Carry On

Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice, but, to carry on.

AFM Round Four at Thunderhill. An average turn out for Formula AFemme. Joy, me, Zoe, Jenn, Bess, Lisa Wallace, Sara, Lisa Kinberger, and Tracy, in that run order.

I don’t usually write race reports because my love life is so intertwined with my racing efforts that I can’t separate the two, and people want to read race reports, not maudlin accounts of how Randolph and I are getting along. It’s like the oil in the gulf; they can’t pull the oil out of the water because it’s too finely intermingled. I did hear they might try lighting a match to the goopy gunk and just burn it all away, and some days, I sometimes feel like that might work for me too.

I will say, though, that I am positively thrilled with my result in the race. Sure, I would have liked to be closer to Joy, but she is just so damn fast right now it’s silly. I made it through turn one in second place, trying to hang with Joy for as long as I could, but by turn six she was very rudely leaving me in the dust to fend for myself. A short while after, that pesky Zoe passed me somewhere. She is fun to follow; her body language is so very determined. She hangs off that bike a bit like a koala bear clinging to a branch of bamboo, but, like, with the bamboo traveling at a hundred miles an hour.

She gapped me by about a half a turn and we held that distance for most of the race. I kept hoping the lappers would help an old lady out by blocking the young Miss Rem, but each group we sliced through I found myself still the same distance behind.

Until the last lap! I knew that I would be disappointed in myself if I got back to the pits knowing that I didn’t give it my all, so each turn I came to I held my throttle pinned open longer than before, waiting until I was truly scared shitless and then braking heroically (I recently told Stacy Menas that this kind of braking feels like bench pressing a hippo) into turns 9, 10, 11, and then by turn 14 I was right up on Zoe’s ass. I was actually really scared that I was going to hit her between 14 and 15, but I didn’t back off because I knew that if I did I’d lose any shot I had at beating her to the line.

So I kept my eyes up on that inside apex of 15, got on the gas as early and hard as I could, drafted her for a second and then catapulted ahead of her just in time for her to look sideways to see the cold hard truth.

This victory, oh so very minor, for a second place trophy (ahem – picture frame) in an amateur women’s motorcycle race, is so small in the context of the universe and oil spills and sick grandfathers and faltering love lives and terrible crashes and injuries, but for a very brief moment I felt that rush of adrenaline that made me feel like a superhero. It was dope, like Eugene, Randoph’s mechanic, explained to a few Granzellas patrons Sunday night as we were having dinner.

I’m quite sure I’ll be on the negative end of such a race someday, and I’ll fully expect my girl rivals to gloat and be happy and I’ll be happy for them too. Because, like always, I’m their biggest fan and they inspire me every day. Although I don’t have as much time to share their victories as I’d like, so for now, it’s just going to be me and the occasional #958 race report.

Later bitches…love you all.

xoxo
Christie