PreRace Music

Sunday was the Westwood Velo cyclocross race. I went hard. Pictures are available in my race report on the Rutgers Blog, which you should read.

I made the mistake of being driven by my good friend Jay #1. Now, Jay has driven me to dozens of races over the past couple of years. In fact, I usually prefer his chauffeuring over that of any other teammate, which is based as much on his taste in music as it is in his ability to drive like a person with a functioning survival instinct.

On Sunday, though, it was a mistake to drive with Jay, kind of like it's a mistake to blow a snot-rocket in a tail-wind... it seems like a good enough idea, until you try it and realize what a mess you're in.

In this case, the mess was NPR. Unlike the invigorating combination of Beastie Boys and Beck to which his passengers are usually treated, Jay subjected Will P and myself to NPR.

I want to get pumped up on the way to a race. I want to get angry. I want to want to tear your legs off. I DO NOT want to hear about Ron Paul's fundraising activities.

Being a creature of habit (some might even say [or have, in fact, said] that I'm boring), it is important to me that everything is just-so. I'll obsess over the tightness of my velcro-strapped shoes, and I'll never feel loosey-goosey when sprinting out of a corner. I treat safety pins and paper numbers like fine china, and ... well, I guess this doesn't actually do much (although the officials made a big deal about my spectacular pin job on FroJoe before his race).

Over the years, my prerace playlist has been further and further honed, such that now I am on the razor's edge when I exit my car, spandex-clad and ready to roll. Here's what gets me going:

En route to the race:
I listen to a CD stolen shamelessly from my friend Liz. It consists mostly of Muse and
Cloud Cult (better version here).
Mellow enough to sing along, frantic enough to get me all up in a tizzy.

While pinning the numbers to my jersey:
The Sunshine Will is a band that no longer exists. Their music is very loud, so much so that when listening their basement-kegger performances, I could feel my liver doing the lambada. The lyrics, while inconsequential for my purposes, include the imminently appropriate
"see you at the racetrack
see you in hell"
The music makes me want to make peoples' legs hurt.

On the way home:
The post-race endorphin rush is not to be taken lightly. You can't just pop in a James Blunt CD (nor should you ever want to) and drive home - the "must destroy everyone" mindset has flooded your brain by this point, and you will suffer a nasty case of withdrawal.

That's why I listen to Fugazi. The wonderful Mrs. MegA sent me a CD chock full o' Fugazi, and I listen to it after every race. Rhythmic and forceful, it weans the listener off of the over-aggressive race mentality without ever being boring or lame. Thanks, Meg!


Words cannot describe how much I love cyclocross. Vive le autumn!