Back in my truck. I’ve got music playing loudly though my iPhone which is connected to my truck’s stereo. It’s the same playlist I’ve listened to on my way to races and has long-been a go-to resource for motivation before just about any other athletic event. Bang Bang by Trouble Andrew; War of the Superbikes, Turbo Rock, and Razzamanaz by the Meatmen; an assortment of songs from White Zombie; Thunderstruck (live) by AC/DC, a cover of Let’s Lynch The Landlord by L7, and several other high-octane songs all playing at a volume that would normally be at odds to my 40-year old ear drums.

The music is a soundtrack to a looped highlight reel that is playing in my head. In this movie there’s no footage of me walking into the office or hanging ornaments on Christmas trees with my family. There’s nothing in there about my relationships with my friends. There is only bike racing. The highlight reel is an amalgam of not just my previous three cyclocross races, but the three races I competed in earlier in the year on my mountain bike. It’s been a short racing career so far, but I’ve got tons of footage. There I am: screaming a couple hundred yards or so down the grassy hill into the 180-degree turn at Biketoberfest. From the same is a clip where my back tire slid out from under me after taking a descending turn along a hillside. Every time I replay it in my head anxiety needles at me even though I recover (though several others on that spot crashed and a couple were injured). There’s the insidious climb toward the mansion at Charm City Cross in Baltimore and the exhilaration of reaching the top only to barrel down a series of turns back toward the main viewing area…also the slippery over-under where I saw that kid on his bike slide down when he didn’t have enough momentum to make it up all the way. There’s a clip of me at the Cranky Monkey Darkside race where I led my field for the first few miles until I succumbed to a mechanical problem; I recall my high-pitched panting as I pedaled as fast as I could to escape the pursing wolf pack. There is the blurry hint of spectators yelling and the traditional cowbells clanging throughout. I’ve got plenty more footage and none of it has been filmed with a GoPro…it’s all in my head and it’s in straight-up re-run mode as I drive along.

My coffee is warm and I alternate between it and my two-day-old sugar free Monster energy drink. Keeping my eyes on the road, I reach across to my trusty backpack and fish out my lunch bag. I need to eat something — either my peanuts and raisins or some apple slices. Anything to help stifle that feeling in my stomach which, presently, is indistinguishable between what emerging, mild food poisoning feels like or just plain hunger. I’ve got water somewhere around here, too…

I am a man in a steel capsule plunging through the inky, moonless pre-dawn. To the world outside I’m an otherwise ordinary pickup truck with a bike on the back of it sailing along the interstate. Inside the capsule it is a pandemonium; it is a circus.

I depart the interstate toward Winchester, VA and the sun makes its sleepy appearance in my rearview, presenting me with a light grey horizon and just enough visibility to make out the rolling silhouettes of the Shenandoas. On either side of me is a dimly lit bucolic landscape dotted with pastures, patches of vineyard, the occasional farmhouse, and undulating winding road. The cleared sections of the land reveal a smoothness which suggests a giant hand slowly swept across the Earth the way one does when making a sandcastle. For a few miles I feel that I am the only person on the planet who is awake until a string of cars greet me heading the opposite direction. I squint in their headlights and look off to my right to avoid the glare. Dawn is breaking and if there’s a time on this trip when I’ll hit a deer, I’m certain it’ll be when I’m blinded. The possibility of damaging my truck or getting injured concerns me slightly less the potential angst of missing this race.

The sun rises rapidly and light pours over Frederick County as if a giant light switch has been flipped. Even more suddenly my bladder screams to me its fullness. I try to ignore it but eventually I heed its warnings and pull over to the side of the road. I pee while pretending to “check something out” on the passenger side of my truck and breathe deeply the dewy morning chill. I promise myself that I’ll retire in a place just like this. I need to get to the course. I want to see its taped boundaries and how the race organizers have engineered its path along the punchy terrain. I want to get my bib and pin it to my shirt. I want to jock up and ride the course a couple times before the actual race. The circus within my truck is entertaining, but the energy is not matched with physical action. Maybe this is what going to a strip club is like? I’m ahead of schedule, but I make no further effort to “just be” in the moment and so I hop back in the truck and motor along as Jesus Built My Hotrod kicks off.

I’m entering Winchester proper now. I should only have about 5 more minutes of driving until I’m there. My palms grow a little sweatier and the hunger/food poisoning feel gives way to the familiar butterfly feeling. I’m aware of its distinct feel, its gentle burn that seems to cover the whole of my gut, not an isolated ripping feel. I’ve known it since Elementary school through to when I first ran track in Junior High and then Cross Country in High School. In later years the feeling would precede a tough exam in college, combat sorties in Afghanistan, or packing up the family and starting a new assignment somewhere. Welcome back, old friend. I’ve been expecting you.

I arrive at the Winchester Recreational Park a little before 7 AM. The park is unfamiliar to me and is a disorganized network of roads, hills, playgrounds, and beautifully abundant green space. I drive slowly looking for signs pointing me to the race, though it’s early and it’s unlikely that the volunteers have had a chance to put them out. Alas, I see the characteristic red and white tape boundaries of a cross course up a hill off to the right. I employ my Zen navigational powers to find my way to the parking lot. My music is quieter now, as if the intensity of its volume will consume my limited navigational bandwidth.

It’s common that I’m normally one of the first racers to arrive at the event. I plan to get there an hour and a half before the start so that I can check in, do one last check of my bike, pre-ride the course (a must), eat something, and then soak in the energy of the venue. For as long as I’ve been racing — as far back as 7th grade — it’s been as much of a psychological game as a physical one. I can’t tell you how many times I listened to the soundtrack to Glory during my 9th grade season of Indoor Track on my Walkman as I ran the race at least 50 times in my head (don’t joke — there’s some great tracks on there!). As a Cat 5 racer, we are the first race of the day and normally start around 8:30 which means I need to arrive by around 7…which means I need to wake up at about 4:45 depending on how far of a drive it is. Yes, on a Saturday. For some, this means that a portion of the suffering you experience in CX is felt as soon as you wake up! Top of the morning, motherfucker!

I don my gloves and hat as I open the access hatch to my capsule. Winds are calm, and the air has retained the same dampness and penetrates my two shirts like a serrated knife. I make my way over to the check-in pavilion and shudder up to the picnic bench. Milling about on the opposite side are bundled up race volunteers. The more senior of the group greets me and then talks the volunteers through the check-in process as he helps me along. “Do you have a license?” the man asks. “Nope…need a one-day, please”. I’m not being curt, I’m just too cold right now to use more words. If you’re going to race cross in a USA Cycling (USAC)-sanctioned race, you need a license. Don’t let this scare you off! You can buy a year-long license or a one-day (usually $10). All that will be asked of you is that you fill out a form with your age, e-mail address, and emergency contact info among other things (Here’s a tip: bring a pen from your warm car since the ones lying on the picnic table have cold, viscus ink in them and may not work).

I try to memorize the number on my bib and grab the quart jar of apple butter I ordered when I registered and head back to the truck. Oh yeah, cross races are also great for the variety of swag available: shirts, gloves, hats, neck gaiters, stickers. Some for sale, some for free. The sun is in full blossom now and more cars are starting to arrive. I feel like I’m ahead of the game and with plenty of free time, I can take special care to study and appreciate the course. But first, I’ve gotta put on a damn jacket!

Back at my truck I slap on some additonal layers and strap on my cycling shoes. Strolling to the back of my truck, I am greeted by the simplistic beauty of my ride. My bike is a gorgeous flat black silhouette of a machine made by Niner. It’s not the most high-end bike you can buy, but it’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought for myself. Like most cross bikes, mine resembles a standard road bike from a distance. To the trained eye, there are subtle variations in the frame geometry that allow mud to accumulate with less of a drag on performance. The tires are slightly wider (33 mm) and have knobby tread on them. To the really well-trained eye, they’ll see that my Niner RLT-9 is actually a Gravel Grinder…but we’ll not go down that rabbit hole here. It’s very light (especially compared to my old mountain bike), clocking in at about 20lbs. Some folks name their rigs. I haven’t landed on a name I like, though sometimes I think The Velocitractor sounds pretty butch — like what one might name a monster truck.

The Velocitractor is perched upon my hitch-mounted bike rack, its matte-black powder coat stubbornly reflecting the sunlight. I spin both the wheels and stand, briefly, in appreciation as the growling from the rear cassette as the momentum winds down. There’s no purpose to this spinning of wheels, but if someone were to place some nachos and seven-layer dip in front of you, you’d totally hit it, right? I remove my bike and lean it against the bed of my truck while I put my helmet on and wait for my GPS to find itself in time and space. I clip in and slowly roll my way toward the staging area where, a little more than an hour from now, I’ll be racing amidst this jumble of tape, roots, trees, grassy hills, and spectators.