And You Don't Stop, part 1

The time between changing into street clothes after my race and cheering for my teammate Patrick during his race, those are the magic hours of cyclocross. The pre-race nerves have passed, food can be consumed (the greasier the better) without fear of regurgitation, and it's the warmest part of the day. Sunday was temperate and cloudless, and with a burger in hand, I wandered around the race course.

I joked with Richard Sachs, who runs an eponymous elite team and builds their eponymous bikes. I nursed a Harpoon IPA in the beer garden (Biergarten?) and yelled at the Elite Womens with Sheldon, who had warmed up with me. I got a debriefing from Deedee Winfield, who had finished third in the Elite Women's race.

Among these other vignettes of American cyclocross, I spent a little time with the Secret Henry's team at their freaking awesome EuroVan. Jeff is a 15 year old phenom who has yet to lose a B race this year, Lauri had earned my boundless gratitude for loaning me embrocation, and Tom is the director of the Granogue race (which elevates him to deity status as far as I'm concerned). Nice people, and a pleasure to talk to.

When Jeff's dad joined the conversation, Tom introduced me as "the Rutgers recruiter". Now, I hadn't mentioned Rutgers at all, and I certainly hadn't mentioned the stacks of brochures in my trunk... but yes, I suppose I was recruiting Jeff.

I've recruited for a youth group, a fraternity, two Universities, and a cycling team. I've attended and given lectures on the fine art of recruitment. If there's anything I've learned, it's that it's easiest to recruit when you really love the organization. So yes, even though I wasn't recruiting Jeff, I really was.

That's the way the weekend went in the Rutgers camp. As a group, we did everything with such intensity that it oozed out us like an aura of unfiltered awesomeness. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, sure, but not by much. The Rutgers crew, for all of our youthful indiscretions and lengthy conversations about farts, rolls at least as cohesively as possible.

On Friday, for example, we arrived in Northampton well after dark. Patrick, despite being the youngest on the team, has been around the racing block once or twice; he insisted that he was going to go on a leg-opening ride. In the dark. Without any lights.

Why didn't we have trainers? What an excellent question. I choose to ignore it.

After a brief deliberation, we came up with the best solution (better than my "do a few thousand laps around the back yard" proposal, anyway): the team would ride on the road, with me and Cristian driving my car behind them. They put on their full uniforms, all Scarlet Red and big R logos. I turned on the hazards and lit the road with high beams, shepherd to a flock of exhilarated young'uns. The uninformed might've mistaken us for a ProTour squad. Cristian took pictures out the passenger window, but none of them turned out well.

It's the most fun I've ever had in a car at 20mph.

Andy, Patrick, Amanda, and I arrived at Look Park on Saturday in time to watch the C race. We ran around the top of the course, screamed at Rich, Joe, Matt, Eric, and Cristian, and got hassled by Richard Fries. Joe clipped the last barrier at broke our hearts... but you'll never hear him complain.

Something is just off about this pic of Matt remounting

Eric loaned me his tubular wheels - expensive, hard to repair tubular wheels. I owe him a beer. Especially after what would happen Sunday.

Saturday posed its own challenge, of course. Starting in the 8th row, I'd have to be aggressive during the first lap... not my strong suit. When Colby Josh flew by, I knew his was the wheel to get on, and so get on I did. We passed a handful of riders, took some rather entertaining lines through corners, and I was feeling fine.

Knobby tires make a distinct sound when they rub each other, like combining a two-stroke engine with a zipper. Josh's body wiggled as his front wheel contacted someone's rear wheel. The noise stopped, and he recovered. And then he didn't, and he was on the ground. With nowhere to go, I ran directly into his back, somersaulting into my patented ninja roll. It would've been perfect, if I hadn't caught a handlebar with my ribs.

Of the hundred-plus people in my race, I crashed into one of the two with whom I'm friends. Sweet. To boot, the only wounds I have to show for it "look like good sex scratches".

Note: "Good sex scratches", and all other unbelievably fantastic quotes in this post, can be attributed to one person. Bless her inappropriate heart.

When I got back on my bike, I was in dead last. I got out of the saddle, stomped on the pedals, and nearly ran into some dude who'd dropped his chain and stopped in the middle of the course. After grazing his hip with my knuckles, barely avoiding further calamity, I shouted an apology back to him.

Because you can't, you won't, and you don't stop.

I fought and fought and fought, swapped spots with a few collegiate guys, and ran out of gas a half-lap from the finish. Andy rode brilliantly to take the top D1 spot. A cadet from Army caught me at the line, taking 2nd D1. I'd like to tell you that I don't hate him.

Andy has more fun than any other racer
We should all be so cheerful while suffering

I did yoga with Amanda. Downward Facing Dog is good for the hamstrings.

Scorpion is actually a terrible idea. Shoulder Standing on top of the van is just wicked-cool.

When it was time for Pat's race, I volunteered to stand with his spare bike in the pit. Yes, I volunteered to Pit for Pat.

Poor bastard has no idea what's in store

The pit was two-sided, so that the course passed it twice per lap. After Pat passed on one side, I would walk the spare bike to the other side and wait half a lap, as would each of the other 40 pit-guys. With each half-lap, fewer mechanics were migrating before me... so I started to keep count. Pat had moved from 30th to 25th to 20th. He was 18th, looking comfortable and still advancing, when I watched him dismount and start running. He had rolled his tire and needed the spare bike. Crap.

After what felt like a few hours, Pat reached the pit and threw the bike at the ground. He'd only lost a half-dozen spots, and the race was only half over. Having procured a spare wheel from Neutral Support, I resumed the semi-lap migration. I shouted encouragement at Pat, but he'd lost his rhythm and wasn't gaining ground.

When he approached the pit a few laps later, pointing at his rear wheel and looking despondent, my heart sank completely. Pat had utterly destroyed a tubular tire - an expensive, hard to repair tubular tire. This time he threw the bike at me and muttered something along the lines of "Fuck my life".

Back on his original bike, but floundering in 28th, Pat kept riding, even if no longer racing. He would finish on the lead lap. Because you can't, you won't, and you don't stop.

I got us quite lost on the way home, which gave him plenty of time to vent. Slowly his tune changed from proclaiming "this is the sort of thing that makes me aspire to be an alcoholic" to sighing "shit happens". Back at the house, the guys patted him on the back and we put up a giant pot of water. A big bottle of YellowTail Shiraz appeared, and we had an absolutely classy dinner of pasta, meatballs, and garlic bread. Periodically we would raise our glasses, and a toast would be offered, and accepted. We happily bid farewell to Daylight Savings.

There was no underage consumption of alcohol!
We gave the young'uns ice cream instead