Asbestosopolis

by Katie Kelly

I just learned from my friend Tricia Wallace that Copperopolis was named thusly as it was a copper mining town during the height of the Gold Rush. But when they were done mining that after World War II, they found they could mine asbestos as well. Then they later learned it's a toxic substance, so they started putting it back in the ground. They decided not to call it Asbestosopolis after all.

This was my first bike race ever three years ago. A friend talked me into it. He said it would be fun. I didn't know that it was known as the Paris-Roubaix of Northern California, nor did I even know what the Paris-Roubaix was (the most bumpy road race in the world), so I thought the numb hands and tweaked back was a normal part of bike racing. When I did this race again the next year, I actually had races to compare it to, and I swore, after collapsing at the finish, that I would never do it again.

Two years later, this last Saturday, I did it again. Nobody talked me into it this time. My new Orbea is so nice to me, I thought, this bike's going to carry me through, like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the most fantasmagorical car in the history of everything.

I was joined by my teammate Paula Bock, a mountain biker extraordinaire, who no doubt would be able to jump her bike over the potholes and rocks. Of course, I had blocked these obstacles from my mind. I thought, if I could do this race twice, surely I could do it again.

It was a small field, under twenty, which made navigating the deteriorating road easier than two years ago. The climb, unfortunately, is just as steep as ever. And then, I was faced with my own inner-obstacle: my deep distaste for discomfort. I can handle it for short bouts, but not when I know I still have to ride for another two hours. I thought, good for them, able to push hard like this. But this is too painful for me. I found myself at the top by myself, while I watched a glob of riders, Paula included, ride away.

Up ahead, I counted them one by one. Nine. A thought flashed: miracle of miracles, I'm in the top ten. But before I could rejoice too much, there, on the side of the road were photographers Nancy and Russ Wright of Abbiorca. They only photograph my magical moments right after I've been dropped, and I tend to resent them for this,
even though it is no fault of their own. I bought all the pictures anyway.

I know it's not an optimal racing mentality to pay attention to the scenery more than to the race itself, but when you're by yourself, I suppose you have no choice. Some of these races are in beautiful locations, and Copperopolis is no exception. Nearing the top of the climb, I noticed a waterfall. The water pounded the rocks under the shade of the trees. How did I miss this before? And then, I rode around a peaceful lake and then through green pastures with cows.

I did all two laps by myself, just like all the other times. This time, however, my laps were actually comfortable. I'm not sure why.

I somehow managed to pass by three others, and wound up sixth of all things. How about that. Paula was 5th. We both got t-shirts that say Copperopolis: The Paris-Roubaix of Northern California. Now that I know what it means, I'm quite pleased.