Breaking up is hard to do
November 24, 2014 § 23 Comments
Dear Miss Cyclocross,
I’m finally over you. I can’t handle any more of your abuse. Oh sure, it was fun in the beginning and yeah, we had a good run of three years together. But after a while having you push my face in the dirt and beat the crap out of me just wasn’t fun anymore. Every weekend it seemed like things would start out great, then you’d knock me down while your friends stood around and yelled at me and took embarrassing pictures of me all twisted up on the ground, then we’d get drunk, and then the next morning I’d wake up with pains in body parts I didn’t even know I had and bruises all over and a horrific hangover. You’d apologize and say that next time it wouldn’t end that way, but it always did.
And you were never a cheap date. I had to drive all over hell just to hang out with you, and when I did there were a couple other hundred guys — and girls — I had to share you with. I still remember when we started together and you were satisfied with my top-end machine. Next season you weren’t even glancing at anyone who hadn’t upgraded to discs. I hate to namecall but you are a fickle bitch. Every time I looked around it was $35 here, $35 there. That shit adds up.
And the food we ate when we were together wasn’t all that great, you know? The first forty times we snacked at some taco truck with a name like “Amos’s Fiery Anus Burritos” it was romantic, but after a couple of years it was mostly indigestion.
Sure, I met some cool people through you, guys like Phil Beckman, Dot Wong, and all those rednecks in Bakersfield who’ve never even heard of a good time that didn’t involve beating someone’s ass while standing around drunk under the scorching sun in a dirt field, but for the most part your friends suck just like you do. I mean, do you know how tired I got of having your stupid friends yell “Get out of the way, dumbass!” and “You belong in the beginners’ race, dumbass!” and “You crashed me out, dumbass!” My name isn’t dumbass. Got that?
Yesterday, though, I really knew it was over. You’d caught the eye of Derek, one of my best friends ever, and he was asking about you. I warned him that you liked it rough, but he didn’t care. He kept begging me to show him how to get off and I kept telling him you didn’t care how he did it but I finally showed him. Then he was asking me all these questions about how dirty were you, how hard would he have to go, etc., and I told him that if he wanted to run around with you he had better put in for the long haul because you were mean and a tough nut to crack.
Plus, he only had a rental.
But he begged me to introduce you to him and so I did. Beforehand you know what I told him? I said, “Dude, she is going to kick your ass.” He was pretty afraid of you after all I’d told him about all of your nasty tricks and what a vicious bitch you are.
“Which race should I do?” he asked me.
“Because you suck and she is going to stomp your dick very hard you should race the 35+B race. Start at the back so you won’t clog the turns and hurt anybody, and so you won’t fall off your bicycle. It will take a couple of seasons before you’re comfortable riding towards the front, if ever.”
Then on our first warm-up lap you knocked me down in one of the loose sandy turns and Garnet V. almost ran over my head. “Is that how you’re supposed to do it?” Derek asked me.
“Your turn is coming,” I said. And it was.
Pretty soon Derek’s race started and he won it. The next closest person was on a mountain bike and riding in a different race.
So, you humiliated me again, Miss Cyclocross. I won’t mention the fact that you let my pals Slasher, Ryan Dahl, Eric Johnson, David Anderson, Mike Williams, and Carey Downs all climb on top of you. But I will mention the fact that my neck and shoulder hurt like hell, that I can’t walk very well, and that I’m tired of being used. Plus, I can get a vicious hangover on my own.
Go ruin someone else’s life, Miss Cyclocross. Mine is in tatters.
I only ever raced one ‘cross race. Only one other Vet showed up, and he got the Gold; I had to settle for Silver and my flat tire probably just let me rest my legs; he had a big gap. I paid for that States Champs medal in nasty stinky fear but also had fun, didn’t crash and/or get run over, and received some professional instruction in descending muddy slopes that may yet prove to be vital some day. Seriously.
Sometimes, the Gods and Goddesses of Cycling (Thank You!) send a nice reward, and a Great Big Message all at the same time. It’s important to appreciate, and to listen.
I have attended a ‘cross race or two since, to spectate. Roadies get to rest a good part of the time, if you’ve ever noticed.
I’m thinking of renewing with the USCF and hitting the line in my age-degraded aged category when Nats come to Austin. The plan is to pretend someone has grabbed my jersey at the start, right before all my spokes fell out and my chain broke, and then save my number for the BTDT scrapbook. Sound good?
Perfect plan, but you left out the beer part.
Did. Won’t. Thanks!
But how is Miss Cyclocross different than miss crit? So confused…
When I’m done with Miss Crit there’s never any sand in my shorts.
Funny. I sensed he was a tad nervous about doing the race. He shared his game plan with me on Saturday. It is safe to say that he exceeded all goals and expectations. Derek = winning.
Lucky he’s got a pro coach.
Sounds like its time to get a mountain bike. It’s like cyclocross with less heckling, equal amounts of beer, and if you ride a singlespeed rigid, it’s the cheapest bike out there and everyone will know you are a badass.
You know you’re dealing with another cyclist when the solution they offer for your biking problem is “More bikes.”
You know what’s not painful and agonizing and dangerous and embarrassing? Marathon Mountain bike racing. Shall I pencil you in for the Boggs 8 Hour next May? We’re bringing a keg 😉
Like I said, bike racers solving racing problems with more racing. Because, racing.
No cross racing? Where else can you urinate in public, curse volunteers and heckle beginner women without consequence?
The Secret Service?
Well at least all that cross training and racing has prepared you for the demands of chaotic >40mph field sprints on open public roads.
Ahhhh. The Quitting. I love quitting. A relapse isn’t a relapse without first laying down a really solid quit. Enjoy the quit. It won’t last.
I quit really hard last year. It was perfect. I got sick, my work situation, err, umm, changed. I quit my head off. I was soooo done with cycling and racing. A quit like that makes standing on the bathroom scale and renewing my U-suck license all the sweeter.
Bathrooms are to cycling motivation what student loan debts (non-dischargeable in bankruptcy) are to job hunt motivation.
The Quitting, with a big dollop of self-loathing and promises to be better, followed by a plunge back down into the delicious chasm.
What were we talking about?
… and so lovingly rocky at the bottom.
She didn’t make me wear one of those things she made the other guys wear either
She was so into you.