The Dirt Field

I now have the race results needed to officially the upgrade to pro through USA Cycling.

So totally weird. Three years ago I was racing in board shorts and a cotton tank top on a bike that could have doubled as an anchor for an oceanliner. Now I live on nothing but gelatinous energy products and coffee and my bike is made out of starlight and dental floss – unwaxed, of course, because that wax really adds on the weight. I also track every morsel of food that crosses my lips using an app on my iPhone that makes me feel neurotic and yet so dedicated to my sport, and I attend private Pilates lessons with a man who wears ballet slippers and enjoys pain. Well, my pain at least.

It has been quite a journey to get to this point, moving from category to category in my quest to become a pro-level racer. I have spent so many hours riding back and forth on small stretches of the W&OD Trail doing intervals that I’m pretty sure I own part of it through squatter’s rights. You wouldn’t believe the looks I get from people as I sprint by them, gasping for air while hunched over my bike like I’m trying to take flight. They look at me like I’m crazy and I want to be like YOU try sprinting up and down this freaking hill ten times as hard as you can and then see how stupid and ugly YOU look.

Don’t worry. I always say “on your left” as I pass. Sometimes it comes out as a faint gasp and sometimes, if a person has made the selfish mistake of thinking they own the entire path, it comes out as “On your LEFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT!” but it always comes out in some form. Getting to this point in my racing career has made “on your left” and “my bike is making this weird noise” the two phrases I have probably said more in my life than anything else.

Now I get to start an entirely new challenge, the task of moving from being a bottom-feeder in the pro field to winning the World Championships. The good news is that with the HUGE pool of pro women that show up at local races, I’m practically guaranteed to take home a cash prize as long as I can drag my bike across the finish line in some manner. And after all, that’s why we all do this sport, right? The fat stacks of cash are too hard to pass up.

Well, I guess there is one other perk to being a world-class pro rider. The other day, while hanging around with some racers and talking saddles, somebody mentioned that a famous pro man was nursing a really bad cyst on his ass. And I’m thinking to myself, “Aww, Linds! Someday you TOO can be famous enough that people stand around and talk about what’s happening in your shorts.” A girl can dream.