Candy Cranks

On the weekend I travelled down to Thredbo, NSW to watch my partner race at the Red Ass 4X and Dual Slalom State Series. After watching a u-tube video of a dual slalom race in the States, I borrowed some pads and a full face helmet and decided to join in the race. I chickened out at the 4X, but by the time  the dual slalom came around I had found enough psyche and lost enough insecurities to enter. I had such a blast.  Anyways, here is a little rhyme about my experience…

Donning a suit of borrowed armour

I try to breathe, but don’t get any calmer

Remember folks, I’m not exactly Shaun Palmer

He’s as fast a cheater – I’m more like a llama.

But who said Dual Slalom was just about winning

Collecting trophies until your pool room is blinging

Lapping up applause until it leaves your ears ringing

Nah, fuck that, there’s another tune I’d rather be singing:

“Girls just want to have fun

Oh, girls just want to have fun”

I am doing well for the first two heats,

Even though I’m not racing the other elites.

“What’s that? I’m first over the line? Sweeet”

Pity it’s not something I’m able to repeat.

Still, it’s cause for me to rise to my feet,

And sing,

“Girls just want to have fun

Oh, girls just want to have fun”

Next up on the gate is a young wipper-snapper

The fact that he’s 13 years old doesn’t matter

He races out of that gate like some sort of mad-hatter

I slip off the pedals, which doesn’t make matters better

Loosing to a young punk is hardly a source of pleasure,

But when the chips get you down, you’ve just got to remember

“Girls just want to have fun

Oh, girls just want to have fun”

Sharing the gate with Vanessa, I’ll admit I was scared

There’s no point sizing us up – I don’t even compare

There is one hell of a rider under that mane of blond hair

Any victory she scores, is hers fair and square.

I was kind of close behind her for the first bit of the track,

But for the rest of the way I just admired her back,

You’ve got to get good at defence, when you fail at attack.

Although, I did lay down some corners, and avert some stacks

And I don’t come off too bad when you play the race back.

It’s just a bit of speed and coordination I lack.

But to anyone who says dual slalom has no room for the hacks,

I’ll clear my throat, and sing back

“Girls just want to have fun

Oh, oh, girls just want to have fun”

That’s me on the right…

As my eyes glaze over the array of hardly-worn heels and dusty dresses that furnish the peripheries of my wardrobe, I feel an intense urge to ditch my plans for sneakers and shorts – the summer uniform of choice (and practical necessity) for fixie riders in Sydney – and wear something a little more girly.

I’m a tomboy, no doubt, but I do love a good ‘dress up’. There is something about a pair of heels and a little black dress – they are the hansel and gretel trail of breadcrumbs linking me ever-so-precariously to the world of modern day femininity.

So I do it, I toss my sensible underwear and sports socks back into the draw, and reach for something a little lacier; I’m going for the full gâteaux of ‘girliness’, from underwear to jewelry and everything in between. After sliding the last strand of frizzy hair through my GHDs, I sling my handbag across my shoulder and saunter out the front door.

For the first 50 meters of my journey, I feel great; like a beaming contestant on some reality make over show. Then I see a bike rider. He is macking down Bourke St, zig zagging through piles of leaves as if he were a child carefully avoiding the cracks in the pavement. I feel a pang of jealousy. I look down at my pink toenails, peeking through the bows of my shoes, and remind myself of the simple pleasures of femininity. Embracing my girliness, I stride on ahead.

More bike riders appear. Some in groups, some solo; some fixed, some free; some in lycra, some in denim. All with a smile wider than the bike lane they inhabit. They rocket up Bourke St like water shooting out the top of a fountain, pronouncing themselves to the world as they reach the top of the hill. I can’t help but think, I’m missing out. Sure, they’re bound, to some degree, by practicality; shackled to sensible footwear and high cut t-shirts. Sure, they’ll end up cloaked in a film of sweat by the time they reach their destination, and they may get bumped by the occasional taxi. But it seems like a small price to pay for the rush of wind through your hair (even if it is tied back and frizzy), the tingle in your thighs as you reach the top of the first hill, the whir of the pedals beneath your feet as your legs spin around like a ferris wheel on full speed. These are the joys denied of skirt-clad pedestrians.

I start to feel a little uncomfortable; my dress feels a little tight, my heels a little high. I can hear the tomboy inside me – the one I masked with lipstick and mascara – getting restless, demanding attention. Suddenly, all this girly paraphernalia feels like a mistake; like switching up my usual lunch order for something different in the name of novelty, only to be left unsatisfied.

It’s not to say there’s never a time or place in my life for deviating from the norm – for swapping jeans for jewelry, denim for a dress – it’s just about recognising why, when I contemplate my attire for the day, I so often chose practicality over appearance. As fun as it is to adorn myself in beautiful clothes, it’s not nearly as much fun as cruising around on my bike. Fashion or fixie? I know which one I’d choose.

Hi there folks,

I’m Emily – a bike rider, zine writer, and candy cranks first timer. I thought, what better way to kick of my posts than with an account of last weekend’s 24 hour Jet Black mountain bike race, happy reading

‘The endurance mountain bike race’ – it’s like a music festival for the 30+;

Punters there for the 5^th time – they just can’t get enough,

Dialed on Gu or pills, it’s all the same stuff,

24 hours of sweat, heat and chaos, the subject of lust.

Endless bottles of water, and forward planning a must,

Though you cannot prepare for the heat, rain and dust.

It may sound like hard work, but it’s more a labour of love.

The gates are open to the trendy, the bogans – it doesn’t matter,

Bonds made in the toilet queue, friendships formed in the mud splatter.

A race, a festival, whether it’s the former or latter,

Each punter will peak, and eventually shatter.

One thing’s for sure, you won’t get any fatter,

Think of all those kilos you’ll shed, as your muscles continually chatter,

Buzzing like flies stuck in thick pancake batter.

Sure the two may differ, but the ingredients are the same:

Plenty of supplements, tight clothes, and shit loads of rain.

Not to mention the chance to get a little insane.

But beware; there’s an intensity you have to maintain,

And a point – 20 hours in – when you start to feel pain.

A mosh pit or single track – you chose the terrain,

But the commonalities of mate-ship and fun times remain.

Take the Jet Black 24 hour race – it was just like the big day out,

With so many people and corporate tents about.

There were all sorts; the laid back, the devout.

One thing’s for sure, there was no sign of drought.

It pissed down with rain, which fucked with the route.

A ‘safer’ course meant us punters had to go without

All that awesome single track (excuse the long pout)

But it’s hardly a mountain bike race with so much road about.

But the good memories trumped the bad times, for sure.

Jay doing a rainy lap wearing a snorkel had me rolling on the floor.

But unfortunately our hopes at placing were slightly premature,

A podium finish was something we just couldn’t procure.

But who needs a medal when you’ve got good company galore?

‘Beers between laps?’ That wasn’t in the brochure,

And meant we didn’t establish the greatest rapport

With the clean cut army dudes in the tent next door.

But enough of the setting, let’s talk about the race,

I must admit, as a team, we set a good pace,

And despite our complaints, we learnt to embrace

That bitch of an uphill that bought tears to the face.

But it was nothing sweet single track couldn’t erase,

Bikes sliding like snakes, all over the place.

And as you came through the pillars of the red bull tent -

Heart like jelly, legs like cement -

You soon realised there was no time to lament,

Rest doesn’t feature in a 24-hour event!

And don’t expect to leave an ounce of energy unspent

Or don’t bother returning back to the tent.

All this torture, of course, with the rider’s consent,

And a jersey packed full of supplements.

At the end of the race, we were sweaty and tired,

It certainly felt like a music festival had just transpired.

We were feeling rough then, though we started off wired,

Just think of all that lactic acid we acquired.

28 laps; our quota met, our energy expired.

So we packed up the ute, with the aim to retire

Back home, to service our bikes and pump our tyres.

‘When’s the next race?’ I’ll have to inquire

And set my goals just that little bit higher

A lap under 30? That’s something to which I could aspire.

Yes indeed the race felt like a 24-hour bender

My muscles in shreds, like they’d been through a blender.

I was just glad to have been a contender,

And to have clocked up some cred for my gender,

It’s about time chicks were put on the mtb agenda.

Just like ‘Pyramid Rock’, ‘Field Day’ or ‘Splendour’,

The Jet Black 24 hour race was an event to remember.