Getting the Drop on your ride

Cycling is somewhat of a masochist's dream sport, with rights of passage full of pain and/or humiliation. Falling over for the first (second, third, millionth) time in your clipless pedals. Bonking. Your first saddle sore. And ah yes, the first time you get dropped.

What's not here is just as important as what's is, and the whole phrase is actually getting dropped (from the group ride/race). This means that, try as you might, the bikes in front of you start whittling away in the distance as you seemingly track stand on the road. You are alone in a barren wasteland of shame. You couldn't cut it. You've been dropped.

The first time I ever was dropped, if you recall (what? You mean you can't INSTANTLY remember? For shame) was during my accidental century, when I thought an additional 30 miles would be a good idea and showed up for what turned out to be a hammerfest of sorts. I had to resort to door knocking to find my way back to the parking lot.

But if cycling really is a masochist's dream, then the mantra of cycling would be "Whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." In many many respects, getting dropped fits perfectly into this creed.

Par example.

I'm trying to step up my own game. In Austin, I had a major wake up call after getting spit off of a large group ride made up of mostly racing or former racing men. I want to be the best cyclist I am capable of being, and hopefully, that will be a cyclist who can hold her own against the boys; a forced to be reckoned with on the starting line.

And one of the best ways to attain this goal?

Get dropped.

I'm currently riding in rides that are slightly out of my league. The pace I can keep up with for short distances, and the distances I can ride at slower paces, but I'm attempting to put the two together. Ride 50+ miles at a 22+ mph average. Right now? 50+ miles at 20 is fine. 30 miles at 22 is fine. The two together? Not so fine. Thus, after about one and a half hours, always on some sort of little climb, I find myself falling off the wheel in front of me and slipping behind as the boys race ahead.

Each week, I hang on a little longer and ride a little better. Each week I get more comfortable in the paceline. Each week I push myself mentally a bit more (the mental game is probably more than half the picture; you have to want to put yourself through sections of hell in order to enjoy longer sections of heck). And each week, I know I'm making myself a stronger cyclist.

Not that I want to get dropped forever. After all, if the point is to get stronger, the longer point is to get strong enough that I make it back to the parking lot with the group.

In the meantime, though, I've gotten a GPS computer.

No more door knocking for me.