I was just re-reading the last essay I posted here on Embrocation and realized that I might be giving readers the wrong idea about the kind of person I am. Yes, I probably could have accurately been described as a surly motherfucker on the night before Spa ‘Cross, my first effort at promoting a cyclocross race; but I could also be accurately described as wearing the day’s biggest grin the next morning when the first of 6 races launched onto our course.
Here’s what I didn’t tell you last week in my essay about Spa ‘Cross: when John, my co-promoter, and I designed our course, one key feature we both knew we wanted to include was a giant “shame spiral.” We both shared a vision of racers spiraling in tighter than the whorls on a snail’s shell, than pinning a 180 and spiraling all the way back out before heading to the next course feature.
Spirals, AKA crop circles, AKA Cinnabons of Death, AKA the Magic Swirly, have long been my favorite feature in any ‘cross race. Not only are they cool for spectators, who can spend countless minutes trying to figure out who’s leading and who’s been dropped, but they’re cool for racers who have to try and figure out the same thing, only the racers have to do it through the red-line haze and the specter of other racers flashing by them in every direction. So, we proudly announced the spiral’s location on our course diagrams.
On the Friday before the big day, I went over to John’s house for pizza, beer, and to collate and staple release forms and numbers. I wasn’t at all surprised to see that he’d broken out his full architect’s tool kit to draw dozens of diagrams of the Shame Spiral. Each sketch was to scale, and showed exactly how we could economize our scant supply of caution tape. I chalked the obsessive schematic-drawing up to a touch of perfectionism and a pinch of good foresight, then we got on with the night’s business, fortifying ourselves for winter’s cold with pizza and beer. And collating.
As the sun rose behind an angry sky on the next day, a crew of volunteers helped us lay out the course in the driving downpour. The spiral, which occupied the entirety of a ball field’s outfield, looked good, but the rain kept us from riding it. Despite careful planning, I was worried that for some unknown reason, the course wouldn’t function as designed.
The next morning, the cat 4 and citizen’s race rolled off just a few minutes late at 9. It was the biggest single race of the day, and because of the weather, they were the first people to ride the course. The racers ripped down a short stretch of pavement, dropped down into the starting chute, railed a turn over a berm, raced around the back of a baseball diamond, then entered the spiral. I held my breath as the first rider arced into the swirl.
Completely forgetting about an aggravating morning when my registration volunteers (Mom and Dad) had arrived late, and the previous day’s toil in the rain, the subsequent, maniacal search for safety pins, I was the guy with the biggest smile when the leaders were exiting one end of the huge spiral, and every inch of grass behind them, all the way back to the spiral’s entrance, was filled with ‘cross racers, intent on nailing the next turn and advancing their position.
Why the smile? The course, Shame Spiral and all, worked exactly as designed, and the strained grunts and short, labored breaths from racers were testament that we had actually pulled our race off. Yes, the only thing better than getting to dictate the size of safety pins at your race is the satisfaction of seeing the race actually take place. Plus, it’s just cool to see bikes going in 16 different directions in the Shame Spiral.
