Ahhh, I totally wussed out on the cutoffs and goofball outfit for the cross race on Saturday. D reminded me of the worst word in cycling that rhymes with ‘racing’. Yup, ‘chafing’. With all the on/off/on/off involved, 30 minutes of pain could have turned into 72 hours of hell in a handbasket. So, I donned the spandex costume and looked like just another Joe racer boy at the start ‘cept for the mountain bike I was riding. Cat 4 mens – big field of riders at all kinds of levels.
3, 2, 1 GO! Heart rate went from a slightly nervous 90 to 170+ and stayed there for 30 minutes. Three ringers rode off the front immediately and I spent the whole time in a chase group of four, working our asses of for what….bragging rights or something like that? My old mountain bike did it’s job on the singletrack, but I was getting dropped when the course looped through the high school parking lot. Dropped, chase back on, dropped, chase back on until the fifth and final lap when teammate CW made a strong move on the pave’ and I just couldn’t match it. He nailed 4th and I came in about 20 seconds back in 7th. Yup – lotsa’ traffic, lotsa’ racing, and although I wasn’t nauseated at the finish, I was dizzy for about a minute until my head cleared. Then the layer of silicone jizz you get in your mouth and nose – yum – that cleared.
I think I’d be sold on cx racing in Wisco, or Portland, or back east. Out here – not so much. 65 degree temps. One cowbell, no chicks in bikinis, and nobody with beer handups. I think the cross vibe out here just ain’t what it is in the colder climates.
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