ncj01
01-14-2004, 07:43 AM
I think this is from Dirt Rag, best damn Rant I've read in a LOOONG time....29er content = cross bikes are 29er's too....
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 dont 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.
Theres 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, hes in the bike shop the next day, tweaking and freaking
his rig because he cant admit that hes 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, hes investing in excuses.
And get this: he has a cyclocross coach. Thats 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.
Hes drinking Echinacea and OJ instead of Excederin and Red Bull. He
used to worship Gunnar and now he won't even admit that hes 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.
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 dont 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.
Theres 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, hes in the bike shop the next day, tweaking and freaking
his rig because he cant admit that hes 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, hes investing in excuses.
And get this: he has a cyclocross coach. Thats 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.
Hes drinking Echinacea and OJ instead of Excederin and Red Bull. He
used to worship Gunnar and now he won't even admit that hes 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.