i just had to re-print this article...

This article was published one week after i was forced to cancel my December cyclocross race at Lake Fairfax Park in Reston, Virginia. 3 day's prior to the sunday race the entire eastern seaboard was dumped on with record snowfall from the mid-Atlantic to New England and it was the park authority that had pulled the plug on the venue...not me. Reston is exactly what is stated here, Yuppies, Lexus, Chardonnay and Brie.

published 12.27.03

Dirt Rag Article Archive

‘Cross is for Yuppies

By Nick Verstain

(Issue #0)

My cyclocross race was postponed on Sunday—because of snow. Now that makes about as much sense as postponing the Kentucky Derby because there was horse crap on the track!

‘Cross is supposed to be done in snow, rain, mud and ice. We’re supposed to pretend we’re in some Godforsaken burg in Belgium, tramping through the drizzle and dung for an hour, then washing up in a freezing stable with a bucket of ice water between our knees.

But in 2003 in America the Bootiful, we’re sitting at home watching the NFL while a perfectly good ‘cross course sits covered in a delicious frosting of precipitation. I shouldn’t be surprised. This wimping out is just another chapter in the yuppie-ization of cyclocross. Might as well pass out the brie and chardonnay, boys. Add another $200 in chi-chi Paul parts to those $3,000 cross-specific bikes sitting in the warm garage, snuggled next to the $50,000 Lexus SUV. Go to the Internet and buy another pair of $179 Assos bib knickers.

Put on your Bose anti-noise headphones, ‘cuz here comes the sermon. Back in the day, which was about five years ago, we would have not only had the damn race in the snow, we would have ridden our bikes to the course. And we wouldn’t have worried about a little moisture corrupting the integrity of our SIDIs and skinsuits because we’d probably be wearing Sorel boots and red-toed socks. With tights under knee-length shorts. And a hooded sweatshirt, dude. And must I say it: platform pedals.

In those not-so-old but very good days, ‘cross was not a weekend holiday in honor of St. Mastercard, but another tribal celebration that involved a bunch of guys and gals tooling around a muddy park on pieced-together rigs, hooting and hollering and falling in the slop and puking the leftovers of Saturday night’s revelry onto the mulch under the kids slide at City Park.

There were organized races, but the goal wasn’t a spot in the USAC rankings or even a check for a couple hundred bucks. Our patron was Saint Gunnar of Shogren, the coolest biker to ever wear a mullet. C’mon, admit it: there is no better hairstyle for a bike racer or hockey player than a damn mullet. Short on top fits under a helmet and long in back just looks good. The burr-cut X Games skateboard wannabe look is fine if you’re getting strapped into the electric chair, but there’s nothing like a mullet blowing in the backdraft as you glide over the finish line.

Gunnar Shogren showed us how to do it with style. West-by-God-Virginia style, with a rusting van full of Pixies cassettes, bike parts and a tandem sleeping bag. Before the races began, Gunnar would be out with The People, giving tips on how to negotiate the creek crossing or carry your mountain bike over the barriers.

Yes, there were barriers. Big ones. Too damn big for the latest Hot Todd to bunnyhop. Part of ‘cross is carrying the damn bike over the damn barriers. Trix are for wabbits. ‘Cross is for men and women who believe in the triumph of pain over style, that if you suffer enough at the steel plant or Wal-Mart or the bike shop, you’ll be rewarded or at least not slapped in the face by some Mountain Bike Action twit. The Slick Ricks who hop their 4-pound frames probably bunnyhopped over Algebra and honors English. ‘Cross is the sport for all those lunch bucket guys in South Boston or Oakland, PA or Dublin or Ghent, poor saps who needed to race to pull themselves out of the drudgery of a potato field or a Chevy bumper factory.

They don’t need to pull that old F-150 into the parking lot full of Acuras and Expeditions and Cayennes and feel bad because their ten-year-old battered and nicked Bianchi frame isn’t high-gloss and tricked out like a $1000-a-night hooker. So what if they ain’t running Candys and TUFOs and don’t have six sets of wheels in the SUV, two for every possible weather forecast.

There’s a class war going on in America and I’ll be damned if I’ll let it kill ‘cross like it has killed mountain bike racing. One of my best friends, a guy who makes his living writing about cycling and should know better, is showing signs of the disease. After every ‘cross race this season, he’s in the bike shop the next day, tweaking and freaking his rig because he can’t admit that he’s getting beat because he’s friggin’ slow. His Cannondale XR800 used to be his pride and joy: a bare-bones frame, Shimano 105 and a set of Speedmax tires. Now it looks like a sad moose weighed down by redundant brake levers, anti-chain suck devices, carbon chainring protectors and a Ti-railed saddle from Italy. He’s not buying speed, he’s investing in excuses.

And get this: he has a cyclocross coach. That’s like admitting you use Viagra. He’s huffing and puffing on a trainer before races, trying to get his heart rate purring to perfection before the start of the race. He’s drinking Echinacea and OJ instead of Excederin and Red Bull. He used to worship Gunnar and now he won’t even admit that he’s been to Morgantown. Gunnar is out there, folks, He’s keeping it real for us. You gotta believe that there’s more to bikes than spending money, that there’s more to fun than funds. We can turn the tide by taking back ‘cross. One mullet at a time.

© 2002 Dirt Rag Magazine