IT BEGINS

November is a special time of year. Boise is magical all year round, and the Fall is no exception. The trees that give Boise its name are taking turns changing colors and shedding their magnificent plumage. Our famous football team, the BCS-busting-Broncos, suffer their annual stinging loss at the hands of a lesser foe, thus smashing our collective hopes of a championship title. And for me, it's November when I start preparing for the upcoming season in earnest.

The transition that takes place in my mind is subtle and gradual. Usually after I finish my final race, I don't even want to look at my road bike (or any bike for that matter), let alone ride it. I embrace my off-season with reckless abandon, and satisfy my craving for all those indulgences I just spent the last nine months resisting: I eat unhealthy food and drink alcohol. I stay up late and dance til dawn. I travel places (gulp) without my bike. However, it isn't long before I realize the weather is still quite nice, and the foothill trails look quite appetizing. I start messing around on my mountain bike when I feel like it, but still flippantly neglect my road bike. I get my ass back into the gym, eager to banish the pathetic weakling inhabiting my body. I attend cyclcross races purely to spectate (and eat waffles and drink beer). Slowly, as my previous racing season fades into the goulash of my long-term memory, thoughts of training begin to creep into my head. I feel like a bear who feels a bitter chill in the morning air and knows deep down that some day soon, inevitably, it will be time to hibernate. It builds for weeks, and preparations (both conscious and subconscious) are made. I change my worn tire. I charge up my Garmin. Then finally it hits -- I get on my bike, and I'm no longer in 2011. I'm in 2012. That's where next season starts. That's where I say: my success in May is earned today; it's not too soon to prep for June.