Shortly after moving to Portland I witnessed my first cyclocross race. During a wet, miserable December I trudged out in rain boots to Portland International Raceway for the last USGP race of the year, idly curious to see what all the buzz was about. I mean, why would anyone get off a perfectly good bike, throw it over their shoulder and run with it? Because I loved riding my bike (and hated running) it sounded utterly ridiculous to me, so I had to see for myself.
The mud was thick, the rain biting, and the fans rabid. Giant cowbells clanged their support and beer flowed freely between spectators and racers. The scene was outrageous. I’d never seen more a crazed group of spectators at a bike racing event.
And then the dancers came out. On bikes. In the freezing mud.
Suddenly, I didn’t see the suffering, the miserable cold, the wretchedness. Suddenly, I was swept up in the most graceful, exquisite ballet ever imagined. Well-muscled, with nary a spare percentage point of body fat on their freshly embrocated bodies, the racers flew past, breath heaving, blowing steamy clouds that lingered in the air moments after they’d gone. Sporting gleaming, skin-tight leotards, like superheros, minus the cape, they bounded, slipped, sloshed, ran and rode through the mud, splattering bystanders who screamed for more.
The spectacle of it was exciting to say the least. Hooked at once, I began attending other events, invested in a giant cowbell and proceeded to heckle, cheer and shout support for friends and strangers alike. At less “serious” races, I found that many racers chose a more subdued appearance, eschewing the roadie garb for something more, uh, casual. Still others came for the fun factor, riding mini-bikes and kids’ trikes for fun and to “warm up” without the aid of a soulless stationery trainer. This was the warmest, most friendly, most inclusive racing event I’ve ever seen.
I was intrigued, stimulated, one might even say inspired to explore it. But I knew—despite my yoga prowess and grace, I’d never have half the mastery these guys had. Dismounting, shouldering the bike and running the barriers, smoothly, seamlessly seemed unlikely at best. As a dyed-in-the-wool roadie (I hadn’t seen the light of the Church of Mountain Bike, yet) I was skeptical that I could even learn the basic moves to make it happen.
Fast forward to the next summer, and find me—along with about 300 other women—on my road bike, bottle cages and skinny tires and all, at the local cyclocross instruction clinic. Some great names in cyclocross and mountain bike racing were there to show us the ropes: Tonkin, Slavin, Williams, Brubaker, Skerrit.
A few weeks later, cross bike in hand, I rescheduled my training rides to include more rain and mud time. I sought out and built barriers to practice dismounting smoothly. I never did get very good at it—my version of the mud ballet was more like a filthy Riverdance jig—stomping and clogging about. And in between the fun stuff like barrier jumping and attempts at graceful mounting of the bike post-obstacle it was an all-out, head-down, teeth-bared, snot-nosed sufferfest for 45 minutes.
In other words, it was glorious. Even the running with the bike part. Especially that.
In the Bhagavad Gita, a classical and definitive yoga text, Krishna instructs Arjuna as he is about to enter into battle, telling him that a man has the right to his work, but not the fruits of his work. In other words, the work is the reward. In Cyclocross, the suffering is the work, and in devoting oneself fully to it—beyond any hope of a podium finish—the work itself was transformed into a sort of grace. It wasn’t the grace of a prima ballerina, but rather the grace that comes from utter surrender and acceptance. It is the grace of knowing, at the end of the day, you’d done your best, regardless of whether you finished on the podium or 97th. It was the grace born of the singular realization: One does not master cyclocross. One is mastered by cyclocross.
In classical yoga, it is said that all life experience is grist for the yoga mill. In the case of cyclocross, the ‘yoga mat’ is cold, muddy and miserable. But the muddy grins by far outnumber the crushed dreams of a good result. Call it the Belgian version of ‘yoga’, where, at the end of class (or just getting schooled) one concludes their practice with a hearty beer and a high five instead of a cup of green tea and a “Namaste”.
I’ve given up participating in cyclocross as a racer, preferring fat tires to skinny these days, and balancing out mountain bike season with snow sports. But I’ll always be excited by ‘cross and for those who dedicate themselves to it with a passion that is unmatched in road racing. Superheros of mud, snow and freezing rain, I salute you in true cyclocross spirit:
More cowbell!
CYCLOCROSS NATIONALS UPDATE: If you’re heading to 2010 Cyclocross Nationals competition in Bend, OR, check out all the BikeYoga goodness being offered by yours truly. The complete schedule an online registration can be found here. Though specifically designed to benefit cyclists, these practices will be accessible to all levels of yoga experience, and all categories of racers from beginner to pro.
