Turkey Cross

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Man. Man. Man. Man. Man. Woman.

So let’s talk about this.  Pull up that chair.  Let me get you a tea.  Why are there so few women interested in cyclocross?  In cycling?

I am driving on a road through a small town and I make a right and then I am looking for the race and I don’t see it and I see lots of land and then.  And, then.  I see smooth motion drifting around bends, up and up and down.  I see the cyclists.  I am at the race.

I wasn’t even going to do it.  Four days before I thought, “I’m not going.  It’s too hard.”  Then my friend wrote to me.  He said something like, “Lex.  Do this race.  If you don’t you’re going to think about it all off season and you’re going to hate it and it’s going to make it harder to go back.”

So, I did it.  I got out of the car and I got on my bike and I rode through the snow and I loved it.  My breath was heavy and my lungs were fire scratched and I wanted to stop but I didn’t stop.  I finished.  I finally fucking finished a fucking race.

I came in last, but I don’t care.  It’s not about podiums; it’s not about being the best.  Not right now anyway.  Right now, it’s about doing it. 

So, why did I go?  Did I do it because my male friend told me to go?  No, but that support helps.  A lot.

You know why I did it? 

There’s these two kids at the race.  They’re dressed up like monkeys and they’re handing out bananas. One’s a girl.  One’s a boy.

“You want a banana?”  She calls. 

“I do but I’m not going to take it!  Thank you though.”

The little girl looks at me.  I look her in the eye.

I do it because I want that girl to see women using their bodies as motion, as might, as force.  I want her to grow up and say to herself, “I could do that.  I could totally do that.”

That’s why I did it. Image

 

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