Cyclocross, Why Can't I Quit You?

I ask myself this every year.

My kids had their last race in Boise with several podiums and a couple overall state champions. Through the season we had a perfect finish rate and we saw massive progression from every team member. It was enough to warm even my misanthropic little heart.

The whole team: 400% bigger than last year

And then there was a cyclocross race five minutes down the road, and I can never say no. I've always been pretty mediocre but I keep coming back. Here is a picture of chubby Julia at her first cx race ten years ago, dismounted on the spiky side of the bike:

Throwback

In a strange burst of hubris, I registered for the Cat 1/2 race instead of Cat 3 where I belong. We all started together so it didn't matter, except that I was hyper-aware of everyone's number plate, which differentiated categories. The course was awesome, as fine as cx can be in dry hot weather: off-camber, slippery grass, awkward turns and chicanes, sharp gut-punch climbs, and tons of nasty sand. I clung to the back of the pro train for a couple minutes until I hit the deck hard around a corner. I couldn't calm down and just ride my bike for the first lap. I kept eating shit and making dumb mistakes. The leaders were long gone and half the field passed me. I got my flow back eventually and clawed back up to the front of the 3s, feeling much better and enjoying myself despite the heat and the sand and the goose egg forming on my knee. Forty-five minutes of intensity is my happy place.

Flattering ass shot: the rarest of cx photos
PC @ Matt Green

The Warbird, whose name has not yet revealed itself to me, is a wonderful cx steed, maneuverable and shock-absorbing and smooth. Such an improvement over the Deutschbike. 

I finished fourth, which was a last place in the pro field and a first in the 3s. I was a little annoyed with myself but pleased that I'm still in fighting shape.

It was fun luxuriating in the cx scene with all its dumb quirks. There were waffles and beer and hecklers and mustaches and singlespeeds, and there were also doughy men poured into skinsuits and smooth-legged men still in chamois two hours after their Cat 4/5 race, spouting their litany of excuses because it didn't go the way they wanted. The pomposity and humorlessness of cross racers is a special thing to behold.

This weekend is Moosecross, the local race and obviously the most important race of my annual cyclocross dabbling.