Greetings Readers!
I remember it like it was yesterday, the 1st time I was introduced to cyclocross. That my dear friends was the day my life would change forever. It was Scouters Mtn, Cross Crusade, in the fall of 2003.
Having all my cycling roots in Mtn Biking I love the dirt. It was the dirt were my love of the bike that was absent from my life for far too long was restored. As a kid I raced BMX and rode all over hell and gone. In those days that’s what you did, things were different back then. Once I turned 16 and got a car, the love of the bike left me for a long time. Girls just weren’t interested in going on dates while riding on my handlebars, And frankly, I was more interested in the hotties than I was in the bike. Know what I mean?
About a decade ago I took up the bike again, I was fat, out of shape and needed a change. It didn’t take long for me to realize, and rekindle, the love for the bike I once had as a kid. What a shame that I left it for so long…… Oh well, can’t cry over spilt milk. I quickly bought a mtn bike, it was a Gary Fisher Wahoo. That bike opened the door for many big rides and even more mtn bikes, each one I built myself with the intent to “out do” the last one. I’ve literally covered every mtn bike trail in Oregon and SW Washington with the exception of that stellar area east of Eugene known as Oakridge. Years of mtn biking lead to road riding, and I quickly discovered the thrill of speed that only 120 psi in 23mm tires could provide. I was hooked. The exact same scenario played out with the road bike that did with the mtn bikes. Each new bike I built myself, trying to better the last one. Many bikes have come and gone in the last decade, some I could part with, some I will take to my grave with me. I’ve somewhat aquired a stable over the years as once you’ve suffered with a bike and bleed together, it’s rather hard to part with, even if it’s not as comfortable, stiff, fast, or as light as the new one.
I don’t remember the how or the why; why I took that Sunday and drove up to Scouters Mtn to see what the deal with cyclocross was, but I’m forever grateful. It took no longer than an appearance into the parking lot, where I saw all these bikes on cars: “What the Hell?” Road bikes with knobbies? Oh bra, this is for me! Finally, my two loves mated together in an off road criterium! I was in awe, transfixed by all the stellar steeds with knobbie tires and drop bars. I’d flat out never seen a real crosser before. Mom, the moneypit, my pals Tim and John Hacking were all there. I watched in amazment as they dismounted and ran up a flight of railroad ties. What? WTH? They are carrying their bikes up those stairs! I would watch in amazement as the spectacle of cyclocross unfolded before my eyes. Holy Shit! This is for me! I knew, intrinsically, that this was to be my calling for the rest of my life. I was a 39 year old man that had just been blindsided by a designated hitter that took a swing for the fences and went upside my head with a baseball bat. I could not have been more strickin, more infatuated, more head over heals in love over the site of cyclocross that fall day in 2003. I left with a new lease on life and cycling that flat out didn’t exist before.
It was the cruelest of fates, Health problems and sickness would prevent my rendezvous with cyclocross until the 2007 season. For several years I went to every race, stood on the sidelines (or sat in some cases) and soaked up every morsel. Every little nuance, every detail, and every stat, I would digest it like food for a starving body. For those years I entrenched myself in all things cross, everything from A to Z and I neglected nothing, no matter how small. I was the most savy crosser you ever met, while still having never raced a lick. Cross was to be the carrot that drove me through the days of illness. I would race cross, and nothing less would be acceptable. In 2007 the stars aligned, and my health restored enough to allow me the priveldge, yes the friggin’ priveldge, to line up and give’r.
Dare I say it? That 1st race is like your 1st tail, male nor female, it matters not. That 1st race is where the gawds of cross sink that treble hook into your cheek and set it good. You are done. Fish on! That hook will be embeded into your body until you can’t get up a runup no longer. One race is all it takes, it’s instilled in you like the primal need for food, water, shelter. It’s a must have, there is no substitute. Cross is like crack, it’s as addicting as it gets.
There is no possible way for me to convey the thrill of last season. All that I have learned, all that I suffered, all that I fought. I gave every inch of my being and turned myself inside out for cross last year. I’m a crack addict. I’m just not going to be satisfied until my insatiable appitite for suffering is met at the highest level. I’m just not satisfied unless I’ve given everything I have, regardless of how I place, for the love of the race. Where everyday people just like me give everything, and I do mean everything, (puking is a common occurance for some racers) they have just for 47th place. I don’t know what it is about cross? The nicest people, so encouraging, so supportive, until the whistle blows, then it’s kill or be killed. Cross takes no prisoners. The same person who will give you hours of their time to coach you, and help you with your fundementals in getting on and off the bike, will put you into the hay bales without a moments hesitation. In all the sports I have played in my life, no group of people have given more, with absolutly nothing on the line, but competition itself, than cross racers.
I thought I was the only one suffering; until I watched some tape of the guys around me. Everybody is killin’ themselves, and for what? 47th place? Cross my friends, is the true definition of sport. Most of us suck. We give our all, and I do mean our all for the sake of the sport, nothing more. We kill ourselves for the sake of doing so, for the thrill of competition, for the accolades of our families. Cross is more than I could ever put into words or descride in text, it is the purest form of competition I know. And the people who particpate are the COOLEST human beings you could ever want to hang with, bar none…. I ask you; who do you know, that would go out in the worst of weather, and turn themselves inside out physically, in the mud and muck for nothing? No glory, no accolades, no purse, no recognition? Crossers do it for the love of the sport, the respect of their peers, and the cheers of their families. Cross Rocks, that’s all there is to it.
I cannot wait, for the season to begin!
Cheers!
