And so the local cyclocross season ended with me beating Nunzio (for real) on Saturday, him beating me (as usual) on Sunday. For the year, he won first place in 65+, I was second, and Mike came in third, even though he's faster than either of us, but he missed a few races - they grade on attendance.
Saturday was my best ride of the season. Nunzio and I passed each other a couple of times on the first lap or so, then I gradually pulled away from him and even caught a few 55+ guys. After the 65+ "podium" (a rock), I instinctively grabbed the third place prize, even though I finished second (to Mike). I suppose it's good to have been on the podium often enough to have "instincts", albeit self-deprecating ones.
Sunday's race was the opposite of Saturday's: long straightaways and a hill so steep that I ran it every time. I could have tried to ride it as far as possible, then probably fall off, roll down the hill and have to run it anyway. And in case any spectators from that hill are reading, "running" was mostly a state of mind - you might have mistaken it for "walking".
This race started with a drag-strip light, but my "instincts" expected a whistle. When everyone else started, I waited for an official to call "offsides" and move them all back ten yards. By the time I grasped the situation, let's just say I had maximized my opportunities to pass people. In the end, it was a fairly satisfying race: I was 12th out of 22, or as I like to put it, the winner of the second half (11 + 11 = 22).
With one lap to go, the official, as usual, rang a bell as I crossed the line, but this time, also yelled to me that I "just made it!". I was briefly proud of this until I realized that what I had "just made" was a requirement to endure a whole 'nother lap. I had crossed the line ahead of the leader who hadn't quite lapped me. See, once the leader finishes the race, you are done when you next cross the finish line, so I had to complete my entire lap. I was last to finish the race - but I wasn't last! The order was me, the leader, then all the guys I had passed. They had been lapped, so they got to stop after five laps; I had to do six. I knew the spectators mistakenly thought I was the slowest guy in the race, so I kept yelling "I'm Last Not-Lapped, not Last", but they thought I was just doing diction exercises.
You know, I think I've raced on Sunday's grounds before, in fact, it might be the site of a story that usually works when I tell it, but that I've never written. Could that be my next blog post? Is that a cliffhanger?
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