by Dave Queen
I am preparing to make my cyclocross pilgrimage. Cyclocross, like almost any activity, has those who observe, others that dabble, some who are dedicated, and a select few for whom it is their Alpha and Omega.
I am a cyclocross racer. Oval tracks exist only for dogs or horses. Roads and trails are for cyclocross training. Triathlons are therapy for adults with ADD/OCD issues. I finish my season with scabs and bruises. I watch the European ’cross races on my computer and don’t flinch when I have to cross state lines for a ’cross race.
It is my pleasure, indeed my honor – no, it is my moral duty – to travel to Louisville to worship at the altar of mud, sand and forty centimeter barriers. Such a journey is not to be taken lightly. In addition to the temporal preparation, travel arrangements and such, one must prepare spiritually as well.
My season was spent as a “Freecrosser.” I joined races in several different race series and bumped elbows with similarly aged brethren from all points of the compass. My bike has been repeatedly baptized with mud from the north, south, east and west.
As my spiritual focus turned from my own racing to my religious pilgrimage to the Cyclocross World Championships, I began to take steps to prepare my spiritual vessel for the upcoming experience.
I tried to turn all of my tastes toward the holy land.
Some of my friends told me I should get my hands on a Flanders flag. This seemed odd to me as Ned Flanders is kind of a secondary character. Isn’t that what faith is? If Stu Thorne told me to dip my tubulars in baby vomit, I’d do it without a second thought. Doing something when you aren’t completely sure is what faith is all about. I believe! I got the flag !