Bringing sexy back…to the camelback

Rocking the camelback

The Birmingham Bicycle Company boyz…be hatin’.  I KNEW they would!  I was sporting a camelback.  That’s right, a fuckin’ camelback.

First of all the BBC is the coolest bicycle store in all of Birmingham, located in the toniest neighborhood in the ‘ham.  They are the keepers of ‘cool’ on the Birmingham bicycle scene.

I was there to participate in the annual Tour de Blue bicycle ride.

Now, in case you are not in the know, there is a top secret “code of cool” among road cyclists.

If you are new to cycling, or ride infrequently, the first rule of cool is that much of this code is never revealed to you, because you ain’t hangin’ with the cool kids.

Some of these rules (of which we never speak…) are: no visor on your helmet (that’s for mountain bikers), no reflective devices on the bike of any kind (just not cool), no mirrors (on helmet OR bike, why do you want to see who you just passed? Not cool), no bike bento boxes allowed on high-end primo bikes.  A bento is in reality a bike purse, so this rule I openly break, making my own statement of cool. In my defense, I have to carry lots of gels, and my tiny T-Rex arms (they are ridiculously short compared to my legs as confirmed in a bike fit measurements by the BBC Boyz) have difficulty reaching into my back pockets during a strenuous ride AND (focus!) I need a place to put my lipstick!

Here is the point of my story, one additional rule, and it is so obvious that it truly NEVER gets mentioned…NO FUCKING CAMELBACKS!!! Water bottles only! Stop and refill as necessary.

So how did I come to the BBC sporting a camel back?

Okay, I’ll say it…I AM A DRINK HOG!

I sweat copious amounts.  At any time in a ride, rivers of sweat are running down my arms and legs and turning my hair into salty twine. So, it is vitally important that I replace fluids constantly. I can easily drink over a gallon of water on a 100-mile bike ride. No shit, a gallon!!! Maybe two, no three!!!

Only here’s the deal, my gorgeous Scott Addict, “The Black Widow,” fitted expressly to my frame, by the previously mentioned BBCB, has a tiny frame. Regular water bottles do not fit in the cages. So I have to get smaller, itty-bitty water bottles that would be bad enough for anyone, but worse for me, the drink hog.

This means that I need to stop every twenty miles or so during the hot season in Alabama (March-November, roughly) to replenish my water supply. Which really doesn’t work well when Ray is in training for a full Ironman. HIS goal is to ride as hard as he can; as long as he can without stopping.

            This poses a problem.  I am a thirsty, thirsty girl! I have to drink EXTRA copiously to hang with his 20 mph or over average speeds.

Fuck, I am only human.

Last time we had a TT (time trial) ride we set out and I promised myself I would make my two tiny water bottles last.

I was dehydrated by mile 30.

“I am out of water!” I told him at a red-light.

“What? Already?” He retorted as he handed me one of his bottles.

I sucked on that bottle like Napoleon Dynamite, tossing my head back and gulped half the bottle (had to see the movie to get that reference).

He was incredulous. “You just drank, like half of my bottle!”

“Thirsty.” I said.

So it was that I drank most of his water, and he ended up dehydrated and locked into a charlie horse in the bedroom later that day.

That night he ordered me a camelback.

I had only one request.

“Make it red to match the trim on my bike.”

So that was how I came to this low state, that I strode into the BBC this morning sporting a camelback.

I think the first person I saw was Ice Cream Steve. (Don’t ask about the name, just know he’s the dude who rides like 30,000 miles a year, and this is NOT hyperbole.) I saw the look on his face.

“I know.” I said. “Sexy, huh?”

“Camelback?” He asked.

Unspoken was “code of cool…BROKEN”

Jason, the BBC guru of bike fixin’ came over and kind of stared.

“I’m bringing sexy back… to the camelback?” I managed, lamely.

(There’s no such thing as a sexy camelback.)

Mike Fisher, one of the head BBC dudes, came out, looked at the camelback, and, cool as a cucumber deadpanned, “Merlot?”

Gotta love that guy.

“I’d totally go with that.” I replied. “and an EIGHTEEN hour century would be SO AWESOME!” (it usually takes me 5 ½ hours…Sober).

He’s a cool dude so he just laughed.

But whom are we fuckin’ kidding?

I was wearing a CAMELBACK!

I was trying my best to rock it.

With limited success.

My only hope was to do well on the ride.

So.

About that.

We left in a mass start. Riding in a large pack of cyclists, four and five wide makes me exceedingly nervous and immediately pitches my heart rate to record high levels.  If you are a cyclist, and IF you have experience, you know that these kind of mass starts often mean wrecks. Idiots who can ride hard for 10 miles will do so at the great peril of those of us who realize 90 more is a LOT MORE.

I nearly wiped out mile 9 when a dude in front of me stopped dead on the road.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I thought you were going down in that.” Ray said, riding up beside me.

“Me too.” I gulped.

I tried to suck on my camelback for comfort in the form of cold H2O.

No dice.

Nothing. Was. Coming. Out!

You mean I lost all roadie cool cred, only to dehydrate EARLY?

What the hell????

By miles 20 Ray and I had separated from the pack and I was starting to stew about the stupid camelback which was NOT providing the promised water.

I shouted to Ray, “MY BACK IS BREAKING AND THIS FUCKING CAMELBACK IS NOT WORKING.” (don’t be jealous; he gets that special love talk because he’s earned it.)

Suddenly, at the moment, the camelback felt like a grand piano on my back.

That fucker weighed at least 100 pounds.

And no refreshing water was flowing into my lips.

Ray pulled up on my right and stuck out his hand.

“NO!” I screamed.

“PLEASE?!”  He asked.

“NO!!! YOU CANNOT SUCK IT WHILE I AM RIDING, MOTHERFUCKER!” (again, my special marital language of love)

“PLEASE LET ME SUCK IT WHILE WE RIDE!!!!” He said with a wry smile.

“NO!!!!” I bellowed, giggling a little.

At the next stop sign he determined that my camelback had a kink in it. He fixed the tube and handed it to me to try.

I took a drink. I started loving that camelback the moment cool refreshing water flowed into my mouth.

I drank that 72 ouncer dry.

Fuck the camelback haters.

Thanks to my sexy little red camelback, we didn’t have to stop for fluids till mile 70. ( I also had two water bottles)

We had one more fluid stop at mile 85 bringing the grand total to two stops on a sweltering hot windy day. Pretty good deal, brought to us courtesy of my camelback!

Success.

Sorta.

“Sorta” because: I had my most painful century in a long time.

I experienced the first motherfucking leg cramps of my life at mile 80.  Let’s just say I didn’t handle the 20 miles of cramping of both quads and hammies with grace and stoicism. On the hill out of Leeds, I had a total lockup. I was screaming like I had been shot in the legs. Under the influence of mind-altering pain, I swerved into traffic, cussing profusely, getting an angry honk from a car.

Yet, we finished, and in a pretty good time and average.

After the ride, I complained to Mike Fisher that we never hooked up with a pace line, and had to brave the wind alone, and regaled him with the horror of my cramps (in other words, whined like the baby bitch I can be).  He said, “You guys looked strong out there all day.” I don’t make this shit up cuz it would be bragging, but it kind of made the leg cramps worthwhile.

I just want to let the official keepers of the “top secret code of cool” among road cyclists, that I am changing the rules.

Cuz I’m bringing sexy back… to the camelback.

Recuperating poolside