The Road Less Taken: Lessons from a Life Spent Cycling - Softcover

Bertine, Kathryn

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1629370126 ISBN 13: 9781629370125

Publisher: Triumph Books, 2014

Synopsis

In The Road Less Taken, Kathryn Bertine takes readers through her journey of striving to become a professional cyclist in her mid-30s. Her essays explore the twists and turns on life’s unexpected roads via bicycle, but also the larger meaning of what it means to heed one’s inner compass and search for a personal true north. With her signature wit and humor Bertine’s essays travel far beyond the bike lane, resonating with anyone who has ever dared to try and turn their dreams into a reality.

About this title

About the Author

Kathryn Bertine is a writer, athlete, activist and documentary filmmaker. She is the 2013 Caribbean Champion, three-time national champion of St. Kitts and Nevis (SKN) and professional cyclist with Wiggle-Honda. A native of Bronxville, NY she lives and trains in Tucson, AZ. She holds a BA from Colgate University and an MFA from the University of Arizona.

 

Athletics have been a constant in Bertine’s life since childhood. She is a former Division I rower for Colgate University, a pro figure skater, and pro triathlete–which eventually lead to the beginning of her road cycling career in 2007. Off the bike, she is a journalist and author of two sports memoirs (All The Sundays Yet to Come and As Good As Gold), and wrote the "So You Wanna Be an Olympian?" column for ESPN and the "Riding with the Pros" column for espnW, where she also worked as senior editor in 2011. As an advocate for equality in women’s sports, Bertine started the movement of Le Tour Entier with fellow athletes Emma Pooley, Marianne Vos & Chrissie Wellington in an effort to bring parity to women’s professional road cycling, starting with the Tour de France. Her film, HALF THE ROAD: The passion, pitfalls and power of women’s professional cycling is her first documentary. You can follow her on Twitter at @kathrynbertine and @halftheroad and @letourentier

 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Road Less Taken

Lessons from a Life Spent Cycling

By Kathryn Bertine

Triumph Books

Copyright © 2014 Kathryn Bertine
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-62937-012-5

Contents

Foreword by Lindsay Berra, 
Introduction, 
Part I: Share the Road, 
The Empress of Maybe, 
A Pirate's Life for Me, 
Q and A: What's It Like to be a Cyclist?, 
The Art of Getting By, 
Of Pigeons and Prize Money, 
Want to Race with Long Hair? Fine., 
A Cyclist's Letter to Santa, 
Belgium Bound, 
The Snelheidsmeter, 
In It with All Her Heart, 
The Guy in Yellow, 
The Watties, 
Part II: Rough Road, 
Maps, 
Lunch and Other Obstacles, 
United We Fall, 
The Pinarello, 
Part III: No Stopping, 
The Call Up, 
Welcome to the Hope Show, 
The Adventures of Pocketbaby, 
Inexperience Is Not the Same as Weakness, 
That's Bike Racing, 
Rock. And Roll., 
On Taking, 
On Nuts, Nearlies, and Kicking Back, 
Give Me Something to Believe In, 
DNF vs. DNS, 
Being There: The Extra Special World Champion, 
The Bonus Wife, 
Part IV: Merge, 
Brazilian Cycling Federation Takes a Step Backward, 
Tour of Utah: How "Men-Only" Stage Races Hold Back the Entire Sport of Cycling, 
My Father, the Cheater, 
Investing in Women's Sports: A Perfect Recipe for John Profaci, 
Skirting the Issue: Boxing's Step Backward, 
Adonal Foyle Teaches Growl Power, 
The First Woman of Little League: Kathryn "Tubby" Johnston, 
Big Wheel, 
Swing for the Fences, 
Epilogue, 
Acknowledgments, 
Sources, 
About the Author, 

CHAPTER 1

The Empress of Maybe

May 2012

Moriah attacks first. She launches from the left side of the road, her momentum clean, confident, and steady. As she comes around the international peloton of cyclists, a Brazilian rider jumps to go with her. Sprinting away from the bunch, their bicycles rock from side to side with the torque of their frantic effort; two metallic metronomes visually keeping time to a private rhythm of hope and maybe.

Here in San Salvador, the peloton — 82 women in total — will pull them back within minutes, its largeness far more efficient than the two cyclists trying to break away from its formation. The peloton is the lion, Moriah the lamb — albeit a lamb who wants to survive. Moriah knows her fate; her daring hustle is part of our strategy. I ready myself for the counter attack. Moving over to the right-hand side of the road, I watch for the deep-set rivets and cracks that run through El Salvador's ancient pavement where bony fingers of tar-encrusted chip seal reach out for our tires, as if to seek hold of our Olympic dreams. Seven days, eight stages, temperatures in the high 90s — the Vuelta El Salvador is a mighty beast of an endurance event.

The moment Moriah is reeled in by the peloton, I surge. Away from the bunch with frenetic adrenaline, I sprint alone up the road. The lion watches but does not react. Not yet. I am simply being stalked, and we both know it. Logic tells me I, too, will be brought back to the peloton, as the 80 women behind me are in no mood to let anyone get away when qualification points for London are on the line. Still, a breakaway is my only hope.

"Only the sprinters will win at the line," Moriah reminds me. "If you want any shot at winning, you need to break way well before the finish. If you go early, they might not chase you."

"Might" is all I need to hear. I have built an emotional empire on might, this strange word that yields definitions of both strength and chance, as if it surreptitiously knows they're the same thing. I used to be paralyzed by Mights and Maybes, unable to see how either could result in anything but should-haves and if-onlys. During the five prior years I spent competing as a bike racer, I grew comfortable at the back of the peloton, reacting to the moves of others instead of initiating my own bouts of chance. I lingered in the realm of "good enough" all the while knowing it wasn't. This attitude would not get me on a professional team, and at 36, there was little time for second chances. For years, coaches and competitors taught me to "push myself," but that term wasn't right for me. I knew exactly how to push and drive and kick and force myself, to physically fight for the elusive next level. The push was ingrained in me. What I needed was the opposite: I needed to understand how to let go. To relish the unknown. To risk blowing up, getting dropped, being left behind, or passed by a lesser athlete. Patience and calmness, these were the lessons that eluded me. I needed to find the strength to be okay with nearly, at one with almost. I had to forget about watts, lactic thresholds, power zones, and intervals and instead train and race toward a new objective: to find strength in chance. To see what happens if I chase down a world champion or attack an Olympian or experiment with emptying my physical and emotional tank before the climb instead of during it. These were the risks that might work, if only I were comfortable with "might." As someone who prefers control, the notion of chance was as frightening as it was foreign. Yet I knew in order to progress, I had to build an empire on might and crown myself the Empress of Maybe. Only then, I finally figured out, could I get where I wanted to go.

I stand on the pedals and dash toward the open sea of pavement. No one comes with me. Moriah is resting in the middle of the lion's belly, protecting herself from wind and exertion as the beast of the peloton breathes its collective breath. I know what the peloton sees up the road is not the Empress of Maybe. They see the white and blue kit of some woman on a local team advertising an El Salvadoran bakery; they see the race number of a rider not on their radar for winning. "Le Croissant," my jersey reads. I am not a threat. I am not even a name. I am, at best, a pastry with gumption. Let her go, they think.

Yet a few women in the peloton know my story of trying to make the Beijing Games and assume correctly that I am here again in 2012 to seek enough qualification points to earn a berth to the London Olympics. None have seen me breakaway before, and I feel their eyes on me, assessing my level of potential. It is both a compliment and a curse when a Brazilian domestique — a worker bee for her team's queen — is sent to fetch me. She is the younger cousin of the Fernandes family, a sister-cousin contingent of four riders from Brazil. She sits in my draft, tailing me, not wanting to share the work and help us both get away from the lion but to slow down my pace if I get too far away from the field.

The move is a frustrating one, as the young Brazilian is a strong rider, and perhaps with tandem effort we could escape for a while. But she is working for her cousin, a cyclist just back from a doping suspension. Here, in El Salvador, there is no doping control. While very few of cycling's pro women go down this path of cheating, sometimes in the untested races in faraway locations, the occasional dirty riders mix in with clean ones. But there is no emotional energy or time available to ponder these injustices in the middle of a race. What another rider does to her body is beyond my control. All I can do is use my own and take charge of my Maybes.

The peloton makes its way to the Brazilian and me, and I slide into the middle of the bunch, absorbed into this rolling, shape-shifting amoeba of wheels and lycra. I catch what is left of my breath and watch Moriah jump away once more with three other riders who have siphoned their own private Maybes into the courage to go with her. The peloton tolerates the gap for a few minutes, then slowly hunts them down again.

I ready myself and flee once more into that electrifying chasm between hopeful and hopeless. Catch, release, catch, release, the lion prefers to play with the lamb today rather than make it a meal. The meal will come later. The attack-the-peloton pattern resumes for nearly an hour before my body begins to reel from the physical impact of chasing Maybes. The peloton has overthrown my empire today. I am relegated to second in command, the Empress of Almost. With raspy gasps of emptied effort, I drift down through the middle of the peloton, conscious of little other than the fact this is the end of my day. There is still an hour or so left till the finish, but I will no longer be able to hold onto the peloton. Back, back, I float ... passing jerseys from Chile and Venezuela. Back, back ... past U.S. and Argentina. Soon I know I'll be adrift and alone, the shores of Antarctica far more likely than London.

Then I feel the hand.

A claw-like grip grabs my right rear jersey pocket, bunching the fabric in what feels like a small fist, and yanks my jersey forward. The movement is sharp and quick, strong yet fleeting. I am being pulled in the opposite direction of my backward momentum. Or am I being pushed? Actually, I'm being flung. I glance left and see who belongs to the hand. My slingshot is Evelyn Garcia, the national champion of El Salvador. She is no more than 5' tall, likely hovering near 100 lbs., yet her small hand on my back may have well been the strength and palm of a mythical giant.

The physical momentum of her fling lasts no more than two seconds, yet within those ephemeral pulses, my legs receive the briefest reprieve ... a beat of rest just long enough to renew my soul. It will be this moment — the moment my competition became a teammate and paid her respect to my own private Maybe — that will come to stand as my greatest memory in cycling. Pushing or pulling another human being on a bicycle takes a great deal of energy, strength, and skill, even for a fraction of a moment. To be pushed by a stranger on another team who is also in need of Olympic points gave me something far greater than a few seconds of rest. In the momentary current of that push was something I'd been seeking since I started cycling, a validation that I belonged here among the best. I never quite believed it until that instant. Each athlete has their internal struggles, and doubt has long been mine. Yet this tiny, almost violent flick of momentum whispered not through words but touch, You belong. I hang onto the end of the peloton, and finish the day far from first, but neither adrift nor alone. I am not in Antarctica. The lion has not swallowed me. The throne of Maybe sits in wait.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Moriah consoles at the finish line, where we melt into the hot mess of emptied effort and blank thoughts.

"Tomorrow," I exhale.

Moriah pedals off to find our team car, I find a bottle of water and the closest curb. Jerome, one of our team managers, notes the temperature — 104 degrees Fahrenheit — and sits near me silently. An athlete himself, he knows this is a time for shade and water, not words and sentiments. I appreciate the silence, which carries on for a good 15 minutes before a gaggle of small children approach timidly and ask for my water bottle.

"Si, para un foto," I bargain with them. Yes, for a photo you can have my water bottle. They gather around and I give the Bloggie, my cheap purple flip camera, to Jerome. He snaps a shot I come to treasure as one of my greatest visual memories of cycling. There are no Olympic points for this, but I can't help but wonder if there should be. There will, in fact, be no points at all for me to win in El Salvador, try as Moriah and I might. Evelyn, who doled my glorious push, wins the qualifying points for London. By the middle of the week, however, there is something unexpected I've won — a respect for trying among the peloton of my competitors, their nods and smiles a fleeting homage to the Empress of Maybe. Even without points, I've found small gains in the confidence that comes in recognizing one's self-improvement. It is perhaps one of the most thrilling moments in an athlete's life when we cross the quiet barrier of wondering about our potential into finally realizing it. Maybe that's where the points, literal and figurative, lie in wait.

CHAPTER 2

A Pirate's Life for Me

April 2009

I've spent the past four nights sleeping with Johnny Depp. I'm exhausted. Alas, it isn't Depp who's worn me out but the 150 female cyclists I've been racing against over the past week. This doesn't explain Depp, but I'm getting there.

My teammates and I are racing the San Dimas Stage Race and Redlands Bicycle Classic, two of the most high-profile bike races in the States, set just outside Los Angeles. Stage races are extremely strenuous multi-day cycling competitions that sound like a good idea while signing up, but not so much during the event. They hurt. Bad. But it's a good bad. While cycling offers rewards such as extreme fitness and the thrill of victory, there are also crashes, road rash, and mind-numbing physical exertion that borders on delirium. Apparently, we elite riders find this fun. Or perhaps we have deep-seated emotional issues stemming back to childhood, or we are the product of genetic wiring that leaves us little choice in our definitions of "fun." No one really knows what drives a person into the world of cycling, but the ones that stick around truly love it unconditionally. Especially the female racers.

While most men's pro teams have large budgets and corporate sponsors, the women are still working their way up the ladder of global recognition. For the majority of elite female racers, that means taking a no-frills approach to the sport. Flying to events is a luxury. Most of us drive to races, playing road trip games such as, "How many cyclists can you stuff in a Volkswagen?" Even in the elite ranks, we often pay for our meals and gas out of our pockets, and we're lucky (and grateful) when team managers/owners cover entry fees and the occasional dinner. Our bikes are usually corporate brand-name loaners, as the irony of the sport is that most elite cyclists can't afford their own stellar carbon-fiber machines at retail price. Then there's the lodging. Hotels during stage races are usually not in the women's race budget, so we rely on homestays to keep us sheltered. And Johnny Depp to keep us warm.

Homestays are local families near race venues who kindly agree to take in pro athletes for free. We use their kitchens to cook our prerace meals and sleep on their beds, couches, and floors. For this trip, my Trisports Cycling teammate, Marilyn, and I are assigned a homestay with a family in Redlands, California. Marilyn and I share the room of the family's 4-year-old son, who is in turn relocated to the living room couch. Thanks to SpongeBob's absorbing presence on the living room TV, this transition goes remarkably smoothly. His 2-year-old sister, however, recently borrowed my laptop for a game of "Let's sled down the stairs." Marilyn claims the futon in the 4-year-old's room. I take the kid's bed, which is a replica of a pirate ship — sails and all — complete with a Pirates of the Caribbean bedspread starring Depp's dingy and disheveled Jack Sparrow character.

After the first day of racing in the four-day event at the Redlands Bicycle Classic, I find myself a bit further back in the time trial results than I had hoped. This is bike racing: sometimes you soar, sometimes you suck, sometimes you settle somewhere in between. And when you're physically exhausted, mentally dejected, and in a strange bed far from home, sometimes you question everything. I whisper to my nap-dozing teammate:

"Marilyn?"

"Hmmm."

"I'm 34 years old, and I'm asleep in a pirate ship bed of a 4-year-old, neither of which belongs to me. Is this weird?"

"Kind of."

"Aren't I supposed to have a 4-year-old?"

"Probably."

"How did I get here?"

Marilyn laughs. She knows I'm not referring to my decade-old Volvo wagon with 153,000 miles that got us (barely) to southern California from Tucson.

"We love bike racing?" she suggests.

"Right," I say. "Thanks." I turn over, considering this truth. I do love this racing life, as bizarre, exhausting, and underfunded as it is. I especially love how it found me, suddenly and wholly, gripping me for one reason and refusing to let go for another.

As a sports journalist and elite athlete, I was offered an assignment in 2006 by ESPN. The company wanted me to investigate what it takes to get to the Olympic Games. The catch? I was both the reporter and the guinea pig. For two years, I attempted to qualify for the Beijing Summer Olympics in road cycling. While I had a short career as a mediocre pro triathlete (and an MFA in creative writing in my back pocket), the assignment alone wasn't quite enough to get me to Beijing. Oddly, though, after two years of road cycling, I came quite close. Too close. When my project with ESPN concluded in 2008, my love of cycling did not. In fact, it grew — and so did my muscles, ability, and results. I decided to shoot for the 2012 Games, which is why three years after ESPN, I'm in a boat-shaped kiddie bed in a stranger's house setting sail with the Pirates of the Caribbean and a plastic flask of electrolytes dribbling near the headboard. Two more years of racing may just float me to the shores of England.

Or it might not. Like most women in their early thirties, I've done some thinking about my life path. I've compared the "What I've got" list with the "What I thought I'd have by now" list. Here's a brief rundown:

What I Thought I'd Have at 34:

Husband
Kids
Stable career
Dog
Cute wardrobe
A steady routine
Predictability
Happiness

What I actually have at 34:

Singledom
Bicycles
Freelance work
Cactus
Farmer's tan
Spontaneity
Stories
Happiness

Strange how the road to happiness can take such different routes. Occasionally we all suffer from GrassIsGreener-Itis, thinking we want or need the things our conventional peers have. Sometimes the cycling life makes me angry, annoyed, and inconvenienced. But for the most part, it brings me great joy. I often live out of a suitcase, but I also get to live in the moment. I have to be on my best behavior in homestay settings. But I meet wonderful, interesting people. I worry if I'll make ends meet. But I am getting by. I don't know where this cycling life will lead. But no one knows where any life will lead. I decide that's enough thinking for one night.

Sometimes — especially during a stage race — it is best to remember that not all life questions need to be terribly deep.

"Marilyn?" I whisper.

"Hmmm."

"Do you think Johnny Depp is hot?"

"Yeah. But not so much as a pirate."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Road Less Taken by Kathryn Bertine. Copyright © 2014 Kathryn Bertine. Excerpted by permission of Triumph Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Triumph Books
• Publication date: 2014
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1629370126
• ISBN 13: 9781629370125
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 256