Archive for the ‘Cyclo-cross’ Category
Cyclo-cross nats got off to a sloppy start today in the People’s Republic. I thought about motoring up to watch the industry race, maybe provide a little sage advice to the competitors — “Hey, that looks just like cyclo-cross, only slower!” — but chores got in the way.
I had to content myself with tweeting, “Guess how many guys in the industry race at CX nats will be riding steel bikes and cantis and win a free trip to are you fucking kidding me?”
Yes, I’m that old. Steel frames, threaded steerers, cantilever brakes, seven-speed freewheels, bar-end shifters, Lyotard 460 pedals with double steel Christophe toeclips and Alfredo Binda toe straps, Vittoria Mastercross and WolberCross 28 Extra tires, the works.
You see anyone riding a rig like that in Boulder 2014, you’ll know you’ve died and gone to Cyclo-cross Hell.
Still, it was big fun. It’s hard to believe I haven’t raced ’cross for 10 years — and even harder to believe that I haven’t attended nationals since 1999 in San Francisco, where I covered the race for a now-defunct sporting website.
I raced nats only once — in 1992, in Golden — and just missed a top-10 finish in the masters 35s. That was it for actually racing the sonofabitch. But I covered the championships in 1994 and ’94, in Seattle; helped lay out the 1997 course in Lakewood; and finally wrote up the race for the last time in ’99 at The Presidio.
It would have been amusing to old-school it at this year’s industry race — time-travel into the 21st century aboard the old Steelman Eurocross with its eight-speed Ultegra, Paul’s Neo-Retro cantis and Michelin Jet/Mud clinchers — but lord, would I ever have gotten my fat ass handed to me. They’d have been timing me with a calendar, and a paper one at that.
• Editor’s note: Unlike Your Humble Narrator, Cyclocross Magazine is on the scene.
A long time ago, in a peloton far, far away, when it got to be too cold or sloppy to train on the road bike one of the Dogs would invariably propose, “How’bout riding mountain bikes on the road?”
It makes sense, if you think about it. Big ol’ tires for traction. Closer to the ground for purposes of falling onto same. Lower average speed and thus less wind chill. Add fenders and you don’t even get the deadly Brown Stripe of Shame.
So that’s what I did today. Dug up a pair of strap-on, zip-tie Planet Bike fenders for the DBR ti’ and went out for my second mountain-bike ride of 2014. That’s about two more than I did in 2013*, and it’s only Jan. 7.
This also means that five — five! — of my bikes now sport fenders. A sixth has a set, but isn’t presently wearing them. And I have an extra pair in case I feel like going for Lucky No. 7. You can’t stop me!
And to think I once lived for cyclo-cross, the entire purpose of which is to get cold, wet and filthy dirty, all at the same time. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!
*Purists will note that I rode a buttload of 29ers during 2013, but that doesn’t count. I’m talking 26-inch hardtail here. Who rides one of those in 2014? Besides me, that is?
Bibleburg has never been a hotbed of cyclo-cross. Oh, sure, nationals was held here once, back in 1980, and shortly after I returned to town from New Mexico in 1991 we got a small local scene rolling, mostly because driving to the Denver-Boulder clusterplex was something of a pain in the ass come wintertime. Or any other time, come to think of it.
Also, the U.S. Cycling Federation required a racing club to promote at least one event per annum, and back in the day there was nothing easier to run than a ’cross. Find yourself a venue, mark it casually with some red and blue flags, install a few homemade wooden barriers to force the roadies off their bikes, and by golly you had yourself a race course.
So we put on a couple races per year, in Palmer Park or Monument Valley Park — host to that long-ago national championships — until some turd in the city government who lived nearby took an infarction about people racing bicycles in “his” park. That we were donating the proceeds from our events to park maintenance was immaterial. Sorry ’bout that, said the parks people, but we have to deal with this asshole all the time; you we only have to see a couple times a year.
Thus we shifted operations to the county parks system, putting on races in Bear Creek Regional Park — where, as a precaution, Team Mad Dog Media-Dogs At Large Velo formally adopted the section of trail that included our course — and in Black Forest Regional Park.
Ours were fast, simple courses, suited to beginners and roadies in need of an early season refresher, in part because the county was not interested in our veering off established trail, and in part because we were not exactly the most vigorous of race promoters.
In fact, we were about as lazy a crop of bastards as ever marked a course. Our northern counterparts, among them Chris Grealish, Lee Waldman and John Vickers, were more imaginative when it came to locating new venues, negotiating with their overseers, and designing interesting circuits.
At our peak, we were getting just over 200 riders per event, which wasn’t bad for being outside the Boulder-Denver velo-ghetto, whose more sensitive communards either feared getting born-agained or libertarded if they dared cross the Palmer Divide or didn’t like driving south any better than we liked driving north. We also were working with our northern cousins on a statewide series that included events from Pueblo to Fort Collins.
Eventually, inevitably, we Dogs flamed out. I peaked as a ’cross racer in 1999, and shortly thereafter started dialing it back; by then, Herself and I were living on a rocky hillside outside Weirdcliffe, and Bibleburg was a 90-minute drive in good weather. The last Mad Dog ’cross at Bear Creek may have been in 2000, though I still raced occasionally until 2004, when I finally gave it up for good.
Another club picked up where we left off, drawing OK numbers and getting progressively more creative with its courses, including one last year up near the University of Colorado-Colorado Springs that I heard good things about. Alas, they, too, seem to have flamed out for now — for one reason or another, there seems to be nary a cyclo-cross in Bibleburg this season.
It’s a pity, really. ’Cross has been the biggest thing in bike racing for quite a while now, and last weekend’s Cyclo X-Xilinx in Longmont drew more than 650 racers, a number unheard of in my day. Surely we could get half that down here despite the Lambornagains and various other socio-political impediments. Tap a medical marijuana company for sponsorship, donate the proceeds to the Society for the Preservation of Steel Bicycles and Cantilever Brakes.
I may not race anymore, but I’d still like to watch now than then.
I rarely applaud the thumping of a Mick by a Limey, but I was happy to make an exception in the case of Brian Cookson vs. Pat McQuaid.
Fat Paddy pulled every dirty trick he could find from his size-5 cap during his frantic campaign to retain the UCI presidency. But when Cookson finally said, “All right, we’ve had enough of this,” and moved that the UCI Congress proceed to a vote, that august body handed said hat back to the blubbering bog-trotter and showed him the door.
Now, I rarely pay close attention to the racing side of our sport unless some silly person is cutting me a check. So I have no idea whether Cookson will be able or even willing to make all the changes that even a casual look-around deems necessary.
But at this point it seems to me that electing a blow-up plastic sex doll would be preferable to another term for Fat Paddy, unless that term were to be served in the H-Block.
Thus I celebrated the omadhaun‘s ouster with a short ride on a cyclo-cross bike with UCI-illegal tires. Póg mo thóin, Paddy, go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!
God is trying to get Paddy McQuaid, sending a flood to bugger up cyclo-cross worlds in Kaintucky, but the fat bastard keeps bobbing and weaving, ducking the punch.
Word is that Sunday’s races have been shoehorned into Saturday’s schedule, so come the Lord’s day we’re unlikely to enjoy the sight of Fat Paddy sailing down the Ohio River on a raft composed entirely of his own bullshit, more’s the pity.
Just one more reason I’m an atheist with a Zen streak.
• Late update: My fellow Bibleburger Casey B. Gibson is shooting worlds for the VeloNews mob. Here’s his latest gallery. The sandbags are going down and the water is coming up. Good times.
Some heavily marinated frites-eating knucklehead thought it was amusing to toss beer on Sven Nys at the Azencross today.
Said knucklehead thought otherwise after the Cannibal of Baal — who was having a very bad day on the job — dropped his bike and ducked through the course tape to have a pointed discussion with him, just before a less restrained individual flew past to flatten the beer-pitcher.
Nys returned to the course, jogging with his bike, but eventually abandoned in disgust. Two crashes and seven dousings with beer apparently were enough for one day. Afterward he tweeted: “Throwing beer each lap is a bit much, so I got it into my head to go & ask why. A little bit of respect, please.” Word.
It must suck to train and race all year, dreaming about a strong ride at ’cross worlds — maybe even a top 10! — and then watch the Belgian national team gobble up the first seven spots like a beered-up fanboy snarfing down frites.
And if it sucked to race for those final three top-10 places, it sucked even more to watch.
Zdenek Stybar and Radomir Simunek fell out of contention faster than a Mexican national fleeing Alabama. And they were the only contenders in the dunes of Koksijde. Everyone else? Bums, with a one-way ticket to Palookaville.
They aren’t, of course. Bums, that is. But damme if that ain’t how it looked on TV. I don’t recall even seeing a non-Belgian after the first couple of go-rounds, unless you count the finish, where one of the course’s 22 cameras kept tallying the body count.
Between sit-down interviews with the top seven, who were showered off and chillin’ in their post-race kit, Sporza would occasionally cut back to the line to show the poor shlubs finishing two or three days down on freshly minted world champ Niels Albert.
The first non-Belgian (Simunek) crossed more than a minute behind the last Belgian (Sven Nys, who groused afterward that this may have been his last worlds).
I know how he feels. There’s more action in the GOP pestilential contest. Well, more mud, anyway.
The thermometer seemed pegged at 30-something, with a stiff, cold wind out of the southeast. Not exactly ideal for a fat-burning spin.
So, having spent the morning watching the first half of the UCI Cyclo-cross World Championships in Koksijde, I decided to pull the bottle cage off my favorite Steelman Eurocross, pull on most of the kit in the winter drawer and do an hour of light ’cross over at Monument Valley Park.
Ho, ho. Was that ever a rude awakening.
Though I do most of my riding on one cyclo-cross bike or another, I hadn’t done an actual ’cross workout for almost exactly a year, since my knees started giving me trouble in January 2011. A month later I quit running and didn’t take it back up until mid-November.
Now I can jog for a half-hour without collapsing into a weepy puddle of beer fat and bone chips. But it’s a whole other game, running uphill in an ancient pair of Sidi mountain-bike shoes with 23 pounds of steel bike on one shoulder. It was slow and unlovely and caused me to gasp like a Republican presented with a proposal to tax the rich.
But you know what? It was also fun as hell. After about a half hour my chops started coming back to me (it’s just like riding a bike, surprise surprise) and I got a few of those looks from passers-by that I value so much (look at that crazy bastard running around wearing a perfectly rideable bike).
Now I’m drinking a well-deserved beer — nope, not a Duvel, a Mirror Pond Pale Ale — and looking forward to tomorrow’s elite men’s and women’s races in Belgium. Would it imperil my journalistic integrity to say I’ll be rooting for Bibleburg homegirl Katie Compton?
Naturally, I was inspired to bang out my own take on things.
Maybe it’s that I’ve spent too many years working alone from a home office, but I find myself less tolerant of racket in my advanced geezerhood. And that’s what I find most homegrown cycling commentary to be.
No disrespect intended to Dave Towle, Richard Fries or Brad Sohner, who had a more restrained delivery than his two comrades. It takes ’nads to put yourself out there, mic’d up and on camera, and then crank up the old P.T. Barnum for a few hours (“Hur-ry, hur-ry, hur-ry!”). I’d just like to see them dial down the theatricality a click or two or three. That sort of bombast is hard on an iMac’s speakers.
There’s plenty of drama inherent in the racing. No need to slather on more. It’s like watching someone take a can of Krylon to a Moots.
Meanwhile, my fellow geezers are mixing it up at the 2012 masters cyclo-cross worlds in Louisville, and all the usual suspects are serving up the whup-ass from a muddy 55-gallon drum. It would be fun to be there.
But it would be even more fun to be there in 2013, when Eva Bandman Park hosts the UCI Cyclo-cross Elite World Championships. Hell, if I can get there I might be doing some hollering my own bad self. “One to go! Onetogo onetogo onetogo!”