Last weekend I participated in my first race in over a year, my first real bike race in at least four years. It was amazing. I felt so strong; all the riding I've been doing since January paid off. I finished the 85k Pony Xpress gravel race as 8th overall female and 2nd in my age group. I raced happy like I always do, feeling the wind on my face and smelling the fresh piney air of the course in Trinidad, CO; taking in the beauty of my surroundings and smiling all the way to the finish line. I paced myself well and finished the second half of the race stronger than the first. The big mountains looked beautiful in the distance and I took a million mental pictures as I raced happily, feeling so much joy.
I could stop there with that mini race report, but I'm not going to. This race was different because I raced a little bit angry, too, because of an interaction that took place right before the race started.
Before the race, I took my bike for a spin to run through the gears. I had done this already the night before and the bike was fine, but I took advantage of some extra time to get a warmup in and make sure the bike was still in good working order. Guess what - it wasn't. I couldn't get the front derailleur to shift up into the big ring consistently. As I rode around the parking lot testing it, it worked about 40% of the time.
I went to the tent at the start line and asked if there was a mechanic available. "What's going on young lady?" asked a friendly older man. I told him that I couldn't shift into the big ring and wondered if he could help me out. He looked at me and then looked at my bike, and then launched into mansplaining to me what cross-chaining is, and how that was a big no-no in cycling. That's why my front derailleur wouldn't shift into the big ring, he explained. He smiled at me kindly.
"Of course I know what cross-chaining is, and that's not it," I replied confidently. "Another bike accidentally bumped my derailleur this morning and must have caused the problem. I've tried all the troubleshooting that I know, but I don't know how to adjust a front derailleur. Can you help me?"
Just kidding. That's not what I said. I immediately gave up. With wide open, grateful eyes, I beamed a huge smile at him and thanked him for explaining cross-chaining to me. He patted me on the shoulder and said to me, "by the way, that's actually a really nice bike that you have." I thanked him for that, too, although I was thinking to myself, yes, I know it's a really nice bike. I can tell you think I don't know what it is, but I picked out the frame and chose all the parts myself after doing a lot of research, sir. I smiled again and walked away.
I raced using the front derailleur only when I needed to, worried that my shifting might fail at any time, and stayed in the big ring as much as possible in case it did get stuck there. I felt furious and minimized as well as complicit in my own minimization. I'll show him, I thought, as I allowed anger to help propel me through the race. I know how to ride a bike. I know how to race a bike.
After the race, as I joyfully described the day and my accomplishment to Trent, I finished by complaining to him about the interaction before the race. "Please don't tell me that you thanked him," Trent guessed. He knew what I was going to say. Yes, I did. Uggh.
The next day I brought my bike to the Trek shop in Boulder where the mechanics listened to me as I described the shifting issue. I also provided an incredibly poor explanation of a creaking sound that has been getting worse every ride. They listened thoughtfully, took my bike and said they'd troubleshoot it, and sent me on my way. Two days later, I got a call from Patrick at the Trek shop providing a detailed explanation about what he'd done to troubleshoot the issues. He told my voicemail that my bike was ready.
When I walked into the shop, I was greeted with courtesy and respect. As one employee went to locate my bike, Patrick the mechanic came up to the front desk and asked if I'd heard his phone message. He went again through the details of what he did with my bike and told me that the gears were running great and that he couldn't hear a creak. He and the other Trek shop employees talked to me like a cyclist - not a female cyclist. Not a Boulder-chubby cyclist. A cyclist. That's why I'll be buying my next bike from the Boulder Trek shop.
The experience at the Trek shop was so different from my experience on last weekend's race morning. Just being treated like a knowledgeable equal means so much to me. I just feel this overwhelming need to thank the guys at Trek for taking me seriously. And a big, serious thank you to the guys at Bicycle Heaven in San Antonio for all the years before that, for treating me like an athlete and doing everything they could to support me. I want to thank Trent for knowing that I shouldn't have said "thank you" to a mansplaining man who, whether he meant to or not, was minimizing me when he shouldn't have.
Maybe it's the pandemic that has shed some light for me on what's important. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's the thoughtful conversations I've had with a counselor over the past year about what it means to be a feminist. Maybe it's being engaged to a man who not only hears, but listens to what I have to say, who understands that he can do better and is willing to try. He's truly an ally for the women and people of color who he works with, and he is not just playing the role of a white male savior. I'm so proud. Maybe it's just that the world happens to be changing right now and it happens to be the right time. Whatever it is, I'm done being complicit in my own minimization. I'm forcing myself to change, as uncomfortable as it may be. So watch out. 😬
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