Yesterday, I finally got clip-in shoes for my road bike. Pearly whites that say: I’m grown up. I’m a serious cyclist now. I’m a cyclist. Officially elite. Elitist. A new class. I’m moving on up. Let’s do this Weezy! I’m concerned. I’m not ready to leave behind so much of myself. Can I still be a badass Latina?
First, I let go of my single speed for a road bike with gears. Then, I got shoe baskets for my pedals. Now I’m clipping in?
I felt grounded on the single speed. Literally. It was heavy. It was truly my taste and feel. Matte black and bright purple. Now I ride a temperamental bitch. I don’t trust her. She likes a heavy hand and I don’t like putting extra effort into her. She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. She’s the JLO to my Mimi.
It’s bad enough that I’m a Whitina on the Westside. We’re paying lots in rent. We visit the ocean. We surf in it. We swim in it. Now, I’m clipping. I’m the enemy. I guess the timing is right.
My Dad is an ambulance mechanic. He’s basically been one my entire life. He started with Goodhew. It was a great experience for him. And he made it clear that AMR was the competition. They were a strong corporation. They were the contrarios. Well, guess who started working for them in 2017? My Pops! Don’t fire him. He’s cool. Times change. He’s the one who is really moving up.
I’m now the jerk in a rainbow sea of people who think they are better than everyone else. My gear combined can now equal some peoples monthly rent. How can I compete in White sports without feeling guilt?
The triathlon was another uncomfortable sport. I signed up because I could. I signed up because: hey, I’m an athlete. I can do this. But there is no therapy for being the Other at clinics and training sessions.
But really. This isn’t new. New year, new me. Nope! This is what it means to be First Generation. Taking calculated risks. Learning new skills. Trying new hobbies. Going where our parents haven’t gone. Confusing them. Making them proud. And living happily.