Life is Good

The day began with promise. We were off to a race. The endless list of must-take-with-us stuff had been checked and rechecked. (Remind me to re-write that list!) The sun was shining, and the mercury read 58 degrees Fahrenheit. Not bad for the last weekend in May in Pennsylvania. But there were omens.

Normally late, we have been the first ones to the team’s rally point at the bike shop. No big deal; the others were on the way. Once there, one teammate quips, "I got my money to register from the ATM this morning and I have $24 left to my name. It is a very good day!" We laugh. We all pile into the four-wheeled distance machines, and soon the team caravan, of two vehicles, is off. With my digital camera in the hands of my kid’s girlfriend, I expect lots of good pics. She’s a medal-winning swimmer (that’s how they met – the kid and the girlfriend) and a state champion horsewoman. She knows the value of good sports pics. She understands competition but is new to cycling. We prepare her for the "buns parade." I have my tape recorder and have scrounged up some paper and a pen. I am in search of a race story.

Our caravan arrives. The rest of the team straggles in. Our team kits are red, white, and blue. Most team members are donning this year’s new kit. (Let’s see, how does one explain chamois cream to a teammate’s girlfriend? "Uh, it helps the chamois to stick to you to prevent friction so the shorts can rub against the chamois and not against you. . ." Maybe.) At least one racer will ride in last year’s kit. The conversation does a detour to the relative merits of speedos and kits. The non-verbals are priceless.

Chamois cream – Ben explains chamois cream while Benj demonstrates application technique. Photo by Louise Fink Smith. Click for larger image.

Fast forward to the race. We have arrived before registration is even there. The first race is a category 4/5 criterium of 17 laps on a 1.5 mile industrial-park, closed-road course with a wicked uphill finish. (I routinely do 11% on the treadmill in the gym and that finish today was at least 11% to the finishing line, and it got worse after the line!)

They are lined up. The race official is giving the customary and not-so-customary instructions. Several were recorded in anticipation, but one still rings in my ears – "Stay away from the right side of the road each time you cross the finishing line. There is a wicked storm grate with a pothole just beyond it on the right side of the road."

They are off. And the race official mutters as he walks back to the tent, "Already off to a bad start. . ." I have no explanation.

As I look around, surreal awareness wakens me to the realization that there are more racers than there are spectators. What a lonely experience for a lone rider, I think, as I cheer for everyone crossing and recrossing that line – and for those who pulled off the course. Soon, we are all cheering for everyone, even the ones who will never hear their names called from the sideline.

Notes were taken but have been cast aside as this is the story I didn’t intend to write.

During the race, I am answering the photographer’s (aka "girlfriend") first-race questions. "What does ‘a lap for a mechanical or flat’ mean?" "How can they ride so close together?" "Is it really a good idea for them to be cleated to the pedals?" "What happens if they fall?" Surprisingly, or maybe not, I know the answers.

No prems – ack – seemingly little incentive to work early in the race. One guy did take off on a solo break and had a 20-second gap to the main field for a few laps. A turn opens for some men in orange to be in front for a while. Are we in the Pyrennees? The team in vivid blue with the David Millar look-alike is right there in front for a while as well. (I had their permission to publish photos, even; they had parked next to our team caravan. I never did get a chance to tell their tall man he reminded me of DM.) Then the team with the Kelme-look-alike kits has their turn in front. For two laps, the senior team members in our colors are even mixing it up in the pace-setting places. Ah, there is the kid – his second race since the accident. (The worst day of my life was the day the call came telling me Benj’s body had been shattered in a high-speed, head-on collision in the Rocky Mountains.) His fourth race ever. He is riding in last year’s kit.

Next lap, the 8th, the girlfriend and I are searching the pack for the kid, for last year’s kit. We can’t find him. We see the rest of the team right there toward the front, but no kid. No last year’s kit. Then, the sun glints off a red helmet – in front of the race, not off the front, but clearly a half-bike length ahead of anyone else. Nearly passed us entirely without us even seeing him. He has crossed the finishing line first for the lap! (Believe me, as a totally impartial spectator, I felt like I was watching a stage win by an enduro domestique racer in an uphill sprint win in the TdF!!) And no picture. The girl friend didn’t understand the fluidity of a bike race. Next race, I do the camera! And she takes dictation!!

For the rest of the race, it is denouement for the mom in me. Other colors are in lead each lap. Perceptions are dutifully recorded. Impressions are digitally captured. Notes are taken. By the wanna-be writer and the aspiring photogragher. Finally, the race officials and the amateur photographer are setting up the cameras for the photo finish. My pen is poised to capture it all. Where is the ticker? Where is the race announcer? I think this is like landing at an uncontrolled airport. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t really tell the racers apart. They wore only one number on the left side of the jersey. I was on the right (or wrong) side of the couse.

All too soon, the race is over for the first five or so in the pack – no one soloed across the line. In less time than it takes to wonder if they will do a cool down lap, it happens.

One rider is down. A second is flying through the air. This second rider is down very hard. "GO RIGHT!! GO RIGHT!!" The race official is screaming at the pack. He is trying to shoo them toward the right curb. The spectators are gasping. Thankfully, no more go down. How the rider down makes it off the roadway and onto the grass is beyond me. Did he fly there or crawl there? Was he dragged there? What? WHAT?? Something is terribly wrong. What? WHAT??

The colors that are writhing in the gound, does anyone claim them? It’s not the orange that reminded me of the Pyrennees. It’s not the look-alike colors of Kelme. It’s not the bright blue with the Cofidis clone. But there is something very familiar yet very new about those colors. Please tell me this isn’t one of the racers with no one here for him. Why isn’t there a race official or medic going to his assistance. I can hardly see anything. He is on the left side of the road, and I am a continent away on the right side of the road. Oh my God. It is my team’s colors. This field is only less than 60 riders, but it seems like there are 6000 riders between me and our rider down. Finally, there is someone with him.

Where are the medics? I answer my own question – there are none.

I finally make it to him. It is Ben – the "Other Ben" on the team. I find no comfort in that. My paltry first aid training is all this kid has going for him right now – that and his conditioning and any prayers. Then I realize it is the girlfriend with him; she had made it through the bikes and bodies. She is at his feet. I find myself at his head. His left shoulder and arm are strangely still as he writhes. But he is conscious and does not want an ambulance. I wonder if it is because he only has $24 to his name. He is almost as old as his bank account is large. I am not dealing with a minor, just a bloodied and possibly broken body.

The next race starts, and we are still on the grass. His kit has no pockets so he had no dorsal fin bottles. Just as there was nothing but skin suit between him and the pavement, there is nothing but skin suit between him and the grass. I have covered him to ward off the chill with a towel. He sits up and goes back down. His feet point up that incline. His skin suit is in shreads. Blood seems to be everywhere, but none is spurting or flowing. "What rubber gloves?" I think to myself, relegating my first aid training to second nature – this is my "Other Ben." What is this brown stuff that is everywhere in addition to the blood. Second nature or not, I think, Where is this brown stuff coming from? Has he pierced some internal organ? Gray matter is gray; his helmet worked. This brown stuff is not gray matter. But what is this stuff coming out from under his clothes on his left thigh? I see road rash and significant minor lacerations, but no subcutaneous structures. Thank goodness I didn’t have scissors, or he might not had had the limited benefit of his skin suit. Why can’t I get a pulse – wait a minute – he is talking. "Relax," I actually say out loud, probably more to myself than to him or to anyone else.

I beg a fresh bottle of water from the race officials. (I won’t use the water from the bottle I have drunk from unless I absolutely have to.) They are busy running a race. They seem to be saying they don’t have much water. Do they mean they don’t have enough to share? "I have plenty in the car and can replace what I use," I say. Then I realize they are apologizing that their water is mostly frozen. Eventually, he is sitting up and asking about his bike. Movement is coming back to the left side of his body. Then he notices the brown goo and sinks back to the ground the way a captive balloon delates. And what is this bulge at the outside thigh of his right leg? About the same time, we each realize the brown goo is from his energy packet. It burst on impact – airbag fashion. He had tucked the energy packets up his pants legs since there were no pockets. "My air bag, the goo pack," he says. I laugh. At that point, I realise I will survive. He is not doing too poorly by then himself, and he laughs at his own joke.

He is up now – his hoods are bent in, but his wheels and frame still seem true. The rest of the team has joined us now. And they are cracking the macho jokes. They ride gingerly back to the cars, retracing the uphill to the finishing line. I return the unused "official" water. The girlfriend and I recross the road. She is somber. I am shaking. I will myself not to think about what might have been and not to think of the other accident. I do not mention how easily feet come out of the the pedals in an accident. I cannot imaging how Beloki felt, but I have seen see the looks of his teammates in the eyes of Other Ben’s teammates. We gather our stuff and head back for cars. We took no pictures save for the ones in our memories. – the ones that never fade.

Again, Other Ben won’t let us even take him to a rest room to find running water to wash himself off. He has already "picked off the dead skin. It won’t reattach," he says. He will wear the dried blood smears as a macho badge of honor and not race again today. I know he is fine when he points out the arrival of one of the women’s teams for a race later in the day. I go get their picture. They seem delighted. Shortly thereafter, Other Ben and Benj are extolling the virtures of the ladies’ bikes and components. Literally. In the background, I hear the pops of his bones resettling into place. Again, literally. Benj comforts the photogragher; they are both shaken by today’s accident. They all talk about the "next race," meaning the one in less than an hour and the one tomorrow and the one next week. Other Ben, also a mountain biker, notes that landing a crash on dirt is easier than landing a crash on Macadam. We learn that the race was run at an average 23.5 miles per hour.

The time comes for us to depart. Our half of the caravan has to head home. Benj has to work this afternoon at the bike shop. Other Ben will watch the rest of the team compete in later races today. Unfortunately, we think that the most senior teammember from this first race of the day may have missed the start of his second race, the third race of the day. Other Ben thinks they will let him start and try to catch the field.

Maybe there is something to this bike riding business. Other Ben’s last words to us as we drive off are directed to Benj – "Get those bikes built for your mom and your girlfriend!" On the way out of the industrial park, we get to answer the quintessential question for the girlfriend; the one the photograhers discreetly ignore, by noting a waiting rider pulled off the side of the road, his back to us as he stradles the bike. We laugh. It is good to laugh today. On the ride home, Benj talks about getting in enough races to elevate to the next category.

Benj and I have yet to talk about today’s accident, other than for him to say he knows more about first aid than I do. He was behind the accident; I don’t know if he saw it was Other Ben down when he crossed the line. I think I now understand a little of what it felt like for the EMT who pulled Benj out of his mangled car six months ago. She was Benj’s "big sister/best friend" while he was in Colorado. [Thanks, Hannah!]

And for my next race, the check list will include a first aid kit. And soapy water. And a list of phone numbers to call in the case of accidents. And insurance information. And . . .

And I will take the pictures. Unless I am on a bike. Hey, there were only six ladies preregistered for the women’s race today. Lenore (the girlfriend) and I would be a 33% increase in ridership. It could happen, you know.