Really? Cyclocross?

Hey strangers, it has been a stretch since your interweb gateway doormat was soiled by an entry from yours truly. Well, at least something written about cycling, that is. Some of you may catch me at my regular, food related blog, and that’s very nice of you.

Thank you for your support.

Today marks a return to cycle-tensive writing and the end of my commuting-only riding problem.  It really stinks when you ride over a hundred miles a week, then realize there wasn’t one single mile of riding dedicated to just getting out there and feeling the breeze blow through your beard (or whatever other head-anchored hair apparatus you sport). I am not talking of the plight of the forever-training-roadie, but of the career commuting cyclist.  Between working, catering, lawn care, home upkeep, bike maintenance, and beer, the twice a week gravel ride and once a week bar run ride have gone by the wayside.  SHIT. This is why you haven’t seen any ride recaps here, which would go a little like this every day:

Got out of the shower today and donned my favorite fat-guy Mount Borah MTB jersey, place my beloved cell phone in a baggie, then placed the phone and baggie into my left jersey pocket.  I then looked at the heap of bikes that occupy what was probably used as a breakfast nook at some point before my arrival.  Hmmm….I chose _________ bike, checked the tire pressure and chain lube condition then the kitchen crapped me and my chosen steed out its back door and into the world. I hung a left at the end of the drive and rode Adams St. to the GWT, tood a right and started hammering towards Des Moines proper.  I encountered blah blah blah….

You get the idea.  This is every day of the week for the most part and once in a while there will be some highlights such as the day I was passed and dropped by a guy wearing a broken leg boot (in my defense, I was carrying a ton of catering items in my bags). And the day the old guy in knee high tube socks and dirty tennis shoes on a semi-nice Specialized road bike rode right past me (I sometimes get irritated upon hearing the classic “on your left”).  And all of the days I ran into friends at the lean-to on the way to work and had to stop for a beer (one of the reasons I leave early for work).  And the numerous times I tried to ford the waters of the flooded George Flagg Parkway (if you ever see a bearded man carrying a bike through knee-deep flood waters while laughing hysterically, that’s me).  And that time this guy on a carbon road bike invited me to climb up Park Avenue from the trail, even though I was riding a track bike and explained I wouldn’t really be able to keep up, so he just dropped me, not by much, but never just slowed down for two minutes for me to catch up and continue the conversation we were having.  Or that time I saw a racoon hanging out with a small deer.  Or the time I was helmet-buzzed by a hawk. Ok, so there are some interesting times, but they all end with me in clogs chopping shit on a cutting board (or eating tacos), and the ride itself is monotonous after the last 9 months.

You should get it by now.  I ride every day, but long for the days when riding my bicycle was for used for fun, long rides to uncharted-by-me territory and not strictly for the old in and out (of town).  So today I actually had a little free time and went for a sorely needed gravel ride.  32 miles of Prime Central Iowa Gravel and a nice brutal Level B road thrown in (twice) for some spice.  It was a great time, and solo gravel riding is very conducive to introspection.  Visions of different bar/brake lever/shifter setups on a few of my bikes, what mtb shoes to buy, and other similar shopping thoughts dance through my head, then passed and settled into planning.  Planning and plotting ways to free up my schedule for more fun rides.  Then it came to me, like in that movie Total Recall, a faint memory of a late night conversation with my good friend Bob hit me like a ton of bricks.  He is convinced that I should race Cyclocross this year, and shit yeah I am in.  What could be more fun than getting muddy, drinking beer, and possibly getting slapped in the face with a Summer Sausage while riding, running, and slogging your heart out?  I think I just heard a cowbell in the distance!

Watch out, Iowa Cyclocross, you just got yourself a new last-place Cat 5 finisher!

This is what I call TRAINING!