Wednesday, October 15, 2008
(picture from zoo at Suckerbrook)
Standing on the start line of a 'cross race is like voluntarily seeing how high you can turn the voltage on the electric dog collar you've wrapped around your ankle - you know its going to hurt, you know you don't have to be doing this and its kind of stupid, but you do it anyway. Its that moment right before you push the button that you think - "wait, I don't have to do this. I can go back home and take a nap. I don't have to subject myself to the pain thats about to hit".
And then Ed turned the collar up to 10, hit the button, and yelled. In a manly way, of course. I only put the collar to 2 before yelping and taking it off.
And your legs burn and you wheeze like a fat kid with asthma and you fall off your bike and you get back on your bike and you gasp and flail some more and your brain stops working except to inform you of useful tidbits like "you have to pedal the bike to make it move" and the leg-burning takes over your whole body which is screaming at you to stop and hopefully the brain can override the curses that your legs are throwing at you and then you finish and the elation at being done mutes the pain you just went though. You catch your breath, you spin your legs, and within ten minutes you've forgotten all the bad parts and can't wait to race again.
Cyclocrossers have sick, twisted minds. Who would put themself through this so willingly every week?
(unrelated peaceful mountain picture)