Of Glory

GLORY.

Come my friends and followers, gather close, for I wish to tell you a tale, one of glorious men, and even more glorious deeds, days, and dreams.

CYCLOCROSS.

Gathered on a sun soaked Sunday, late in the fine fine month of October, amidst the falling golden leaves of aspen trees, at the base of a mighty mighty mountain, stood a crowd of sixty hearty souls, their nerves rubbed raw by the proximity of their competitors and their competition's proximity. They twitched anxiously on the start line, like hounds before the hunt, eyes nervously scanning each others heads, quads, toes and tires, looking for signs of weakness or superiority, waiting for the opportunity to run, to fly, to dive as a peregrine dives without fear or hesitation, to dive head-long for that first bottle-neck, that first turn, that first test of skill and strength.

GLORY.

Purity, my friends, is what makes a great thing great. All great things are pure, and there is perhaps no greater purity, no more primal, impassioned human struggle than the men's B's cyclocross race. As the first blood was drawn, as the first racers overshot their line and lay writhing on the ground, as the rest of the brave brave wheeled-ones either pushed through the madness, shoulder against panicked shoulder, or dismounted to avoid the same poor poor fate, the dust flew, and the the leaves fell, and the fans--oh how the fans cheered.

CYCLOCROSS.