The alarm goes off Sunday morning. It's cold outside. I'm snoozing away, thinking, "hey, it's only 20 bucks, I can blow it off and sleep in." (I did hang out with my rock'n'roll buddies a bit later than planned.) Then, it's "OK, I'll get out of bed, make some tea. Hey... it's not that cold out! I can do anything for 25 minutes, right?"
The bike's on the car, I'm on the way, thinking, yeah, I feel pretty good. I get there, do some warm-ups, a couple laps around the course. At that moment I'd never loved Schenectady more. I was pining for that sandy, well-drained soil of the September race. Not to be found in soggy Bethlehem. (Nothing like its namesake, that's for sure.) I'm pedaling ragged squares in my lowest gear, following the slithery tire tracks in wet grass. Legs are burning already. Not good. Should have gotten up earlier for a proper warm-up. Maybe next time.
I see Matt. I see Art later. He says something like kick Matt's ass. Heh. You're a mountain biker, he says. I'm like, yeah, I guess I am. Cool.
I see a gal on an orange Kona. I say, hi Rachel. Jenn says hi. Kinda surprised her. She ends up on the podium later!
I'm lining up with some of the Tuesday night fast crew: Jeff, Alan, Andy and Jay. Whoa. We all have numbers pinned on. This is different.
And we're off. Much faster than my warm-up laps. Some guy crashes right in front of me at the barriers. Then the off-camber bit. Art says good job; a millisecond later I almost eat it as my front wheel slips. We're on the flat. I pass Andy and some other guy, but not for long. That gravel ride-up becomes a run-up as I lose traction. Oh well, at least it's the back side of the course. No spectators. Then the "real" run up. Holy shit. Super muddy. OK, lap one done.
The course gets sloppier with each lap. My pedals get loaded with mud. (Note to self: ask for eggbeaters for CX-mas.) I'm stomping on them, trying to get the mud out. Kinda hard to weight the outside pedal in a turn when you're not attached to it! I'm keeping Andy in sight, barely. There's that damn run-up. There's Art again. There's Barry with the camera. I try to smile. Probably means I'm not running hard enough.
Lap three. That wood fire smells great. Or are my legs really burning? What's simmering in those crock pots?
Lap four. I'm gaining on someone. Yes! Nice form. Good cadence. It's the future of the Luna Chicks! Yes, the rider in my sights is a girl of about ten. Ethical questions abound. This is a race, should I slow down? What will people think if I pass her? Is anyone looking? Hey, is that her dad? Is that Barry with the damn camera again? Did she lap me? What happened to Andy? When do we eat? I look behind me and see no other riders, adult or child-sized. I ease up. Yes, it is her dad running alongside. I assume an exaggeratedly relaxed position on my bike so any bystanders will know that I'm No Longer Racing. The finish line is in sight. Dad's going crazy. Others are clapping. More cowbell! I take my hands off the bar, not for an ironic hands-in-the-air salute, but to clap for the rider in front of me, who rolls across with grim determination, not even looking up. Somebody sign her up.
I see the Tuesday night guys after I finish. We're all covered in mud, and we're all smiling, and saying stuff like, damn, that was hard, but it was fun. They're ready to hose off the bikes and get in some road miles. I have to bow out... my other life is calling. Six hours of drummer auditions.
Oh, I came in third from last. But my technique's improving. And I just may have seen the future of cyclocross.
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