Maternity Leave Read Free

Swingline. It is not until later, when claiming your two dollars and a pencil, that you think, why did I sprint for that crap?
    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