Getting the 800-pound gorilla off the bike.

The sun has finally come out and the wind seems to have died down (at least temporarily) and I have decided not to go out and do the climbs up Marañosa, as programmed. I know that Yago would probably say that it's not a good idea to try doing climbing tests up Marañosa when it's windy out, anyway; and since I'm not going to Burgo de Osma for the Ciudad de Uxama Classic this weekend, I might as well do the climbs this afternoon or tomorrow.

I'm not going to the Ciudad de Uxama because I have no money. I slept badly last night because I'm broke. I have spent the last month doing magic tricks with my bank account and most of the time, it does work, but I know I can't keep the juggling up for long.

I knew that being a female cyclist and being broke was, almost, a foregone conclusion. Even Katie Compton, the US National Cyclocross Champion, is scrambling to find funding after her main sponsor backed out. In a sense, I'm fortunate, because I've already gone through university and know that I'm not likely to have kids, or get divorced, both of which are guaranteed drains on finances. Still, I can't bring myself to make an honest calculation on how much I've spent on cycling (Mom, you may want to stop reading at this point...) because if I thought about how much I could have invested in something reasonable like a pension fund or decent furniture or even plastic surgery.

So, this morning, I am lightening up the bicycle considerably. I am going out and doing the rounds to put up advertisements for new English classes because if I don't find more work soon, I'm going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Please keep in mind, though, that this is not a cry for help. It's the last third of July, when practically every English teacher I know (especially those who don't have another household income to fall back on) freaks out and, on some level, is convinced that he or she is going to end up penniless and homeless within hours.

Which never happens. August comes, the calls start coming in, the 800-pound gorilla of fear and agony goes back into his hiding place until just after Christmas. But I've had just enough of hauling this useless hairy beast about, and there's no place for him on the bike, especially when I'm trying to keep focussed. If it means having to shuffle my training around to make sure that everyone gets paid, then that's the risk that I'm willing to take.

I am not willing to spend the next seven weeks sweating bullets and eating chickpeas, no matter how healthy they are, because I can't afford anything else. I refuse to be the typical broke female cyclist who can't make ends meet. I am determined to be successful...and solvent.