waited for the USA car in the caravan. The mechanic jumped out and ran towards my bike, shouting something I couldn’t understand. He unlatched a spare bike from the roof and threw it at me. I jumped on. It felt foreign. My own bike, as anyone whos ever ridden a bike knows- feels like something I can understand. This new one felt bulky and strange. The seat was too long. The top tube too long. The bars too wide. Shimano shifters

How do these work again?

The caravan whipped past me. Dust blew into my eyes, the hot Holland sun baked into the back of my neck. Suddenly, after just barley starting the race, I was alone and off the back. Crashed, already. I felt like crying.

For a second, I think about quitting. But then what? Ride 10k on race day?

Don’t be stupid. I'm in Holland. Racing my bike. Get real.

So I do the only thing I can do. I reach down into the drops, extended further than I can reach on this foreign bike, and ride as hard as I can. Might as well give it all- even if I am off the back.

Riding up through the caravan is intense- something I’ve never done before- but the cars expected it, letting me draft behind them, recovering, before jumping up to the next car.

I see the USA car up ahead and yell out that my seats way to low on this other bike. The mechanic hangs out the window and motions for me to ride up next to the car.

Oh crap. They’re gonna fix it as we ride. OH crap.

Nervously, I take my left hand off the bars and reach for the car. The mechanic hangs out the window with a tool and starts loosening my seat bolt.

OH crap. oh crap. oh crap.

The other cars in the caravan fly up the right, which was especially terrifying because the entire road was the width of a bike path. When the mechanic lets me go with a push, it takes everything I have to ride up through the final cars in the caravan and make the gap to the back of the field. Exhausted, mentally and physically, and with over 100k left of racing. Everyone was right, it IS extemely difficult and different racing over here.

The field whipped around a couple tight corners, the tree line dissapeared, and the Holland winds began to cut through the field. Gaps started to open, and after chasing back on I was almost DFL. The race was still stung out, completely guttered (I’ve never raced a race that was acutally guttered like this, especially sitting 200 girls back from the front on the road the size of a bike path) As gaps opened and girls sat up, it was a constant fight to keep finding a wheel that wasn't going backwards.

This spare bike felt foreign. It was a battle to put it where I wanted, not seamless, not intuituvly like my bike. But I was so, so relieved to be back in the field.

That is until- I look up and see a wheel skidding in front of me. Brakes lock up. Forigen voices yell and I can’t reach the brakes to stop in time.

Endo, again. This crash hurt both my body and ego much worse than the first.

Who crashes TWICE in their first euro race ever? The caravan whips past- again- blowing up a cloud of dust that stung my eyes with defeat. Just behind me I see a “small” field of about 50 dropped girls riding up. I jump on and- miraculaously- we bridge up to almost the back of the field. I guess that’s what racing is about here- not giving up. Creating multiple chances for yourself. I burry myself again to try to reach the back of the field, and when I do those damn Holland cross winds cut through the strung out field AGAIN. This time it was too much for me. The pace was too fast to move up, and I burnt everything I had chasing onto the back too many times. I rode the rest of my race with a group at the back of maybe 40 riders.

I learned alot already. But I didn't give up. It's a small little light in such a bad race. These races are unbelievably hard and I made alot of mistakes. I have alot more to learn.

Listen up, girl. There’s music in these memories.