Ah the lingering flavor of the mud of the Midwest. We in Chicago, have been as some would say spoiled by great weather for racing.  But, we at the Bonebell, believe the weather this fall has been almost the opposite of optimum. Spending the Thanksgiving weekend in Michigan with family, opened the schedule for the last KISSCROSS race of the year. That was until the weeooohh weeooohhh showed up in my rear view mirror. It seems a certain minivan driving cross loving dirtbag was a little carried away in a car that didn’t actually feel like a lumbering…well…minivan. As I was pulling over, the first thought on my mind after my wife stabbing me, was well there goes the cross race. But, all I got was a warning, don’t drive so fast, yes sir, and I was on my way. That’s how we roll. Any minor setback like a joy ride gone bad and we wonder where our bike time goes.

The forecast called for rain before the race, a period of cloudy skies during the race, and rain after the race. It didn’t sound good, but really it kind of did. And when I got to the stadium grounds, where I stood on the sidelines of my bench warming high school football career, I saw the muddy full spiral into despair. On the first lap the music blaring over the speakers was the Rolling Stones – ‘19th Nervous Breakdown’. This could not have been more appropriate for a spiraling feature on the course that was about 70 yards in diameter. With the rim deep mud, it took almost five minutes to survive at a single digit speed. The ground was a consistency that would not allow you to get out of the saddle and gas it, as soon as you did the rear wheel sunk into the muck and ended all forward momentum. A bike that weighed 10lbs. more than the start. It was a proper mud throwdown.

A good start had me in the top three going into the first turn. It was a pavement leadout into a muddy chicane and then more mud covered grass. Immediately the mud blew the field apart, as the wheel sucking goodness grabbed every rider and threw them around the course. I forget how much power is required to keep the bicycle running somethly throught this stuff everytime, until I get back in it. Then up the stairs, and into a bog that had mud in sections that approached hub deep. An offcamber area lead around to the football field where the spiral of death began. The leader began to roll away with power that I knew was beyond me this day. A few others passed me as I settled into the rythm of the race. 45 minutes of run or ride, where’s my brakes, and faster damnit faster, and my solo ride was joined by a brakeless, singlespeeder. I spent half a lap trying to figure out what was going on with this dudes bike. Which may or may not have helped my cause. He pulled away and the only compliments I could think of at the time were of four letter origin, which generally in my book means wow, that dude is killin’ it. I pulled in for 6th place in a race that made the St. Charles mud race feel like sunshine and unicorns to my drivetrain. That poor chain and cassette, oh how they hate me right now.

Word for next season, if you have the time, get up to Michigan for a KISS race. As Brother Boyle was saying in the parking lot, “these races feel like the ChiCrossCup did five years ago. Back when there were three categories: A,B, and C. Old school racing and just a great vibe everywhere.