Cyclocross is Life

Marisa Peacock
10.05.05

It’s a powerful statement, indeed. I write it not to exonerate cyclocross from the raucous, beer-drinking affair that it clearly is, but to highlight the crucial elements, that in fact, make cyclocross one of the greatest sports on two-wheels. I’m not trying to elevate it to the status of an uber-sport, à la Tour de France, but rather to admire its “every cyclist” persona.

I know this because I am not very good at cyclocross, but I am crazy about it! Starting my third official season of cross, armed with two knobby tires secured to my Surly frame, I set out weekend after weekend from September through December to race over barriers and sandpits and hike my bike up and down steep hills, through the gnarliest of weather—and for what? Fame? Hardly. Fortune? Not likely. I do it so I can get up in the morning, despite my crappy job, and know that I have done something. A whole lot of pain for a little bit of redemption.

Such redemption doesn’t always come in the form of prize or cash awards, though nice, but mostly it comes in the form of mud, blood and vindication. Cyclocross is the Fight Club of our time—an arena where seemingly well-adjusted folks convene to trade egos for humility, and stare down our own Tyler Durden. We conquer ourselves with every ankle we twist, shin we bruise and collarbone we break. And still we get up and finish our laps bloodied and muddy, but smiling.

Not to get overly symbolic, but cyclocross is the perfect metaphor for overcoming obstacles—literally, the two foot high barriers we must jump over tirelessly—and figuratively, when life deals us a near fatal blow, from which we can’t imagine recovering. Last weekend, that was me, face down in a pile of gravel, having hit the deck after taking the wrong line in a switchback. The crowd watched as I drove my bike into the ground, got back up, spit out some rocks and continued on. There was no time to take inventory of my body; I had escaped with out flatting—I was good to go, so I did. And the crowd cheered on and I gave a casual smile. Even if I came in last (which I did) I wasn’t giving up, not for a bloodied knee or bruised ego.

These moments come back to me in my seemingly well-adjusted life—and suddenly deadlines, conflicts, and temporary setbacks in love and life don’t seem so insurmountable. Despite my bruises, I will be out there next weekend doing it again. After all, though you may get the wind knocked out of you, whether in life or in cyclocross, as long as you’ve still got air in your tires, you’re good to go.