If there was anything stranger than finding myself lining up on the start line of a cyclo-cross race tonight, it was that I, like most of my rivals, was wearing a dress.
Yep, "cross racers are crazy" - that's what I thought last time I was standing course-side at a 'cross race watching the pain in their eyes as the riders revved to the redline for a full hour while attempting to keep upright as they probed the limits of their handling skills on the loose terrain.
Me with Sports Basement marketing guy, Kevin Rusch in the WonderWoman outfit.
Thanks to Mark Dawson for the pic.
The last 'cross race I actually rode was in 1992, and I still remembered how much I suffered in those gruelling events. I thought back a couple of days to that conversation in Sports Basement when I'd spontaneously agreed to come out and ride. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, like when I signed up to ride in the Furnace Creek 508 for the first time, back in 2006. If I'd thought about this even for a second I'd have been at home now doing something sensible with a cup of tea and some cake.
And if you're wondering why we were all wearing dresses it's because we were too cheap to come up with the $5 entry fee (the rule is if you wear a dress you ride free). That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
By the way, it was an illegal race. Illegal in the sense of unpermitted. Permitted races are for people who don't wear dresses. Now here's a thought: if the riders aren't wearing dresses, should it really be called a 'cross race?
On my way to the event I was passed by a guy whose dress fell down to his rear wheel and tangled in the brake. I suggested he might want to hem it a little higher for the next event. He looked puzzled. The sheer number of macho types willing to don a dress to save $5 was impressive to the point of suspicion. Could it be something to do with cultural creep in San Francisco?
There must have been 120 hairy-armed riders in dresses at the startline, heck, there were even some women with moustaches. And as if all that weren't entertainment enough, a brass quartet soon started playing oompah music.
They lined us up and made us run to our bikes. Seconds later we were sucking in clouds of dust as the quick kids got away early.
The problem with advancing years is that one loses whatever lightening there ever was in one's pace. But on the other hand, you get better at pacing yourself and hanging tough. But mountain bikes were definitely slower than cross bikes on this course, and I was working hard to stay in the top 20.
About half way through the race we started to lap the back-markers.
Thanks to Mark Dawson for the pic.
The riders barrelled along the sandy paths of Golden Gate Park, bumping and grinding with each other as we strove to stay upright and always be ahead of the other guy. From time to time, the rude musical interjections of the oompah band cut through the pain to remind me of how absurd the whole thing was.
After about 20 minutes this guy I'd been duelling with for three laps (another mountain biker) made a bad passing move on a lapped rider and went down semi-hard onto a slippery log. He got up fast, but he'd hurt himself, and maybe a little too gleefully I moved in for the kill, dropping down a gear and sprinting ahead before he started to feel better.
Some of the young hopefuls had gone out too hard and now were coming back to me. I was thinking how their legs must be feeling even more like concrete than mine. This was getting fun, at least it would've been if it didn't hurt so much.
And then suddenly the riders ahead were riding back down the course towards me, shouting "Ranger on the course." MAJOR bummer! I did a quick 180 and joined the throng hastening back to the start to unpin our numbers and pretend we hadn't been racing.
She arrived a minute later, ticket book in stern hand, and Joe the organizer went to face the music. Not a squeak out of the oompah band...
Joe talks fast to avoid getting a $103 ticket for an unpermitted race.
A few minutes later she was smiling. She wasn't going to ticket him, but she'd sure as heck shattered the moment. It's the same whatever you're wearing: Stopping half way through really spoils the fun.
Nice dress, Paul. A most fetching shade of puce! Really, why is is it that women can pick across the trouser-dress range of outfits and yet it's still not widely acceptable for men to wear dresses and skirts- eg to the office? Maybe it wouldn't be so much fun then? or is it just the aesthetic chilling effect of the prospect of so many hairy legs on display- or the subliminal reluctance of men take upon themselves the social burden of depilation- although here in Australia it's common for hirsute men to wear shorts to work in summer- with long socks!
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