Let's talk about mud. There are several different types of mud: slick-as-snot mud, thicker-than-oatmeal mud, wet mud, dry mud (aka clay), deep mud, shallow mud. Yep, lots of different kinds of mud.
And then there is PIR mud. Sunday was race #7 in the Cross Crusade series and it was as if God spent the whole week preparing for it. That is to say, it rained and rained and rained some more for the entire week beforehand, creating epic mud conditions at PIR.
I don't think you really understand the meaning of the word "epic". By epic, I mean shin-deep, off-camber, "you're definitely gonna fall in it" epic. So, here's what I did: spun my wheels helplessly as I was passed by so many chicks, I lost count. I also fell. A lot. At some point during the race, I shrugged my shoulders, stuck a grin on my face and embraced it.
On one particularly off-camber 90-degree corner, I took out a 2-year-old spectator. While I immediately stood up and started shaking my hands helplessly (since that was all I could do, given that my heart rate was hovering in the 500s by that point), the poor toddler's dad tried to put me back on my bike, all while yelling, "GO GO GO!" at me. After that, I realized, this sport is stupid. It is extraordinarily stupid. For some reason, therein lies the appeal of cyclocross. There is NO POINT, other than to ride a bike meant for the road, over a series of obstacles meant for a mountain bike.
For the rest of the race, through my typical race face grimace, I was laughing. I PAY to do this?
Yeah, I guess I do.
I was 14th out of 72 women. At Alpenrose, I was 14th out of 92 women. At Rainier, I was 13th out of 61 women. Do you see a pattern here? I am beginning to hate every number that comes after 12. It's like I'm a perpetual adolescent, stuck in those in-between years. I can't drive yet, but I'm too cool for junior high dances.
For the last race in the series, I'm taking bets on two things: One, what will I place? and Two, will I spend my race secretly laughing once again?
Send your bets directly to me. A six-pack of beer is at stake.
After Barkernews raced in the morning, he tried to warn me about the mud. "It's pretty difficult," he said. "Pshaw," I replied, "Every course thus far has been difficult." If only I had known that he spoke the truth.
This is what we call "wet mud".
See all these women passing me? At this point, I was just like, oh please, go ahead. No, you first.
Runups with barriers and mud SUCK. Literally.
This is what you look like after falling in the mud-repeatedly-and half of your team kit is white. I had mud in unmentionable places after this race.
Let's put some perspective on all of this silliness. I am the proud mother of the cutest bike-race-attending baby of all time. So there.
