I don't race the Women's class anymore. Nope. And there's a good reason for that which I will explain here in a sec. I now race a class called Over 40 Novice. "Novice" means "beginner" and the "Over 40" is your age. Translation: Middle aged people who have NO clue how to ride. And my newly adopted class is just full of men. Ohhhh, does this racing season promise to be fun.

Remember when the Grand High Llamas decided to make stupid rules for women? Remember when I threatened to call their wives and have them denied marital favors if they voted for the stupid rule? That was all done in the meeting the month before the vote. But as events transpired I couldn't be at the meeting the night the final vote was cast.

Indications that things had gone awry in my absence came early the next morning when I tried to call my friend, Allen, who is one of the Grand High Llamas. The conversations were brief.

Dial

Allen: Miller & Sons. Allen speaking.

Me: Allen! It's me, Kim. How'd it go?

Allen: I don't want to talk to you . . . you'll yell. Click.

Hit Redial

Allen: Miller & Sons. Bob speaking.

Me: I don't yell Allen, I throw things and you're not here to be a target so talk to me.

Allen: Well . . . see . . uhh WHOA -- will you LOOK at the time.
Gotta run . . . click

Hit Redial

Allen: Joe's Bar. We are now closed. If you'll leave your message after the beep we'll

Me: WHAT DID YOU IDIOTS DO????

Allen: See! I told you you'd yell. Click.

Hit Redial -- busy signal

Hit Redial -- busy signal.

Throw phone . . . write letter to phone repairman.

It turns out the Grand High Llamas patted us "gals" on the head and voted against 90% of the women's class because they know what is "best" for us.

I'm sure you can just imagine how well I took that.

Which brings me back to racing in the Over 40 Novice Class. I'm boycotting the Women's Class. Although it's kinda like boycotting medical testing on mosquitoes. Nobody cares.

HOWEVER -- I took most of the women with me. We're all racing ?age classes' now. Well, except for the one woman who was for the stupid rule in the first place. She now has nobody to race against. She's also one of my best friends so I get rid of my pre-race jitters by arguing with her about why I'm right and she's wrong. (My husband pretends this is so -- why can't she???)

Those of us ladies who have ventured into the age classes have now thoroughly confused the men in our district. See, in the past -- no matter what bike we rode or how "butch" we looked in our gear, the big "W" on our number plate (stands for "Women" for those of you looking confused) gave away our gender. Some men raced against us a little different cuz they figured they were passing a delicate female flower who might break a nail.

But my eyes have now been opened to the true nature of racing novices.

Now experts are usually pretty decent because they have the skill to pass clean and the patience that comes with that skill. Amateurs are finally out of the Novice pack and so glad to be rid of them that they start having manners too.

Novices are idiots.

When I say novices are "animals" it's literal. We herd together like cows. We follow each other off course like lemmings. We crash like booby birds. But men novices were usually nice to me because of that "W." They'd apologize if they brushed my bike in a lousy pass. They'd stop and ask if I was o.k. when I was dangling over my handlebars in death throes. On the other hand when they saw my bike passing them they broke their necks trying to get ahead of me they were so demoralized. Either way -- they weren't in my way and I raced relatively unscathed. Well sorta. I mean I "scathed" myself enough I didn't need help.

That's over. Everybody thinks I'm some shrimpy old guy out there now and it's open season on the underdog.

Consider my first race with the big 34S on my bike (that "S" stands for "senior" by the way ). Tootling down a wash I see a racer out of the corner of my eye who apparently wants to run me over and leave me for buzzard bait. Apparently Racer Boy plans to pass the little "old guy" and he's gonna take "him" down while he does it. As his bars hit mine I did the only proper thing -- gave a high pitched squeal (I'm working on my manly growl) and called him a . . .hmmm . . . well, that's not important. The look behind his goggle lens was priceless when he realized I was a girl. He slammed on the brakes and disappeared behind me as I hit the gas and took off. I didn't see him for awhile -- not until he tried to pass me again by picking a line in another time zone.

Look, that day in the Over 40 class I nearly beat a guy who was a bazillion feet tall and doesn't know what it means to have to "dab". We spent the whole race going back and forth with each other and he got me right at the end. I chased some moron with "Elway" on his back and vowed never again to cheer for the Broncos even if Elway is retired. I cut guys off cuz they were in my class. They cut me off cuz I was in their class. And I loved every minute of it.

And do you know what really just tickles the heck out of me? Part of the basis of the stupid rule the Grand High Llamas passed had to do with their belief that the Utah women don't belong on the "expert" line. (It's a looooooong story . . please don't ask me). Nutshell: The whole local Women's class was consigned eternally to the novice line.

But (and here's the fun part) when I turn 45 next year I move to the ?Over 45' age class. And in deference to our advanced age they don't split us into Expert, Amateur or Novice. Guess where the Over 45 age class starts? You guessed it -- the class is called Over 45 EXPERT.

Funny. You can become an "expert" simply by being over 45. But not if you stay in the women's class.

Will I race Over 45 Expert? Damn straight. Am I an expert? Depends on the topic of discussion and your point of view. But I'll start there with the men anyway and laugh my heart out at every Grand High Llama when the banner drops and my bike leaves the line . . . as an "expert."

Hope I don't break a nail.

Kim Orndorff
March 20, 2001