September 26, 2006
Guest Blogger
Multi tasking as usual, Ellen Lahr swings around a corner in the Josh Billings RunAground while waving to her son, Matt. In front is Barbara and just behind Scarlett. Photo by Tynan Whalan.
Ellen Lahr was born to write and race. Ellen, 46, a Berkshire Eagle reporter who started riding three years ago, is my first guest blogger. Her subject: the 30th annual Josh Billings RunAground on Sept. 17.
In the race photo, I am leaning left on the red bike, red-helmet, yellow shirt, right hand raised, head turned, waving at Matthew, as we raced through the West Stockbridge Village, the detour of the year, a hard right, hard left, hard right. Matt is smiling, one of his real smiles. A few seconds earlier he might have said, “Here comes Mom!”
I am now behind Barbara, who has thunder thighs, and who had left me behind two miles earlier. Behind me is Scarlett, who helped me catch Barbara before we hit the village, where I knew the boys would be. Matt, Ty, John _ the ex-husband _ and Kate _ the fiance.
There they are, all lined up outside the bakery, at precisely my predicted arrival, 10:30, 15, 16 miles into the 27 mile race, I am heading straight at them before I turn. John must have the camera. Hundreds of bikers passed me on that first defining hill, but here I feel like I have arrived, though 11 miles remain, and a long, languid hill, the first of three between here and the finish, looms around the corner.
But the horrid climb up Alford’s West Road is behind me. I was rewarded with that glorious curving decline on West Center, around the edge of a farm field, a curve where some riders hit their brakes in caution. The trick is to take it not wide, not tight, but tight enough to gather acceleration for the flat that follows. I shout at myself as the road levels and I am flying. My chain slipped here two years ago and I lost my group, but caught them.
This time there were six of us women for several miles through Alford _ strangers _ though I’ve picked up the names of Barbara and Scarlett and learned enough about their speed to know I should stick with them even if my legs burned like fire, if I want to finish close to last year’s time. There’s a glorious moment when we are all breathing hard, and I realize I have been chasing fast male riders for three years, and that I have never had the joy of riding with women who crack jokes, yell cowgirl cheers, and swear and yell encouragement and caution. I am on a temporary team, and I was never a team sport kid. We have shouted each other up the hills, organized ourselves as packs _ leaders and followers _ for miles.
“Good job, good job,” I hear, I say.
Scarlett is from Boston and wears a scarlet floral vest. Barbara is from Hancock, and watched her friend Monique go down on the first big downhill of the race. When we passed Monique she was splayed out on the road face down, crying fiercely, which I took as a good sign.
“That was my friend!” Barbara said to me as we continued downhill. Her voice was shaking, like she thought she should perhaps stop and go back.
“And she’s good, she’s so good, she’s an hour and 20, and she keeps saying, “I’m not so good,” Monique said.
“I’ll ride with you to Alford,” I said to her, for her and for me. She was strong. I could stay in her draft. I could distract her, keep her going.
At Alford Town Hall, we picked up a group and kept hauling north on the sharp short climbs, brief downs and rolling flats, which never fully give way to high speed, even in a group. A man ended up with us, and I teased him when I had a breath.
“You know you could probably get a date about now,” I told him.
“I hate this part,” Barbara was saying. We are approaching two nasty final hills on West Road. Barbara surged ahead, and Scarlett and I held out together. Atop the last one, where if I am going to quit, this it the spot, we turned left onto another rise, and I lagged back, trying to regroup, regain strength. Somewhere on that stretch our group spread out, stretched out, like a band, and I fought to catch Scarlett. She’d let on that it was her first ride of the year at one point, and I thought, hell, I must be sucking right about now, but she kept going. Once I lose a leader too badly, I give up, throw in the towel. Or I hit the gas, to close the gap.
When I hit Route 102, cops had stopped traffic for us.
“Thanks,” Scarlett said, as she said to nearly ever traffic stopper we passed It was the first time I would check my clock: 15 miles, 50 minutes. I reported this to Scarlett. We agreed this was good, though I knew my pal Steve would be closing in on the final climbs right about now . . . hitting the finish, a full 30 minutes ahead of me.
I knew my boys were up ahead, watching, and I hit the cell phone redial to Ty, to let him know I was coming to the village.
“Let’s catch Barbara,” I said to Scarlett as we flew down a hill,” and we caught her.
On the other side of the village comes a sharp, slowing rise, then the long Route 102 Hill, the joy of which is its downhill side. Local bikers agree that this hill is a steady, straight, slow climb where you drop your head, breathe, don’t look up. And when you do, you’ll see the top, and it really is the top. No tricks over the rise. I tell this to Scarlett, and she’s thrilled; the route’s not familiar to her. There’s a delight in knowing every rise, every curve, every glide and wall on this course. There are no surprises. The hills that intimidated me three years ago are merely hassles, stretches I have diminished by the time it actually takes out of my life to push upward. Seven minutes? Two minutes? I know the street markers that indicate I'm near completion.
At the top of the Route 102 hill, nearly devoid of cheerleaders, I see another friend, a public defender I know, who is a powerhouse biker when he feels like it. He hollers at me. I yell at him. Then we are down, 30, 35, 38 miles per hour on a straight wide ride of delight.
We hit downtown Stockbridge, where I know my favorite police chief will be standing, in the center of town, at the monument. I yell at him, then Scarlett, to warn her of the hill ahead.
When we are in it, it feels like purgatory, burning thighs and lungs, and then, like an angel has relieved us, we’re at the top. Gaining speed back is tough: Scarlett is flagging, Barbara is long gone, and Prospect Hill is a series of lazy rises that never flatten.
When I realize she is gone, I almost want to stop, slow down, wait. But another trio is ahead, and I go for them. I find myself beside a local psychologist I’ve taken advantage of, and we are soon joking on the downhill. I pass him happily, but on that last and final hill at the Wheatleigh resort _ the single biggest complaint rise of the race _ he pulls ahead. What has happened to Scarlett? When I see that camera truck ahead _ the people who take your picture, post it on a web site and sell it for $10 _ I know I’m home. But gaining speed after the Wheatleigh hill is a tough job, even though there are people everywhere now, cheering, yelling.
I have not checked my clock since 15 miles. I have been caught up in the ride. I have not wanted to care if I just didn’t cut it this year, since I hadn’t trained as aggressively. I had almost sat out the race for want of a team. When the kayaker and runner surfaced, I revved up, but it was late _ early September. I never rode the entire course, and took only one 30 mile ride . . .
Approaching the final cop, at the final T intersection, buzzing with walkers, bikers, runners and others, I turn left and instantly am flying on that last downhill toward Stockbridge Bowl and Bianca, my high energy kayaker, who had told me I would match last year’s time. I was sure I would be the weak link in the team.
I hit it: the timer: 1:34:00. I heard myself shout. I saw my buddy Steve, walking his bike up the hill, clearly after wasting the ride, and shouted at him. He hollered back.
I pushed hard, hard, hard, to beat 1:35:00, last year’s time. A clutch of kayakers was at the line, alerted ahead of my arrival by the shouting of the team number, 274, also the first three digits of my phone number. At the last second, I remembered to unclip my feet, and Bianca had my wrist, the terry wristband, and she was gone. There was Deb, a new acquaintance, who had just preceded me. Where was Scarlett? I waited like a loyal soldier. And here came Scarlett, and she was yelling! Sam! Sam! Her husband, who appeared, and grabbed her band. She had told me this was a family thing, every year.
I told her I hated losing her on Prospect, she told me I had pulled ahead. Barbara was gone in the crowd probably, to find out about Monique. This was the ride of my life. Let’s do that again. It’s the action in my life that makes me feel most completely alive. No matter how bad the hill, since I know I will top it.
© Ellen Lahr - all rights reserved
[Our 3-woman team (most teams have four) finished 233/390, and our overall time was 3:24:00. Ellen biked 27M in 1:36:14, just a minute behind last year with less training; Bianca's 5-mile kayak time was 1:03:47, and Jennifer kicked arse with a 10K time of 44:40. Bianca has figured out how we fared against other women competitors: Ellen finished 29th of 49 female cyclists, Bianca 6th among 35 female kayakers, and Jennifer was 19th among 82 women runners! Good luck Jen in the NYC marathon! We are the champions of the world, as the photo below will show (that was the BEFORE) pic!] |
