Two years ago I lugged my mountain bike to several cyclocross races. Who cares if using the wrong equipment made the pain and suffering even worse, I was out there doing it! I’d just started bike racing, and fueled by obnoxious newbie enthusiasm, I wanted to sample the sport’s every offering. How many bikes could I collect?
Last year, I bought a Ridley XBow imagining how effortless racing would feel now that I wasn’t lugging around 30 pounds of mountain bike. Two races per weekend – why the hell not?
I participated in about 5 minutes of a single, weeknight race. My mistake: doing it three days after my first Chequamegon Fat Tire 40. Oh, another oversight: I had just left my corporate job, so spending $50+ on weekends of racing were out of the question. And then there was my month of travel spanning the second half of the season. I took the bike to a few practices, then put it away until spring when I didn’t want to muck my road bike up with salt. Why didn’t I buy race wheels for my track bike – or better yet, use the cash for my mortgage?
Much fitter and wiser this year, I allowed myself time to unwind from track season and the 40. Listening to everyone talk about cross made me cringe. Ick. My body recalled its last go-round with barriers, runups and a spiked heart rate. Maybe I could sell that bike and finally buy those track wheels or a full-suspension mountain bike.
Yet, sometime in August, I had marked my calendar to start cross the second weekend in October. I told my teammate. That meant no backing down. And when that fateful Saturday morning finally arrived, I wanted desperately to ignore it. But I didn’t. A sore wrist from crashing my mountain bike even offered the excuse I needed. Nope. I loaded up the truck and drove to Fridley.
Game on.
