Reluctantly Crouched at the Starting Line...

I'm in the snow, shivering...waiting. Waiting for the shot to be fired from the gun that will release me from my misery. I think to myself about the choices that brought me here. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?" I ask myself silently over and over again. I am brought back to reality by a voice. I nod my head along with the other lambs that have been brought to slaughter. The director goes over our last rights and I steel myself, for I know the suffering will be swift in coming, as he utters those two little words. It is a command, not a question: "Rider's Ready."

Reality has slowed down, there are no sounds, I am solely focused on the gun. An odd aroma invades my nose. A mentholated concoction of good juju slathered on body parts as armor from the constant blades of wind that would otherwise cut you in two. The quick pop of the pistol rings in my ears as all Hell breaks loose. Another cyclocross race has begun.

The cyclocross racer is an odd breed. Those unfamiliar with cyclocross only shake their head in disbelief when it is described to them. It is an all out exercise to see how far one can push the physical limits of their bodies while shattering their existing psychological limits, or more accurately, the most fun you have ever had on a bicycle. Usually a timed race on a looped course mixing road, singletrack, and surprises (barriers, sand, alligator pits, flaming hoops) forcing the rider to dismount and run with the bike over their shoulder. The worse the conditions are, the better.

I settle in mid-pack as we transition from road to muck, cowbells and cheers pushing me along just as much as my own legs turning the pedals. We hit the first section of barriers and dismount. The rider next to me is having problems, his left pedal griipping his cleat like a vicious dog causing him to slide into the first barrier. I leap, clearing his bike and the barrier and smoothly leap back onto my bike. Seemingly out of danger, I continue to suffer along.

Two laps in and I'm dangling off the back of a group somewhere between the middle and the end of the strung out riders. I start to calculate how much more I will have to dig into the reserves to make it to the end. I know that if I lose the wheel of the rider in front of me I will drift until the next segment of the winding snake swallows me up and spits me out hammering the final nail into the coffin of my will.

I cross the line again to start the last lap and continue the battle with my personal suffering. My voice is shrieking in my head to stop, telling me we have nothing left, we are empty. I continue to ignore it as much as I can knowing that the minutes are ticking down and the end is in sight. I approach the last set of barriers before the final turn. I dismount clean and hurdle the first barrier, three steps, my breathing pounding in my ear like a megaphone, second barrier is now clear, all that stands before me and salvation is one turn and a long flat wide open straight shot to the finish line. I take the final leap of faith to remount my bike and as I connect with the seat a dark force wrenches the back tire sideways. The next few seconds are a blur of snaps, pops, and mud ending with a new perspective. I was not aware until that moment that the human body could actually contort itself around a bike frame that way, a way in which it requires the kindness of a spectator to undo. As I pick myself up, and run through the mental checklist of possible injuries, my bike catches my eye. It looks odd. It is odd. It is very odd. Odd in the sort of way that tells me I will not be riding it over the finish line. The end is so close though, maybe two hundred yards at most. I shoulder my bike and start to jog. Cowbells are ringing with fury and the sound of an angry swarm of bees starts to fill my ears with increasing intensity until I reach the source: a small group of fans, each with a brightly colored vuvuzela pressed to their lips. I start to pick up the pace. I know that whatever energy is getting me across that line, with a massive grin on my face no less, is from the support of the crowd. The kind of support that says "We understand because we have suffered too." The same support I will be giving to another wretched soul in the next race. My pain is their pain, their pain will be mine. We are cyclocross racers.