Doing it all the hard way...

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Do you still race Cross?

The sand at Lake Sammamish is a gift that keeps on giving

Growing old is a never-ending sequence of humiliating realizations. 

I remember the first time someone called me “sir.”  I’ve been too old to die young for decades. My oldest son will be able to race masters before I age out of my current race category.  My ice axe and mountaineering boots are both more than thirty years old.

Yes, I am old, however, in my head I am still a bike racer.  And in all my pathetic vanity I want everyone else to think of me as a bike racer also.

I’ve watched the Cyclocross season start with incredible personal ambivalence. I am excited for my racing brothers and sisters but I’ve been very happy to remain on the clean side of the course tape.
Last weekend Julie asked me if I still raced.  I wouldn’t say I was offended but I would have felt better if she had assumed I was still racing.  I did provide a predictably clever answer that implied I would race when the circumstances aligned.

It looks like they are aligning for this weekend.

Mud and rain are forecasted and I’m pleasantly excited.  I’ll mount a pair of aggressive tires on the bike, dress in the costume and pin on a number so I can suffer like the desperate dog that I am.  I will finish hypoxic, filthy and exhausted.  I can’t wait.
 At work I walked by someone’s desk and they offered me a donut from a big pink rectangular box of sin. I smiled and told them, “No thanks, I’m racing this weekend.”

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