CrossLobster

As some might know ... i have an evil little fetish for cyclocross.

it's not as though i'm very good at it ... yeah, i'll win a race every once in awhile and if the course is supah-roadie-rific, there'll be richter-measured pedal stomps on every grinder.

but ~ mostly, when i race cross ... it's sorta like if you ripped the zippy-thing real crazy-like on one of those toy wind-up cars ... shooting it wild into a kinetic, frenetic blur of unguided abandonment ... shrieking mad-as-hatter across the plains and only able to turn direction when it smashes headlong into something solid, spinning it dazed and random as the wheels catch rubber again and shoot off in some other misaligned direction.


i do love it.
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So, the RockLobster folks have decided to let me play dirty in their argylee-skinnysuits.

i have no idea what they're thinking.
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but it's cool ... i can dig pale, girly green with scottish flair. besides, Steller says kilts are totally cool and Brent has already committed to leading me out for all the sprints ... so, it's a win-win situation.
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Cross ...

i can't wait. it's the training for it that probably gives me the most enjoyment. hard core efforts, pushing manic through the trails, not giving a shit about structure or time on bike-itis.

just blowing snot all the time, everytime, on my own time.


i love the wholeness it gives my body after the road season. arms stronger, hands more in-tune with the bike, stomach muscles revived and pulling the center back into it's rightful cradle. And the racing ...

Cross racing has the vibe, the venue ... it's a scene, yo. The picture-making is better and more varied, the conversations roll like trails over hills ... sometimes narrow and squinty, others wide and encompassing. Beer and chocolate cookies, sweat and stinging legs, twisting bodies that hurl down slope and up over barriers.


right on.