t’s not really a rainbow.
The colors are all wrong.
Unless you ride bikes.
Because then this, the jersey of a current world champion, is beautiful. Almost mythical. Or at least that’s how I felt in the presence of the rainbow bars.
The colors are so confident. The strength within the lines radiate, emitting such much dedication, determination, yet are worn with such grace. My fingers tremble. So close to the rainbow jersey. Probably the closest I’ll ever be. So close I could touch it....
She turns around. There I'm standing. Creepy, weird. Looking more like a stalker than a competitor
(which, in reality, is probably true)
Luckily, she doesn’t even notice me.
And so, the tone for the week was set. Creepy, weird. The only ways to describe what became a memorable race, to say the least.
The six stage race begins with a 6 mile prologue. It’s a hard course, though fairly straight forward- out and back with a .5 mile climb up to the finish. The climb’s actually shorter than a half mile, but the false flat at the top is killer. Once again, nothing “aero” was allowed which was a bummer because 1) A TT bike makes me feel like a fighter pilot, regardless of how slow I may be going and 2) A TT bike the race feel special. I rode as hard as I could, and despite rain leaving the course partially submerged in puddles, I went a little bit faster than last year to finish 33rd.
Stage one- That evening we had an hour crit. The course was 5 corners and had lots of fake brick. If you race you know how slick fake brick can be. When wet it's like hitting an entire banana peel road of Mario Kart... if you play mario kart.
And so, of course, it poured.
To add to the craziness, a Taylor Swift concert was taking place at a building practically on course. Warming up we dodged the two worst kind of drivers- cyclists and 16 year old girls (I can say that- I once belonged to the center of that venndiagram in that horrible marriage of aggressive driving and distraction)
The race itself was fast and fun but not without a good deal of carnage. As nerve wracking as a fast, wet brick course with random crashes was, I was thankful to not have been an official responsible for scoring the race, or the neutral support guys who pushed in from the pits 3/4 of the women’s field. Twice.
Stage two. The next day brought a 65 mile road race. I woke up not feeling great, but figured it was just an adrenaline hangover from the craziness of the day before. Fast race, fun race, had to switch a wheel a couple miles before the dirt road into the circuits and couldn’t get back up to the field. Rode in with a couple girls and we at least made the time cut.
And then the real adventure began.
That night brought no sleep and lots of sickness. Without going into details, my race was over before the fourth race. Defeated, my initial thought was to get better overnight, take the bus home, and race the remainder of Dairyland.
Plans are for wussies.
The bus station was grimy. Even the air was- it crawled into my lungs, thick and curdling with germs and empty tickets. I opened the door to a fluorescent, crowded lobby. People lined the walls, huddled over their bags, shifty eyes guarded against sticky fingers and last chance bus tickets.
I walk up to the counter and try to explain that I need to get on this next bus to Milwaukee.
Yes, the 4:30 one. Yes I know I’m late-
I know it’s not your problem but, please, and-
Nothing.
When is the next bus?
9 pm? My hopes crush a little bit. In five hours? I guess I can wait.
The man smiles.
I'm sorry, that bus is sold out as well.
Sold out. I want to tell him I'll sit anywhere. I lay in the aisle for six hours. I'll sleep beneath the bus with the bags if I have to. It can't be sold out.
The man, seeing my wound opening, ran to grab a salt shaker. "There isnt a bus tonight. Nothing, not one to anywhere."
He walks away. Crushing hope must be the one perk of being a Greyhound employee.
So as the day changed from racing bikes and living dreams to having them smashed onto the sticky floor of the bus station, I realized I needed a plan.
Another adventure.
So there's no bus home. Not today at least. How about tomorrow?
It begins to storm outside. The homeless, the drunk, the vagrants, thedrugged all fill the station. They lay out on seats, propping their up their feet, making camp. People pour in from a bus that just arrived. The cloying heat of the station begins to reek.
I look up the bus schedule and find an early morning escape.
1am, 8 hours from now. Arriving in Milwaukee at 6:30 am.
I’ll take it.
Time passes quickly and 1 am finally rolls around. Glassy eyed and exhausted, we line up and hand over our tickets. I grab a window seat at the back and try to get comfortable. Next stop: Milwaukee.
Behind me, a boy whispers into his phone, “no I ain't worried. I got family everywhere. I’m not worried about anything.” A deep breath. The bus pulls away from the station. Goodbye Minnesota.
At 6:40 am the bus pulls into Milwaukee. The city silhouetted against the morning fog, seagulls screeching in the new day. Stiff, exhausted, sick, the bus wakes up. We get off. The outside air is fresh. Blue skies. Tranquil and quiet. For the first time in what feels like years, I’m surrounded by people who aren’t hallucinating, stealing the free warmth of a bus station.
Then everything sounds like a bicycle. The chain spinning, the gears shifting, reconizable even in this groggy state.
Two guys ride by on carbon road bikes, colorful team kits, spinning legs. People around me watch them too. And it's like looking into another world, my own world, had I not gotten sick, had I finished the race, had a hundred things happened that didn’t or did.
Dark clouds roll in from the west and the new day is changing. How long had these clouds waited, drifting across the sky, building taller and taller until they could rain on Milwaukee? If I wasn’t up this early, I wouldn’t have seen the change. I couldn’t have seen the blue sky before the storm. I couldn't have known that beneath those clouds, it was really beautiful all along.
It’s always an adventure.
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