My mouth is agape, my heart pounding and my legs burning. A third of a lap ago, I pulled ahead of the rider that I’d been battling for 2 laps and now I’m holding a slight advantage nearing the finish. A rabid spectator is running along side of me through the mud slog. Her voice is familiar as she screams at me to pedal as hard as I can while her blue cape flaps behind. I want to look over and tell her that I’m going as hard as fucking possible, but I can’t. I’m at my limit and it’s taking all I have to push the pedals and concentrate on the next corner. We approach the long, steep stairs and although my legs want to shuffle its steps, I bound, two steps at a time until I reach the top. As I run the corner and remount I have no idea where the other rider is. Riding away, the announcer is running along side me with a microphone, but I can’t hear a thing. The wall of sound is deafening and it’s all for me.
I’m on my home turf for the Masters 30-34 category at the National Cyclocross Championships and I’m about to take the most important corner of my season. My right hand is out on the hood, but my left is on the top of the bar. I want it on the left hood. I need my brakes. I can’t mess up this corner, not after these people have pushed me to where I am. I’m cross-eyed and can’t seem to move my hand to where I want it. I keep pushing and cross over to set up for the turn. I reluctantly let go of the bar and move my hand out. One way or another, this next corner is going to define my season. Continue reading




