Initiation Day

stoked (st kt). adj. Slang. 1. Exhilarated or excited

This word is just plain cool. It's the Fonzy of the English langauge. I don't remember the exact moment I first heard it, but I'm sure it was while I was watching the X-Games. Since that time, I've tried to find a way to incorporate it into my vocabulary, but I've had no luck. You see, this word is like an outlaw biker handshake or a prison tat, you can't just throw it around in everyday conversation, it must be earned. Let me give you an example. "I was stoked that we sold 10 lasagnas tonight" or "I'm stoked about that Buffalo Mozzarella we're serving," it just doesn't work. To use this word in a conversation, you must be referring to an experience or event that can cause bodily harm. It's the only acceptable way. For at least 10 years, I have been carrying this word with me like a repressed memory screaming to come to life. Well, last night, I was initiated. I got my prison tat and I was stoked about it.

As I pulled into the parking lot at the Memphis Fairgrounds, the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. There were riders unloading their bikes while others were sitting on their tailgates putting their kits on. I found a parking spot and killed the engine. As I sat in silence, feelings of excitement and horror rushed through my body. I gave myself a final pep talk and stepped out of the car. I walked to the registration tent, signed in, got my race number and went back to get ready. I dressed, pulled my bike off the rack, clipped in and headed towards the course. This was it... my first crit race.

I had no expectations going into this event. I just wanted to ride with the pack for as long as I could, and if I got dropped it was okay. I would use this race as a benchmark for the second and third of the three-race series. The course was a seven-tenths of a mile loop, and we would be racing 30 minutes + 3 laps. I would be riding in the Cat 5 (beginner) group. I pulled onto the course to take some warm up laps and hit my first obstacle, the wind. You ever see that scene in Twister when the cows fly across the road? It was like that. The finish line straight, which was probably .4 of the .7 was dead into the wind and it was murder. I rode three warm-up laps and went back to the staging area. It wasn't until the announcer said "Cat 5 to the line" did I get nervous. I pulled into position and grabbed a drink. When I looked down at my computer my heart rate was climbing and I knew I had to relax. I looked over my shoulder and there they were, the family. The boys were waving and yelling "hello" to their old dad and it was cool. I looked at the other riders and spectators on the side of the road, just taking it all in. It was at that moment that it hit me- I was competing in a bike race, and I was proud. The race official gave us our final instructions and counted us down, 3, 2, 1...

When the pack pulled off, my heart rate immediately climbed back up - not from effort, but from excitement. We made our first corner and the speed began to ramp up, not bad, but it ramped. I was sitting mid pack, just holding my line. The last thing I wanted was to make a mistake and take somebody out or crash. When we reached the short section of the track that was tailwind, the boys upfront took full advantage. They were hauling ass. We came out of this section and into a left hand turn. Here, the crosswind was brutal and you had to really hold your bike. So far so good. When we hit the headwind for the first time the pace of the group slowed dramatically, like a yellow flag at a NASCAR race. Tucked into the middle of the pack, I wasn't really affected. As we closed upon the finish line I looked to my right, and there were my boys - cheering. I couldn't help but smile. One lap down. We rode this pace for another three laps. I was feeling really good at this point that I'd be able to hang with the group until the finish. Then I hit my second obstacle.

As we were approaching the entrance into the tailwind section of the course I moved up a few positions. I knew the guys up front were going to hit the accelerator and I didn't want to be towards the back. I put my head down for a second and hit the pedals hard, then I heard it. I looked up and saw the rider in front of me veer dead right into another rider, and as the two of them came down, they took out a third. The three of them went straight to the pavement. I slammed on my brakes and my heart skipped a beat - or two. I came to a complete stop. This couldn't have happened at a worse spot on the course, and the main pack never slowed. I clipped back in and went as hard as I could. I knew if I didn't catch the group my day would be over. I was beginning to catch them when we hit the straightaway. The wind hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew at that moment my ride was over. When I came past the family this time there was no smile. But my boys still called out to me. One more lap around and I was cooked. I just couldn't stand the wind anymore, so I pulled off. I tried to tell myself it was okay, but then I thought about the boys. What would they think when I didn't ride by? I pulled back on and kept riding, for them and for me. I didn't want to go home knowing I quit. I rode the final two laps and came across the finish line. My dad was standing just beyond it, and gave me that look of "good job for fighting it out."

As I rode around on my cool-down lap my mind was racing. I was both happy for finishing and disappointed because the crash took me out of the group. I wondered how long I could have hung on had it not happened. I rode over to my family and Kimberly and the boys congratulated me, telling me how proud they were. I realized at that moment that I had accomplished something. I'm a 37 year old restauranteur and I have grit. I may have been in the back, but I was there til the end. My boys didn't understand where I finished, they just knew that I finished, and that was the important thing.

Next Wednesday night I'll get another chance to see how I can compete, and I'm stoked about it.