The first boy I ever dated like to play in mud.
No, he wasn’t 5 years old. We were both in college; and in typical liberal arts crunchy granola style, he loved to play Ultimate Frisbee. Post-practice, he would find me in the cafeteria to say hi, smelling of a mix of antibiotic ointment (for skinned elbows and knees) and the heavy scent of mud. As much as I adored him, I didn’t understand the appeal of running around in shitty weather, getting everything you own covered in dirt, grass stains, and possibly blood.
A handful of years later, that boyfriend is at Goldman Sachs – undoubtedly dressed in pristine custom suits – and I am catching mud-encrusted bicycles.
Earlier this month, in NYC, I got wind of a big ‘cross race up in Gloucester, MA: The Great Brewer’s Gran Prix. It was worth traveling to, it was said, and an awesomely fun time. Embarrassed enough at my ‘cross virginity, I resolved to find a way to get there. Complete ignorance as to how to operate a car became a non-issue as Zipcar and a best friend pulled though. And Saturday afternoon, dressed in knee-high galoshes and a raincoat, I was Gloucester-bound. Even chilly temperatures and persistent rain couldn’t keep me away.
I was purely there to spectate. But apparently that involved a little more participation than just taking pictures in the rain.
Because an innocent request to walk an extra bike to the pit by NYC Velo owner and friend Mr. Andy Crooks turned into full pit crew duties, complete with a bruised palm and muddied everything.
Relentless rain meant that the course was thick with the kind of mud that tried to suck my galoshes off my feet. Less peanut butter and more boxed-cake-mix-before-you-bake-it, it was, as Mike put it, “the best worst weather” for racing. And while the rain finally abated in the first 15 minutes into the race, that didn’t mean I could stand by simply snapping pictures in the mud.
A call for a bike came, and Mike and I ran into the pit. Andy shouted instructions for us to clean off his cassette (a smart move as we had no idea what we were doing) before he looped around and with the grace of a mud-covered ballerina, tossed his Litespeed my way and hopped on his IF in one single motion.
Simple physics meant that the bike dragged me about a foot as I tried to stop it without falling over myself. Mud splattered onto my rain-drenched jeans and raincoat. My hands were brown and gritty.
“…Wow,” I said.
“Welcome to ‘cross,” came the reply with a smile from the rain-suit clad gentleman next to me.
I smiled in return before running across the course to wash off the bike and return it to some sort of functioning order. We did it one more time before returning to my spectator/photographer status, and mid-drooling over a Richard Sachs frame, even got a smile from the man himself.
Endorphins rocketing around in our brains from unexpected pit crew duties, I clapped and shouted and whooped at Andy on his last loop. He whooped in response. He was unrecognizably covered in mud. It was freezing, we were at least half-soaked, and it didn’t even matter. “This is fun,” would have been a gross understatement.
Welcome to ‘cross, indeed.
