Shielding my tears from two young girls no doubt waiting
for their Dad to cross the line, I broke down after the finish at the Masters
Cyclocross World Championships in Louisville.
When I told my wife about wearing my emotions on my jersey sleeves at
the finish she rolled her eyes. She
knows me. I also cried on my wedding
day. My shoulders rattled with man sobs
and sniffles. A photographer snapped
pictures of the newly crowned 45-49 year old Masters World Champ Don Myrah next
to me but I swear he snuck a click or two in my direction. I wiped my face, mixing tears with mud and
put my head in arms atop my handlebars till it passed. Under it all I smiled. Like my wedding day, I was happy. My friends and family will tell you I’m a
softie.
I remember seeing the Cycling Dirt video of Adam Myerson after an east
coast race. Completely emotional, torn
apart and crying, he was upset that he thought that day was his day. Oh please spare me. He made the lead group in the Elite race only
to have one small thing derail his hopes.
He was crushed under the thoughts of all that training, practice and
meticulous attention to detail seemingly being of no use. All he wanted was that one good day on the
bike. I rolled my eyes watching the
video. It’s just bike racing. There’s always another race. That's what I thought until my day came.
“Do you want me to put it on you?” Barb, one of the Worlds organizers and a Louisville
race promoter, offered to drape the finisher’s medal over my helmet. I chuckled and sniffed. My buddy Jimmy talked about finishers medals
on the trip down and how bullshit they are.
He told me he once turned one down, dismissing it by saying medals should
only go to the winners. I remained indifferent.
Smiling, Barb held it out, a white enameled medallion
hung from a red, white and blue ribbon.
She recognized me as her “results runner” from the USA Crit Series at
Cincinnati’s Hyde Park Blast. Being
close to many of the Papa John’s team riders from Louisville and knowing
practically every rider in the Ohio Valley racing scene, she knew first hand
all the hill repeats, practice dismounts, and garage trainer nights that
brought me to this moment.  |
| The Pink Pony Pit Bike |
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| "Onetago" Courtesy CXMagazine.com |
“Onetago, onetago, one-to-go!” The announcer shouted as I got the bell. I buried myself on that last lap, gained
three spots and lost two. I went no
handed over the line, clapping my hands, applauding for myself. I cruised into the finishing chute on the
lead lap and the 29th rider to cross the finish line at the 45-49
year old Masters Cyclocross World Championships. I nodded, wiped my nose on my armwarmer and Barb slipped the medal over my
helmet.
