The Apology

An open apology to the spectators at VeloCross (wherein I relate myself to a fat sea-mammal)

I must apologize to any spectators unlucky enough to witness my grim, spittle-ridden visage as I tore about the Velocross course at roughly half the speed of a small child on a tricycle.

On the road, during moments of intense physical output, I like to imagine that my face breaks into something of a half smile, half grimace. The sort of look Death would wear (if Death had a face), or perhaps the way Ozzy Osborn looks at a bat shortly before he eats it. I'm sure, however, that I look a bit more like this:

Anyway, off-road, where I'm typically struggling to find my balance, my balls, and my fitness -- while attempting to avoid/bunnyhop/accidentally smack my chainring into that drainpipe someone left in the middle of the course -- I seem to loose control of my facial features altogether. So I'm sorry cheering lady at the corner of the U-turn in the parking lot, I didn't mean to look at you like a crazed escapee from Arkham Asylum. I was trying to smile.

Watching me race a bike -- I imagine -- is a lot like watching walruses attempt coitus. (If you're into that sort of thing). Sure, they're fat, and ungainly, and akward as hell, but eventually, and without any style, verve or fanfair whatsoever, they'll get it done.

And thus I crossed the finish line of my very first cyclocross race last Sunday: Feeling overweight, akward, exhausted, and a little like I got fucked by a walrus.

I have never had so much fun on a bike.