The win

Last week four women showed up for the Peace Coffee Two-Day Grind. Instead of allowing myself to think I would spend two nights being mercilessly lapped, I focused on the opportunity to hang in there as long as possible and challenge my endurance. Besides, my teammate leant me her fancy wheelset. I wanted to do it justice.

The first night presented a keirin and a 30-lap points race. I took fourth in both, but did not trail horrendously.  I pushed hard and held on as long as possible. I allowed myself to enjoy the pain of testing my body and felt satisfied with the efforts. Night two, however, brought the magic.

This season I have participated in a couple of handicap races. Despite being given the furthest starting position, I always end up eating someone’s dust within moments of the gun. I dread this race. On the second day of “the Grind,” it was our first number. I decided to harness whatever power lurked deep within my mind and muscles after a summer of dedicated training and unleash it. Something had to happen.

My teammate ran down to the infield to be my holder and give me a little pep talk. For once in my life my nerves fled the scene when the pressure was on. My muscles engaged. I looked straight down the track, inhaled and allowed my body and mind to focus only on that after which I hungered. And when the gun went off I grunted and muscled my standing start into a standing sprint.

Pedaling hard, I dared not look over my shoulder. I saw nothing but the blur of the track. I felt only the increasing burn in the lower half of my body. One lap down and no sign of the pack. I could hear the announcer giving the play-by-play. Two laps down. I heard him say they were still 20 meters back. It couldn’t be. People were screaming my name. “Go Jeni. Go! Go! Go!” I heard my teammate yell.

My legs ached, but I pushed harder. “You have nothing to lose by working through the pain,” I told myself. “You will be disappointed if you leave anything.” I feared they were just behind me ready to pounce. Only 250 meters to go. I would pedal until my legs gave out. I stood to sprint to the finish, waiting for the pack to fly by. They didn’t. This couldn’t be happening. The announcer called my name out in the same sentence as the word “wins.” Really?

I won. I won? I won! I had imagined what winning might feel like, but I’d never ever imagined actually pulling it off on the track, on the road or anywhere else my two wheels go.

I made a fist and pulled it in “yes.” As the doubtful thoughts crept in, I silenced them. Handicap or not, small field or not, I’d earned this one, and I would enjoy it.