Old race report a buddy and soon to be quest writer emailed back to me,  I forgot I wrote this

It's one thing to go into something blind, it's another to go into something with your eyes wide open, and it's still yet another thing to go into something with your eyes wide open but looking the other way. Yesterday fell into the later category. It had been over 2 years since my last race. My training for the last few years could be tagged with such keywords as “sparse” “sporadic” and “hap-hazard.” And yet for some reason I found myself drawn back to racing, much like suburban America is drawn Starbucks. Addicting, like crack fiend addicting. I needed a hit. I needed a hit bad! And for that hit, I was going do a line of pure uncut cyclocross. You know, that good stuff you only hear rumors about. So I spent most of the morning mulling over to myself. Counting the strikes I have against me, remembering that the last ride I did was on a trainer a week ago. This should be interesting in the same way car accidents and train wreck are interesting. I know how this race is going to end up and yet I can't seem to turn away from the horrific tragedy that will happen know as Matt's Cyclocrss Implosion(copyright pending). And yet as transfixing as MCI would be, I was turning away from something, from all the things that said “don't do it!” Yes, I was going to race cyclocross, in definence of logic! Yeah take that Mr. Spock! Misery loves company as the saying goes, and this was no exception so I brought along my friend Jonathan. It was quite a contrast. Jonathan was on a full suspension specialized FSR. He wore thermal bottoms he got from walmart with his shorts over them, and to keep his hands warm he brought his work gloves. Then there was me, on a carbon Cannondale Taurine Single Speed, with XTR wheels and etc etc etc. Kitted up to the nines, with a matching jacket and hat, brought three pairs of gloves, just in case I decided to switch. I weighted a 130lbs this morning, and that was a problem. As Dez Wilder(Cannondale Facotry Team) always tells me "physically you look like you're at your peak all the time even when you're not riding. So no one takes you seriously when you tell them how slow you are." Oh but if only they knew the truth. The contrast between Jonathan and I was a bit embarrassing. ...for me. Here I was a on Gucci looking bike with probably the best looking team kit out there(Thanks Ron) and I'm lining up for the Men's C race. I was a strong reality check that I need to do more time riding and less time looking pretty. So Jonathan and I set out for a few practice laps. They went really smooth despite the mud. And not just mud, its like cake batter mud. Like Martha Stewart after her time in prison goes Bat-Crap and decides to get the last laugh by making the world's largest cake and uses the Folsom Rodeo venue as the mixing bowl. So after getting a few laps in I'm feeling pretty good and definitely happy I left my cross bike and brought my mountain bike. So after a little chill time its time to line up. I'm on the far left and Jonathan is in the middle. I hear “GGGGGGG” and I don't even wait for the “OOOOO.” I'm clipping in and mashing the pedals like a 10 year-old mashing X-box buttons after four cans of red-bull. Yeah not pretty but it was getting the job done. A rider shoots out in front and I pull in right behind him in the number two spot, exactly where I want to be, I turn around and we have a pretty good lead before rounding the 180 turn near the parking lot. Jonathan catches up to us and as we turn onto the straight thats goes back towards the start finish line tell him “Go for it! I got one gear and I'm going mach looney and a half. You got gears, use em!” Jonathan clicks up two gears and rockets ahead into second position. We round the corner and I absolutely nail my dismounts. I nailed them to the point where I swear I heard a heavenly choir sing for every barrier I went over. As we do the cake batter slide into the stadium we run into the back of the men's 40+ and the Womens A's and B's run into us. And thats when I hear it. A very loud voice yelling, “come on guys go go!” It was Larissa from UC-Davis. For the next four laps it was kind of like riding with myself with the constant non-stop trash talking she was spewing at the guy right in front of her, which happened to be me. Every time I almost bobble or lose it I have a commenter giving a play by play. Every spare breath I could muster was spent not recovering but firing a verbal barrage back in response . Around lap four it hit me, a sharp side stitch that reminded me why the only time I run is when I here the phrase “You there! Drop it and freeze!". And, that when I do run, I blow up faster than a McDonald's in Afghanistan. So now I just floor it even harder since I'm already in pain both physically from my side and emotionally from my verbal assailant. I fly threw the start finish line and check the clock. I got time for one more lap. Time to let it all hang out, although the last time I did that it landed me in jail for something called public indecency which is ironic because I thought I looked pretty darn decent. I cook through the paved section carrying speed in buckets and a backpack and click up two gears......oh wait, I'm on a single speed, darn it! I spin out my 32x16 and scream into the stadium followed by a sonic boom, wait, no, that was just more screaming insults being flung at me much like a monkey does with poo. I jam up the stairs and as I hit the woods Larissa shoots past me. I scream “OH HECK NO!” We drop into the woods and right as we exit I'm sitting tucked close in about to cut on the inside for the pass when it happens. WHAM! I'm on the ground, face in the mud, with my bike in the air. No clue what happened, how it happened, but I am asking WHY! Why god did it have to happen? I get up and hop back on my bike. Scott Clark comes shooting by and tells me to latch on. I latch on to Scott, patron saint of saving my butt as this isn't the first time his good graces have helped me. We both roll through to the finish line, and I'm spent like a dollar in kids pocket at a candy store. Boom, gone, over. After getting back to the pit I find that my semi-slick tires have transformed into obnoxiously slick tires. Thus my fall. In making the giant cake, Martha Stewart made a butt-load of frosting. I must have rode thought this because my tires looked and rode like glazed donuts. Now cops have two reasons to chase me, I'm a black guy...with glazed donut tires. But needless to say cross was fun. I got third in my class, Jonathan got second. I think with gears I could do a lot better. I was a little frustrating because the whole race I felt so under geared. But it happens. Big thanks for Jonathan for letting me wail on him when we ride mountain bikes. Scott Clark for harassing me ever time he saw me outside taking the trash out or washing my car. Telling me to do cross. And thanks to all the Rio Strada Teammates that keep the fun in racing and riding. Whether its a group ride, a wave as you pass in the opposite direction, or the hilarious email banter.