Cyclocross racing, or "extreme masochistic behavior" as I like to call it, is a funny sport. And 23 guys showed up to race the "A" race today. Many of them brought their "A" game, too.
I'm guessing I didn't bring a good game today. I may have brought Twister or Scrabble or Uno. But I didn't bring my cyclocross game today. I started fast, big surprise. And I kept getting passed with no answer. Pity, since if the ground had been totally dry, it would have been a very technical course. Mountain-bike-ish, maybe.
Alas, it was a bit soft, which added to my misery. I must praise the layout, nonetheless.
I kept trying, heart rate pegged, seeing cross-eyed. And kept getting passed.
I look like I'm hauling ass here, but I'm really just encouraging riders to pass me. I must have had a big sign on my back that said "pass me, go ahead, it's easy!"
When I wasn't getting passed, I was riding pretty well. I feel like my bike handling was doing me proud.
By the end, I was getting pretty lonely. 11 people in front, 11 people behind. I pushed to the finish line like it meant something, because that's just what we are supposed to do. So I did. 12th place, I think.
Insult to injury, in the first 1.5 seconds of the race, just as I was producing 1.21 gigawatts off the line, my inner thigh clipped the empty cable guide on my China-carbon frame and produced a rift in my epidermis. I couldn't stop to look at it, as I had a lot of getting passed to do, so I didn't quite get how much of a rift it was. Turns out, it's quite a rift.
Onward and upward, I say.
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