A Sports Widow Sideline Report: Cycling & The Tour de France
July 31, 2007 8:53 PM | 0 Comments
A couple of years ago, when the TV was still in our bedroom (BE=Before the Expulsion), Bryan woke up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, and turned it on, as he was wont to do. Since the TV was always set to a sports channel, Tour de France coverage automatically popped up. I opened my eyes to the flash of jerseyed riders, cycling their hearts out through the quaint French countryside.
The TV was on mute, but I could almost hear the spectators shouting: Avance, Allez-vous, You go bro (that was one of the Americans), and small French children with charming berets singing traditional folk songs like "Sur le pont d'Avignon, l'on y danse" or "Frere Jaques." (Regretfully, noone asked my favorite line from The Little Prince, "Dessine moi un mouton, s'il vous plait," which means "Draw me a sheep, please." (OK, even I KNOW that’s a non sequiter, but I had to pay homage to my four years of Shorewood High School French training.)
The next morning, Bryan flicked on the TV again and it was as though time had stopped. Do you know that those dudes were STILL peddling through the French countryside? I said: "Don't they ever take a break?" Bryan reminded me that it's a tour, meaning it's more than just an event that begins and ends in one day.
There's a great old George & Ira Gershwin song entitled: Let's Call the Whole Thing Off, which was sung by Fred Astaire in the 1937 film Shall We Dance
Do you say cycle or bike ride? Our friendship hangs on your answer.
Let's Call the Whole Thing Off
Like most athletic endeavors, cycling is not my sport, and there is nothing sophisticated about how I relate to this contraption with two wheels on it. Additionally, I have always insisted on bikes with the sloping girl's bar (to protect me from getting injured in the personals during sudden stops), which for a long time was decidedly uncool. Here's a quick round-up of biking events in my life.
Elementary School
I haven't had good luck with bikes. I had to teach myself to ride a bike, which I don't recommend, and I've had a recurring nightmare about this for years. See my entry The Bike Lesson, dated 1/27/07.
High School
In high school, before helmet laws, I was riding to my friend Liz's house with my backpack slung over one shoulder. At one point the backpack slipped forward and got jammed in the wheel, immediately bringing the bike to a standstill. I flew over the handlebars and hit the cement with the left side of my face. I didn't break any bones or lose any teeth, but for a LONG time, one side of my face looked like Sylvester Stallone's in Rocky
Pre-children
Before we had children, my sports fan Bryan and I occasionally used to ride together. He's an experienced rider. He rode (not once, but seven times) on RAGBRAI, which is a weeklong summer tour in which cyclists traverse the state of Iowa. I've always shied from situations in which I am testing myself physically. I lack the competitive gene and the one that spurs individuals to do anything that might cause them to break out into a sweat.
When Bryan and I rode together, there was one frequent irritation, one issue that inevitably got stuck in my spokes: hills. When we confronted the numerous hills in the Seattle area, I would huff and puff, red faced, struggling to ascend, moving at the pace of continental drift. Bryan would ride merrily, effortlessly up the hills past me and then, to be chivalrous, ride back down to check on me and make sure that I hadn't expired. This was a source of aggravation for me. I didn't want his charity: I just wanted to get up the hill without puking and then find the nearest Starbucks. I need the carrot at the end of the stick.
So, among many things, what I can't figure out about the Tour de France is that they are competing, not just for money, but for a yellow jacket. There's a sale at my local Macy's and I'm confident that, even though the color yellow isn't that trendy this year, I could find one at a bargain price and get some satfisfaction. Yes, then even I can feel like a winner.
Do you cycle or bike ride? Do you have a girl's or boy's bike? Do you have any bike riding stories to share?
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From the Racing Archives
A Sports Widow Sideline Report on Car Racing
May 18, 2007 11:39 AM | 0 Comments
I spent nearly every summer of my childhood in a small town called Brookston, Indiana, which was 20 miles from West Lafayette, home of Purdue University, and 90 miles Northwest of Indianapolis, home of the famous Indianapolis Motor Speedway. My earliest impressions of car racing came from my proper, southern grandmother, who after marrying my Hoosier grandfather, agreed to leave her native Tennessee to live in a plains town in Indiana. Her sweet-as-honeysuckle drawl never left her nor did her strong religious convictions. Grandma Minnie believed that racing was evil and naturally connected with drinking, betting, carousing and general licentiousness.
This prejudice made it a bit awkward, when my father wound up marrying (his second marriage) a woman who was either employed or volunteered for the Dade County Race Track in Dade County, Wisconsin. It was never quite clear what her role was. Picture Karen Black wearing a hypnotizing black & white dress that was patterned after racing flags. Sue's role was simple: Hypnotize the crowd, look svelt and enchanting, hand out trophies and dole out kisses to the winners. It was clearly a hardship post.
Yet, in sharp contrast to my Grandma Minnie's opinions and my experiences with Sue, who was less gracious with those of us who were not race car drivers, I was swooned by movies that romanticized racing and the automobile in general. As I've mentioned, I love movies, and have belonged to a Movie Club for 15 years now. I have a special fondness for old, classic movies. This may not be racing, but who can forget Grace Kelly sitting beside Cary Grant in a roadster in To Catch a Thief
While working as a PR intern at the Wisconsin State Fair one summer, I was posted at one of three Information Booths, the one right next to the race track. During the races, my booth buddies and I could barely hear ourselves speak, but fortunately we could read lips and grew accustomed to the most popular question and easiest one to answer. Nine times out of 10, these hearty, farm-fed Wisconsinites would inquire: "Where are the cream puffs?" to which we'd reply "Down this road, past the bubbler (drinking fountain in Midwestern speak) and right at the pig barn."
When I was 20 years old, my Uncle Lee, then a minister in Nashville, TN, took me to a church conference in Talladega, Alabama. An equal opportunity sports enthusiast, he used to show me sports sites on every trip. This time, we stopped by the Talladega Super Speedway and the groundskeeper gave us a tour, which included driving us around the embankment.
So, what interests me about car racing is how NASCAR has become such a popular sport among women and families. How did this evolve? Check out a copy of The Female Fan Guide to Motorsports (Female Fan Guide Series)
Horse Racing: The Sports Widow Revels in her Great Equestrian Moments
May 7, 2007 10:53 AM | 0 Comments
The victory of Street Sense in the 133rd Kentucky Derby, with Queen Elizabeth II as an esteemed spectator, reminds me of my personal history in the equestrian realm and prompts me to establish my baseline credentials (or perhaps, more descriptively, my lack of credentials) in this area of sports. Put succinctly, when it comes to horses, I do not have any street sense.
How I Became a Sports Widow
March 2, 2006 7:11 AM | 0 Comments
The only math formula I ever memorized was: Tragedy+Time=Comedy. When I apply this to my relationship with sports, believe me, comedy is the operative word.
