Cyclocross is not over. Not yet. There is, between now and then, 1 more hour of hurt and pain and gritty, stupid smiles. 1 hour. And then, ‘cross—for me—will be over. I have mixed feelings about that. But, it is time for a change of pace. A breather. Maybe even a little time away from bikes, and heart rate monitors, and that lying son-of-a-bitch bathroom scale.
But I will miss the Saturday ritual of cyclocross. The people. The uncertainty. And the darkest pain cave I’ve ever known.
I will miss the fluidity and skill that is so rampant and inspiring.
I will miss the venues.
The commentary. The banter. And the rivalry.
I’m feeling nostalgic for ‘cross. But its ending means the beginning of new and different pursuits. Ski traverses. Desert mountain biking. Yurt trips.
But before then, there is one more hour of ‘cross. One more hour of glory and disaster. One more hour of painful euphoria.