Getting Crushed

The Crusher is officially dominating all my energies. Which is a good thing. I like the singular focus. I’m even planning to skip the Utah State XC championship race—on one of my favorite courses—in favor of a Crusher training ride this Saturday. Last night I put together a nice Crusher miniature. It was as if someone tilt-shifted the actual route: 26 miles. 3,000 feet of vertical gain. Pavement. Dirt. All right from my driveway.

The bike is coming together.

The legs? Getting there.

The snow melt? Trickling.

I’ve realized that with this race, the possibility of severe over-analysis is imminent. The hair-splitting about bike and tire choice is normal, and productive. Even necessary. But last night when I started planning a PSI strategy, I knew that I had gone too far. I laughed. And then I shivered in repulsive shame.

And that’s when I began to silently chant my new mantra:

“The legs. The legs. The legs.”

I already love the Crusher. Any race that can wholly consume my mind and heart is a race worthy of adulation. Others have done so. And—one way or another—have all been remarkable experiences. And that’s the point isn’t it? To have an adventure? I hope so. Because that’s all I can ever hope for in these type of events. An adventure. Something to write about. The process is part of that adventure. The gear testing and review-reading. The miniature rides and map-mongering. Last year, it was the Dixie 170. Today, it’s the Crusher.

Exit Question:  Taking the time to change tire pressure? Not a bad idea really. Is it?