I'm a bit pissed.
My bikes, they are not set up the same, I've got the twitchy one, a bit tighter, good for climbs and off cambers, the seat a tad lower, and the bars are shallow. It's got a bit of the Mod flair, with white bars, and red saddle, white trimmed seat post.
The second, who'll probably my #1 tomorrow, is set up a bit longer, a motor boat, full power, and plowing through. and I like 'em like that, not matched.
I'm down in L'ville doing the new "worlds" cyclocross park. Its daunting, and packed in tight. The ground is laying like a repacked grave, a bit loose and dirty.
I hopped on the course and hit up the start, straight down the pavement to a left onto strips of old sod covered ground. Down the straight to a hard left and then what I thought was gonna be a cool series of moguls, but was just one hump, and I pumped it full speed. Not expecting barries to be set blindly behind it. I clipped my toes, my bike, and frickin did some kind of super stride, but made it over them.
180 corners on the bottom of steep drops, dried up teats of a course, I love it. Gonna run my Moto X tires, the tufo Cubus.
I remember when I heard Punk was dead, I thought, thank god.
and I embrace cross, I hold it tight, to my chest, close to my heart.
I know that I've come late to the sport, and I don't expect or want some kind of exceptance.
When I race, Its the devil in wind I want to beat, my demons.
and with a spade I throw a bit more of this loose,dry, Louisville soil into the deep grave that I've crawled out of.
and that dirt and demons, the full moon in the sky tonight, my apprenhensive fear, with spital drooling outta the side of my mouth. eyes wide, open trying to understand the pain, my heart can't keep pace with pumping blood, the brain, just fends, with its short supplies, trying to figure out if this fake pain is real, and go harder, go harder! thats the life I want to live.
F it all!
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