Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  The Ocala women’s criterium was to be an hour, plus five laps over the 0.8 mile course. Based on the average speed of the women’s field in past races, we would probably complete about thirty laps of the rectangular shaped course that offered a scenic view of downtown Ocala: turn one had a general store called the Old Time Shoppe; turn two, a diner which may have doubled as the studio set for the 1950’s scenes of the movie Back to the Future; turn three had a misplaced-looking McDonald’s and Starbucks; and turn four was a horse feed store. Your typical downtown metropolis.

  After the crit, I used the drive time back to Tampa to bitch about the race to my friend Danny since he was my captive audience in the car for at least an hour. I am relatively new to cycling, which is the least welcoming sport in the world. Once you’re “in,” cyclists will do anything for one another. However, when a newbie shows up for a ride, they’re on their own. There is an unwritten rule in cycling which prohibits racing cyclists from initiating unknown newcomers into the sport. To compound the situation, you’re often in the middle of nowhere when you realize you suck at cycling. This is because group training rides often start on the outskirts of civilization at a leisurely warm-up speed. This pace, which an electric wheelchair could maintain, remains steady for approximately five to ten miles of winding back roads, lulling newcomers into a false sense of security. Then, once the warm-up officially reaches the middle of nowhere, the real ride begins and weaker riders are spit out the back of the fast-paced pack and left to find their way back to their cars without the benefit of a map or a draft. This welcoming attitude is only magnified in the field of women’s racing, where cattiness merges with the golden rule of cycling: “Do unto others as you have had done unto you.” I began cycling at group rides around Tampa less than a year ago and was quickly able to mix it up with the strongest men, who encouraged me to race. However, with only half of a racing season under my belt, I am still “the new girl” at Florida women’s races.

  “She’s a bitch and a cheater,” I said to Danny. I knew it wasn’t exactly true, but I was so pissed about being beaten by Brenda again that I didn’t care.

  “I’ll grant you the bitch thing, but having experience and teammates is not cheating.”

  “She has a monopoly over all of the talent in Florida and uses it to fuck me over at every opportunity.”

  “You have two teammates.”

  “I have a fifty-five-year-old woman and an eleven-year-old junior, both of whom are teammates by virtue of the fact that the same bike shop sponsors us. Neither of them has ever lasted longer than two laps, let alone offer me any sort of assistance. Brenda has six teammates, each of whom take turns attacking me, then sit up and refuse to work with me once I catch them.”

  “You’re a bad-ass, you don’t need teammates in a little Florida race.”

  “Today’s results beg to differ.”

  “What are you talking about? You did well and won a few primes.”

  “Objectively, they were the worst primes ever,” I pointed out. I won two T-shirts that were free to begin with. Someone had re-gifted their drawer of XXL blood donor T-shirts. The shirts fall below my knees, and say, “Be a Donorsaurus” and “Donate for a Porpoise.”

  “You still won the primes, it was a good race. Brenda is the queen of Florida racing and has been for twenty years. She’s not going to pass the torch to you willingly in your first few months of racing.”

  “She’s forty years old and I hope to be in her shape when I’m forty, but I kick her ass on every group ride and during some races, she has to realize that the end is near.”

  “No, you beat her on every group ride with a hill. She smokes you in the sprints each and every time. Plus, she’s still really strong. As long as she can sprint and has teammates to get her there, she’s not relinquishing her designation as top dog, especially to a new rider like you.”

  I turned on Danny who sat casually in the driver’s seat, arm out the window, trim and tanned in his shorts and white T-shirt. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re already stronger than her and you’ve not even been racing a year and you’re doing it in your spare time when you’re not doing your little gig as a lawyer. It took her five years of sucking before she got to the top and she didn’t have a full-time job. You’re making it look too easy. She’s going to go ape shit when you learn how to sprint.”

  “I was a runner before becoming a cyclist. She was a chain smoker. Besides, if I’m so worthy of jealousy, why does every other girl in Florida want to be on her team? I swear Brenda is slipping those girls some sort of tainted Gatorade because there is no other reason for them to adore her.”

  “She’s the only professional female racer Florida has ever produced. Every single one of them thinks they’re racing for Lancette Armstrong and wants to impress their team captain. Besides, she’s mercurial. Her teammates have only seen her good side and you’ve only seen her bad side. Her teammates are actually nice, they’re just being aloof with you because they’re intimidated by you and don’t want to piss Brenda off.”

  “No one is intimidated by me. Did you see her henchman ram me into the curb?”

  “Sammy is a former track rider, that’s how they ride. Scary, but legal. Tomorrow is a hilly road race. It’s more suited to you and less suited to Brenda and her teammates. You’ll be fine. Sammy’s fat ass won’t even make it over the first hill.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Relax, everyone’s fighting to be the big fish in the little sea here. Things will be better when you go pro and the women are more supportive and less threatened by you.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “They seem respectful and professional when I read interviews and post-race comments on the Internet. I want to race at the level when that happens.”

  “You will.” Danny said this matter-of-factly.

  “I’ll never be able to turn pro unless I quit my job and sell my house. A drastic move to chase a dream where even the most seasoned professional woman rarely earns a five figure-salary.”

  “You’re smart, you’ll figure something out.”

  When I got home from the race, I napped for four hours then went out for drinks with some of my friends. I am single, as I have been for most of my life, save for a few disastrous relationships and horrendous first dates. I bear a lot of the fault for this, because I want to be swept off my feet by somebody tall, dark and handsome, who is athletic, brilliant, funny, nice, rich, and lives to please me. This results in being alone for long stretches of time. In reality, I like being alone and am not interested in any of the men I meet. However, I have made a concerted effort to date more often recently because I am nearing thirty and it is clear to me that, at this rate, I will surely be alone for the rest of my life. Consequently, I have forced myself to lower my standards and agree to dates that my gut urges me to avoid. If a guy is off-the-wall brilliant, he can be slack in all other areas and becomes dateable as long as he isn’t bland, hideous, on welfare, fat, and so forth. The same theory applies if a guy is an Olympic-caliber athlete, obscenely handsome, filthy rich or ridiculously funny. As a result, I have not dated the most well-balanced men.

  Even when I think I meet “the one,” there’s always a problem. Jason preferred Friends to Seinfeld; Alex sent emails confusing to, two and too (keeping their, there and they’re straight is also very important to me); Peter kept Kosher; Dan went to church; Aiden disliked beer; Mike knew too much about wine; Matt designated Bennigan’s as a favorite restaurant; Martin went to a hair salon instead of a six dollar barber; John saved a movie stub as a souvenir because “it will be cool to show our kids someday if we get married;” Jarred had a “W” bumper sticker; Aaron went to tanning beds; Scott believed in horoscopes; Ed designated half of his refrigerator to be a reptarium for snakes; Brian preferred cats to dogs; Alex had a vanity license plate; Dave sent emails with winking smiley faces or LOL; Seth wore a bracelet and necklace; Joel shaved his chest and arm hair; Tyler used the phrase “this guac is
delish,”; Brett walked only on his tiptoes; Sean drove exactly the speed limit in the left lane on the highway; Vinny used a Band-Aid for a paper cut; Jeff parked diagonally so that no one could park near his precious car. I feel like I’m forgetting a lot. The only guy to ever dump me was James and he did so because I suck at Trivial Pursuit. Good riddance, I’m better off without that judgmental asshole.

  My friends and I went to the Dubliner, an Irish pub that sells beer by the liter. I generally drink two beers at the Dubliner, a reasonable number, but a bit excessive when you look at the size of a two-liter bottle of soda. While I was at the bar ordering my second liter, I overheard a guy quoting Tommy Boy. It was like hearing a Shakespearian sonnet. I turned around. He was tall, no ring on the left hand, two days beard growth. A little on the hairy side, but attractive enough. I finished the Tommy Boy quote for him. “Try association. Like uh…let’s say the average person uses ten percent of their brain. How much do you use? One and a half percent. The rest is clogged with malted hops and bong resin.”

  “Hi, I’m Paul.”

  “Jenna, nice to meet you. I also do Happy Gilmore, Groundhog Day, and Super Troopers.”

  “Wow, I’ve always wanted to date the female equivalent of Rainman.”

  “You found her,” I said. “I was about to buy a drink, but it would be so much more meaningful if you bought it for me.”

  Paul put my beer on his tab and we walked outside. From the conversation, I garnered that he recently moved from Minnesota to Tampa to take a job as an engineer. At some point during the night, I mentioned cycling. Paul told me that he was a cyclist too, though he stopped riding in college to play varsity rugby, the only sport more marginalized in the U.S. than cycling. At the end of the night, we exchanged numbers and gave each other an awkward hug and kiss on the cheek goodbye. We planned to go for a ride at some point the next week. It was the first time in years that I wasn’t dreading a date.

  I was a bit hung-over at the start of the road race the next morning. Fortunately, I had raced like this before and knew what to expect. The important thing is to sweat out the booze while hydrating. Once the fluids are exchanged, the carbohydrates from the beer kick in and the end of the race is smooth sailing.

  Brenda lined up next to me and spoke her first words ever directed at me.

  “You smell like a brewery.”

  She looked even shorter standing next to me than on the bike, where she is by far the worst draft of the peloton, as riding behind her is not much different than riding directly in the wind. I’m five-two and not used to looking down on anyone. Brenda couldn’t be more than four-eleven, though more filled out and muscular than me, especially in her upper body. The reason I climb so well is that my quads and hamstrings are as big as tree trunks, but the rest of me is a rail. It’s disproportionate, but perfect for having enough muscle strength to push my slight body against gravity. Brenda is built like a sprinter, but on a smaller scale. Her tiny but powerful stature is how she is able to muscle through bikes that are inches apart, and accelerate for the win.

  I had hoped her first words to me would be something pleasant like, “Hello,” but given her hostile introduction, I responded in kind.

  “Thanks, it’s my new perfume. Want some?” I said with my most charming smile as I offered her some sweat from my arm.

  “You’re fucking nasty!” she squealed.

  The maneuver wasn’t really that gross, as I didn’t actually touch her, and even if I did, she was already sweaty from her warm-up and it was only going to get worse. Florida is so hot and humid that for at least six months of the year, sweat from the rider in front of you drips onto you as you draft behind them. Three months of the year, it’s so hot that this sweat is actually refreshing.

  After the gun went off, I sat comfortably in the pack, not expending any energy. Sammy went off in the front of the pack and I let her go. The first half of the course was flat. I didn’t plan on making a move until the hills kicked in.

  When we hit the first hill, I exploded out of the pack. Not surprisingly, Brenda was glued to my wheel, getting the best possible draft. As we crested the first hill, she and I had a sizable gap on the rest of the main field, except for Sammy who was still ahead. After the descent, Brenda sat in my draft without pulling through as I pedaled into the wind through the next flat section of the course at about eighty percent effort. I had to go hard enough to distance myself from the pack of chasing girls, but not so hard that I was too tired to catch Brenda if she stopped drafting off me and tried to get away. Technically, Brenda was under no obligation to help me work by sharing the time in the wind. Her team strategy was quite straightforward and customary: helping her teammate by sitting in my draft and staying fresh. If I slowed down in order to stop giving Brenda a free ride, then the pack would catch Brenda and me as Sammy continued to put time into all of us. By continuing to chase Sammy, I was forced to do all the work while Brenda stayed fresh in my draft. The bitch of it was that once we caught Sammy, Brenda’s move would be to accelerate on her rested legs and leave me in the dust.

  While Brenda’s strategy was technically correct, it was ridiculous for her to act like a team player. First, everyone knew that Brenda would not hesitate to chase down a teammate at crunch time. Second, Brenda knew that it was only a matter of time before we caught her 150- pound teammate. When sprinting, extra weight helps, to an extent, by cranking out more wattage. However, when going up an incline, extra weight keeps you down. Sammy, weighing in at forty pounds more than Brenda and me, would never win a solo breakaway on a hilly course. Therefore, it would behoove Brenda to help me distance us from the rest of the pack, as it was a matter of time and gravity before we caught Sammy.

  By the end of the first sixteen-mile loop, I had Sammy in my sights. We scooped her up just as we passed the start/finish line for the first lap. Brenda accelerated away from me just as I expected. I was able to close the gap without much effort and within seconds, we had put fifty yards into Sammy. When Brenda finally turned around and saw me on her wheel she stopped pedaling, thereby ending my free ride and giving Sammy an opportunity to catch back up. I rode in front of Brenda and Sammy and took a long pull into the wind, then moved out of the way to give them an opportunity to contribute to keeping the pace high. Neither of them moved forward. If they just worked with me, the three of us were guaranteed to fill out the podium. However, Brenda obviously felt more comfortable letting the field catch us and winning the field sprint. I moved back in front of Brenda and Sammy and set a hard tempo pedaling into the wind. My plan was to stay ahead of the main field, but not kill myself, until the last lap. Sammy and Brenda’s other teammates were “blocking” for them in the main field, that is, setting a tempo hard enough to discourage attacks, but easy enough so they wouldn’t catch Brenda and Sammy. Thus, as long as I had Brenda and Sammy with me, their teammates were, by proxy, helping me out as well. As a result, I opted to keep my pace until the last lap, where I planned to attack Brenda and Sammy by accelerating on the first of four hills located a mile before the finish line. Essentially, I was gambling that a tired Jenna could beat a fresh Brenda on a tough course. If not, at least I’d be in second place because there was no way Sammy would make it over the steep hill at the finish with us. The alternative was to engage in a field sprint with sixty women.

  Technically, I am a fantastic sprinter in that I can accelerate quickly and hold my speed longer than most cyclists. Unfortunately, I’m terrified of field sprints. This fear is about as rational as a quarterback who is afraid of getting clobbered on every play. That is to say, completely rational, but not very practical. My phobia of field sprints originated during my first race. I had positioned myself perfectly for the sprint. At one kilometer to go I was in the draft behind two rows of cyclists. There was a hole opening on the left that I planned to charge through once I reached 500 meters to go. Unfortunately, at 800 meters to go, the girl in front of me fell, taking me down with her. The only parts of me that hit the asphalt w
ere my nose and mouth. My helmet would have been really hurt if my face weren’t there to protect it. I broke my nose, lost six teeth and developed a severe bout of “Bike Tourette Syndrome;” an ailment whereby a cyclist freaks the fuck out and shouts obscenities every time they think they’re going to crash due to a scary noise or sight, such as the rustle of leaves or another cyclist’s slight deviation from a straight path. I’ve trained myself to stop freaking out, but still fear mixing it up in bunch sprints.

  But now my gamble worked, just barely. I charged the first of the four hills just before the finish line at ninety-five percent effort and relaxed during the descents. On the fourth hill, which was the steepest, I stood up and sprinted as hard as possible. I looked behind me as I went over the hill and noticed a gap between Brenda and me. I rode down the hill and to the finish line as fast as I could, pumping my legs and also moving the bike back and forth beneath me with my arms for extra power. Brenda used all of her strength to get back onto my wheel, but she ran out of road before she could swing around me for the win. She punched her arm in the air in frustration, which is as big a temper tantrum as one can throw while sitting on a bike traveling at over forty miles an hour.

  Immediately after my race ended, I started racing Danny’s thirty- plus master’s age group race. It was the last race of the season, so there was no need for me to tack on extra miles, but it was a nice day and I was on a high from my race. I’m not thirty years old yet, but the race organizers allow women to race the men’s age-group categories up to ten years beyond their age. Since turning thirty last year, Danny alternates between racing with the local pros or racing with the age groupers, depending on which race is more convenient for his schedule. Calling thirty-plus racers “Masters” is absurd, as they are in their prime and nearly as fast as the pros.