Lacking in the packing.

(Note, I've been sitting on this post for almost a month, I never could get it right. I think it's alright now though.)

If I were The Unholy Roleur, I would spend today, or maybe tomorrow, writing an eloquent, well thought out piece on cyclocross. I would write things like (I paraphrase, please, forgive me) "'Cross is a beautiful sport, but no matter how much you love 'cross, she will never love you back. In fact, 'cross will only brutalize you in return for your love. When you come to realize this, you will find perfection in your 'cross experience. Just don't expect it to get easier, 'cross is never easy, she's a classy lady after all." But I'm not Jimbo. I'll have to fake it.

Cyclocross is a bizarre sport, practiced by bizarre people. Like a picture of Stephen and Liv Tyler, there is atrocity and beauty. Racers wearing a coating of slop, agony etched on their countenances and muddy filth flying underneath them, misery incarnate, juxtaposed with fans, (often) drunk revelers who are cut sharply in relief from the immaculate fabric of gray sky, joy personified. The scene is two poles, connected by a love of skinny tires, mud and obscene weather.

That is sort of what the last Mud, Sweat and Gears race looked like. The deities of weather finally got around to turning down the thermostat, and toying with all the fancy buttons on the "crazy conditions" panel. The weekend had a little of everything. Saturday morning the collegiate and masters races were fought on wet grass; vision blurred by falling snowflakes. The weather crossed the freezing barrier and the rest of the races went on in slick, cold conditions.

Personally, I'm starting a disturbing trend of "dumb shit happening on the season finale." It's as if I have a hidden team of writers carefully scripting my season out, and taking a page from various series producers want to show major character development, and attempts at overcoming adversity in the final episode. Last year I got caught in a massive crash which screwed up my brakes. This year, I just missed the start. Yeah, I was pre-riding as a warm-up, knowing conditions were nasty I wanted to see the turns, and I came around one section and watched the lined up racers shoot off the line. I didn't even know what to do. I rode to the line, stripped off my jacket, and the officials let me race. I just had to make up 30 seconds on the entire field.

When I watched the pack ride off, I lit with fury. But the flame that burns twice as bright burns only half as long, so I calmed down pretty quickly. What little analytical abilities I have reminded me that a season's worth of continual fuck-ups had banished me to an untenable position. What I did today was of no relevance. Maybe I ride better without pressure. As I was coming around the first "technical" (There wasn't anything hard about it, except for a coating of 3-4 inches of mud.) section I saw the guy just ahead of me on overall points. Because I'm a douchebag, I shouted at him that I was going to catch him.

The course was really rad, lots of sketchy turns that would have been ripped-bombers if it were dry. I stuck my heart rate right at the threshold, and tried to find the fastest line through every corner, pretty standard stuff. I plowed forward, genuinely enjoying myself. I passed a rider here, passed another there, and kept my pace up. I didn't feel like I was hammering, but I kept the pressure constant on the pedals and kept everything smooth. I didn't have a care where I was in the field, but I had passed a lot of riders. Then I passed the guy sitting in third overall. "What the hell is he doing all the way back here? Wait, wait, wait, did I move that far up in the field? There's no way!" I passed him, knowing that he hated every second of this race. Actually, I blew past him like a freakin' missile. Damn, that was cathartic.

Later on in the lap I saw that T.C.R.C. jersey again. Only instead of being a half-lap ahead, he was just a few hundred yards. Braaaaaaaaaap! I throttled up, and immediately crashed. D'oh. Going in to the last half of the last lap he had 10-15 seconds on me, after I crashed. we screamed down the hill, he was slow over the barriers, I had cut the lead to 5 seconds. I pushed along the last flat section, took the final corner WAY too slow and when it came time to sprint him to the finish, my legs quit on me. I distinctly remember riding down the finish straight head down wandering "Why the FUCK WON'T YOU PEDAL?!" I think the response was something like "Hey, douchebag, we caught him like you wanted. You started 30 seconds back and finished 8th, why don't you just shut the hell up?" In fairness, my legs did have a good point. If only mediocrity were an acceptable outcome. I pedaled back to the keg of hecklers and got a couple beers to "congratulate myself."

Sunday morning was the collegiate final. What a sweet race! In a moment of concentrated Jens Voight, I was the only guy in the race who rode in shorts. If only I had the fast to match the cold-related machismo. I set out to flog myself for 45 minutes and I did a damn good job of it, too. I raced with my PowerTap both days, I set higher numbers in the 45 minute race. If you can explain that, please do. Ah well, the drinking and heckling after the race was a perfect end cap to a season of "meh." Next event is the Kingsport Cup UCI2 event in January, I can't wait.