Submitted by Rebecca Kane
About three miles into the mountain bike race, I was off the saddle, pedaling up steep double-track. My breathing sounded like an emphysema patient’s. Suddenly, I heard them, gaining ground from behind. Their chattering reminded me of teenage girls, as they effortlessly carried on a conversation.
“On your left, Mom,” warned my son as he zipped by me, like a Porsche speeding by a Volkswagen on the autobahn.
“Passing please, Mrs. Kane,” another boy in his category politely asked.
I could have been easy been spared the humiliation of having my 13 year-old son, (and the entire group of Junior Sport Boys, who started 5 minutes after me) pass me in a mountain bike race, if I’d only quit racing. But I didn’t.
It all began when my kids were 10 and 11. They joined the local mountain bike club, signed up for their first bike race, and soon it became a habit. Our entire family rode and raced together in our matching jerseys.
After a few years, local races were not enough. On my 20th wedding anniversary, instead of the suggested platinum, my husband gave me metal – in the form of a Ketelsen pop-up camper. “So we can travel to more bike races,” he cheerfully explained. I now had an entire home that folded down into one neatly compact sandwich.
I raced on. Sometimes I would be on course at the same time as my kids. While other moms stood in the feed zones, handing their protégées water bottles as they zoomed by, I was in my own zone. They always looked so fresh in their sporty Capri’s and visors. There I stood, in spandex and helmet hair. Even when I cleaned up, I never wore designer duds. I wore the latest race t-shirt.
At one event, as I came through a finish chute, a race marshal rushed over.
“Are you Meghan Kane’s Mom?” His face was red from exertion. I nodded, fearfully. “Well, she crashed during the race… fractured her arm… come to the medic tent immediately.” Talk about guilt. While I was out enjoying friendly competition, my daughter was suffering, without a mom to comfort her. I should have thrown in the towel. And yet, I have tried not competing and just being a bell ringer. It is terrifying. I pace the sidelines, imagining all the things that can go wrong. There is something about watching my offspring race that makes me fear for their safety even more. When I am competing, I have to concentrate on my own livelihood. It’s an effective diversion.
Then came the summer of change. My kids turned into teens. Meghan pointed out my gaper gap. Kevin was mortified when someone shouted “Go Rebecca!” as he raced by. He now boycotts the matching jerseys. Picture this and you can understand the insanity. Daughter, 16, pre-menstrual; son 17, hormones raging; dad, trying to conquer mid-life crisis by becoming a professional mountain bike racer; mom, pre-menopausal, suffering from pre-race anxiety. Squeeze us into a house the size of a bathroom you wonder why the top doesn’t blow off.
As you can guess, the fights are furious. We don’t squabble over the remote and turns on the internet. The battle is over who gets the last chocolate GU when the remaining choices are vanilla. And why is it, that someone else, besides me, always gets the last drop of lube? Most of these wars are settled with some swag swapping. (Trading a bag of Starbucks coffee for a pair of Pearl Izumi socks, works to placate Mom).
Racing makes for interesting dinner conversation. We sit around, our plates piled with spaghetti, and paraphrase, dramatize and analyze the day’s event. The teen attitudes disappear. Kevin brags that he rode the bog. We all visualize the root that Meghan’s back tire slipped on. We commiserate with those that lost. We celebrate with those who won. On those rare occasions, when we all have a great race, it makes for exceptional bonding.
While many of you are out barbequing on the home front, I am sitting on a folding chair, balancing (yet again) a plate of spaghetti on my lap and gazing at Mt. Crested Butte. Not bad. I have begun to appreciate the finer things in life – like a campsite with toilets on location. But sometimes I dream of a real vacation. The kind where I can take a long shower without worrying if my three minutes worth of quarters is about to run out while shampoo is still in my hair. Where I can leave the sheets behind for someone else to wash. Yes, I really could use a vacation from my laundry. Take four people, times four days worth of – jerseys, bike shorts, underwear, bra, socks, long sleeved jerseys, leg warmers, arm warmers, after race clothes, after shower clothes – and you have 248 pieces of dirty laundry. (Not including PJs, sheets, towels, etc).
Being a mom requires full capacity of your brain and body parts. That’s why, when I crashed during a race and fractured my ankle in two places, it should have given me cause to quit. The remainder of my summer was a Vicodin dream. My husband assumed the role as sole parent. But, the following summer, I was back in the saddle. By the end of the season, I found myself in the astonishing position of racing for first place overall in my category. All I had to do was beat one competitor in the final race and I would clench the title. As I flew through the finish line just ahead of her, a cheer rose up from the sidelines.
“GO MOM, GO!” shouted my kids.
Could life get any better? I love biking. I love my family. And they support me. That’s why I keep racing.
