The Dirt Field

I am going to do a race report on yesterday’s race (short version: I raced), but that will have to wait until tomorrow since it is late and I was unmotivated to write one today.

One of the things I took away from the race was the realization that my cyclocross handling skills could use some work. Last year I raced cross on my mountain bike and spent the first half of the season learning to maneuver that bike around tight and twisty cross courses and over barriers. (If you are unfamiliar with cross, this will all make more sense after a visit to Wikipedia. Search for “cyclocross” and if you see men carrying their bicycles, you’re in the right place.) By the end of last season, I could dismount, sprint over barriers, and remount smoothly and quickly, and handle sharp turns without swinging wide into the course marking tape like a sailboat with a broken rudder.

That comfort was short-lived. I got a cyclocross bike this year (an awkward and twitchy little thing) and started riding it just a few weeks ago. I didn’t get the fit dialed in correctly until last Wednesday and didn’t start practicing cross skills until the part of the race where I first came to the barriers. Sure, I did a few running dismounts and remounts during last week’s training, but never to the point of ironing out the kinks, which included a pesky tendency to trip over the bike/accidentally kick the front wheel/steer off the path and crash.

After losing precious time and looking like a lumbering, stumbling cow during the race, I took the advice of everyone ever and finally practiced my cross skills tonight. I used the streets of my neighborhood for this practice and spent thirty minutes riding back and forth between condo buildings while hopping on and off the bike. (If “hopping” conjures up a graceful mental image, please discard that immediately.) My neighbors were confused; my community is a bit on the rough side, with frequent visits from the police and a regular contingent of people loitering in the streets and on the steps of the buildings. These neighbors enjoy pursuits such as shouting, drinking out of bottles wrapped in paper bags, unemployment, avoiding law enforcement, and appearing sullen, none of which prepare them to watch somebody struggle to master European bicycle racing.

But swallowing my dignity has long since been a part of my cycling career, so I practiced diligently until things started to smooth out and my bike handling felt less drunken and more lightly tipsy. I’ll keep at it until I start feeling good, at which point I’ll chuck the cross bike and try a unicycle instead.