Signs of Fall

The time from the end of Cyclocross season to the first race of the new always seems like forever. The European season keeps you going for a while, with the world cup and Super Prestige studs battling through true cross weather in the early part of the year. The vicariousness ends in February however, with the Worlds taking place in a locale that more than likely you'll never visit.

A recent addition to the calendar, Barry-Roubaix has given a midwest 'crosser a early goal to shoot for. March is over soon and then it's just lonely cold, wet training rides to see a rider through. Sure, there's mountain biking, but I reached a level where I just can't be competitive without a lifestyle change.

So I wait, and I wait. Then, when the rides seem hotter than tolerable and the calendar says that I should start the hard stuff, intervals, longer 100% efforts, carrying your bike and such, unexpectedly, the first signs of fall appear. I'm riding along and I see it. The first wooly catepillar crossing the road. I don't usually have to dodge them as they are past my tire line, but unmistakable. The dark brown body, the black stripes, and the long bushy hair undulating their way across the road. Initially I just see one, but my heart knows what their presence mean. It isn't long before I have to maneuver around the creepy crawly. 

The next positive sign of an approaching 'cross season is one that requires a change in line of my bicycle. I'm still a little gun-shy with my mid summer crash due to loose-stone/chip & seal road maintenance that resulted in right side bruises, road rash tears, a shredded kit & broken helmet.The sign is something to be avoided, as it is hard, round, and when there are a lot of them, dangerous to try and ride through. This year, the sign hit me. When something falls out of the sky while your head is down and hits you in the helmet, it can be a little disconcerting. The knock required a slow down and a visual check to identify the "what the heck was that?' A blackened walnut was the culprit. Not nearly as thrilling as the owl I dodged in early spring, nor the low flying wild turkey that scared the bejubus out of me in June. Nonetheless, it was a solid indicator that my favorite season of the year is almost here, Cyclocross, or as the rest of you may know it, Fall. Hup, hup.


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photo courtesy: Richie Wireman

I attended your conversation last night at Coveleski Stadium. I heard about office politics, investment opportunities, old girl/boyfriends, and why your car broke down. I tried desperately to focus on the reason I was there, but the volume of your words rose quickly to overcome the sound originating from behind your turned back. Laughter was exaggerated to convince your mates that either their comments were "hilarious' or that your punchline was worthy of a physical expression of joy. You were not alone. Every lull, every nuanced moment in the music was overshadowed by a crowd that overwhelmingly seemed more interested in saying they were there or that they went to the show, than actually trying to listen to the music. For many, the efforts of two great bands still in their creative prime were lost in translation between their instruments and your ears. I don't know how you can go to a concert and not even turn around and give a cursory clap of approval. It was annoying, disrespectful and I don't know why you were there. I hope the next time, you stay home. Live music deserves more than you can contribute to its audience.

After Yo la Tengo finished their intriguing  hour-long set of pop, art noise and drone'y grooves, I used my years of concert training and moved close to the stage where the volume of your voice could not be heard above the amps and PAs. I spent the next 2 1/2 hours interacting with the headliners letting the drums fill my chest, the guitars spike my skin, and the musicianship inspire my soul. When I went home you didn't matter anymore.

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