Speedy….
There’s this guy on my commute, I call him “Speedy”. Speedy is Da Man. Like me, Speedy commutes. Only Speedy is tough, unlike myself who wimps out during the months of December and January, Speedy commutes ALL year long, in the most nasty winter weather Portland can dish out. Speedy is my hero. I have been in my car, watching him ride home, in downright nasty weather.
We usually hook up at the same stop light, at least 3 times out of 5. Speedy looks at me and says “hey, how’s it going?” I usually answer with “Hey Speedy” I don’t know his name, but we’ve met up at that stoplight many times. “I haven’t see you in a long time” Speedy makes me feel small, yes Speedy, I wimp out. “I started in February” As I make an attempt to redeem myself. “Good to see you” Say’s Speedy.
Speedy needs me to toy with, He knows, I can’t hang with him. Speedy is 6’4”, tall and skinny, typical lean and mean cyclist. Speedy can get with the program. I’ve never seen him at the cross races, too bad, cuz Speedy could do some damage.
The light changes and were off, Speedy is already in the drops, cruising. I’m pushing hard to stay with him. C’mon Speedy, let’s see what you got. I’m right on his wheel, for about a mile and a half. He’s really moving, he’s getting a gap, 1st 15 seconds, then 30, then a minute. I can’t hang. Nope, No I say! Not today Speedy! My mind goes back to a cross race, stay with the leaders Jim! Hammer!
My pack is doing the Macarena on my back, dancing from side to side as I’m rocking the pedals. I’m focused on Speedy, as if he had a number on his back. I’m closing the gap, the chase is on! I’m working to bridge that gap, working hard. Damn! Speedy made the light, I’m stuck. It’s as if I got caught up behind someone who crashed into the barriers. I watched Speedy ride away.
Defeated, I waited for the light to change, what would I do in a cross race? Would I give up? Or, would I give’r to get back to the leaders? Hammertime! I’m off! I’m in a full on sprint, people driving by must think I’m Psycho! I’m outta the saddle hammering like a crazy man. I’m gonna real you in Speedy! I can see him! He’s got a good gap, I can just make him out, I’m in the red Zone, the pain cave, Cross race! I’m chasing Speedy like a mutha!
I love cross! I’m having a ball chasing Speedy! He’s hit a light! (Lucky for me) I’m gaining on him! I finally get on Speedy’s wheel. Triumphant I feel! He turns his head around, see’s me, and I detect a smirk. He’s smiling at me, sorta like a cat who’s playing with a mouse, Speedy knows he’s just toying with me. He lets me hang on, letting me have just that little bit of confidence, then he’s out of the saddle, gone! I can only watch him go. I’ve spent too many matches; I just can’t stay with him. Curse you Speedy!
“See you later Speedy!” I yell. I give him props; he’s Da Man. Speedy turns his head again, and smiles.
We’ll meet again Speedy, at that same stoplight.
It was a fun commute home.
2/21
Miles ridden today, 19.3
Miles ridden 2008, 327
Essay Winner
Taken from the winner of the essay contest for cyclocross Magazine.
This is great! Written by a very cool member of the fairer gender.
” Why I Love Cyclocross.”
Cross sucks.
It sucks the very life out of me.
It steals my money in entry fees, gas and tolls, and even parking at some venues. It robs me of my sleep. I wake up for races earlier than for my job. Unless the house is on fire, I’m not out of bed at these ungodly hours except for cross.
It purloins my time on the bike. Instead of a nice 4 hour road or mountain bike ride, I spend 2 hours in a car, 1 hour on a trainer, and 40 minutes on the bike. Cross is a thief.
The start line robs me of my poise. Will I clip in? Will I be that person who creates a traffic jam?
Will the one-legged girl wearing sweat pants and riding a single-speed mountain bike beat me? The pistol fires. I hate the pistol. I live in Philly. I raise my hands to surrender. Then I remember—I’m at a cross race. Don’t hand over your wallet. Start pedaling.
It kicks my dignity in the ass. Try being five-one and leaping gracefully over a barrier that’s up to your belly button. Don’t even get me started on the indignity of the skin suit. I look like a marsupial. Cross robs my body of heat. Scampering around in a skimpy skin suit in sub-freezing temperatures, releasing what’s left of my body warmth into the atmosphere, teeth chattering, feet numb, what the hell am I doing here for God’s sake save me from myself!
Cross is an evil bitch. So is the one-legged girl who passes me. I think she’s blind, too. She wears sweat pants. I’ll bet she’s warm. Why didn’t I train harder this week?
Racing hurts, but cannot begin to compare to the pain inflicted by cheering. I expend more energy running around the course ringing cowbells and hollering than I do at any point during my own race. Except of course when the pistol fires and I think I’m being robbed. Pathetic, undignified, and why I am usually off the back.
Yes, cross sucks. But it’s also beautiful.
Remember the first time you nailed your remount? Or dismounted with precision? Have you ever experienced the thrill of getting the hole shot? Or running across the barriers in a seamless motion? Clearing a sand pit without dabbing? Bridging a gap, grabbing a wheel, and riding back into the race?
When you’re not freezing your ass off, take a look around you: the sun pours through dappled trees exploding in reds, oranges, and yellows; friends you see only during cross season smiling because they’re about to embark in the same craziness as you; and rolling green terrain under pristine blue skies full of migrating geese.
And then there’s the cheering–going bat-shit crazy, screaming your lungs out for suffering friends and strangers alike; from the juniors to the killer Bs to the pros. Cross doesn’t play favorites. Everyone deserves cheering and everyone cheers.
It’s a brother and sisterhood. What it takes from me it gives back in immeasurable quantities.
I love cross.