Kelaine Conochan

While other hostesses give the impression that they sashay through the kitchen, effortlessly preparing dinner for fifteen in heels and a stylish quilted apron, my mom has no such interest. She’s not coy or charming. She won’t pour your drinks or welcome you to our home with demure, selfless gestures and batting eyelashes. Hang up your coat, grab a beer, and make yourself comfortable. She’s less Ginger Rogers than Aaron Rodgers, a metaphysical presence who takes over the game at-will.

It’s 2001. I just got back to my dorm room, and the light on my landline answering machine blinks flirtatiously. I press the button and angels sing. It’s the front desk, telling me there’s a package waiting for me in the lobby. I know my mom sent it.

I love a good underdog story. I also love a good cycling race. When the two combine, I’m excited and energized for days—my mind turning over seemingly endless possibilities that were previously difficult to imagine. Kristen was not favored to win—she was not even slated to compete until a few weeks before the race, when original qualifier, Taylor Knibb, dropped out to focus on triathlon. Kristen took over Knibbs’s place, yet was not planning to excel at the road race, or even necessarily work hard.