Yet another perk of biking

Friday night into Saturday morning was windy. Really windy, so windy I budgeted extra time to clean up things blown around my back yard before leaving for my friend, and awesome race promoter, Amy's group run. The ride up to the start at the notch can be done in 25 minutes, half hour at a more moderate pace, so I left at 7:53 for the 8:30 meet up with zero desire to hustle.

I had time to spare, and on my bike, I didn't need to use that extra margin to run half way back up my driveway and grab a chainsaw. Instead, I simply dismounted, picked up my bike, and walked over the tree wind had blown across my way. Bikes are wonderfully adaptable, and pushable, which is why I typically ignore signs warning, "Dead End," or, "Detour, Bridge Out"!

Not shockingly, given my surroundings, this is not the first time I've seen this. The earlier was much bigger.

My dismounts now have me swinging my leg over the top tube to avoid snagging the "Back off!" pole on the side of my bike, and with my leg still recover from undetermined injury, I'm sure I slow my speed more. My utilitarian bike, with panniers full of whatnot, is also a heavier lift than my old Zanconato cyclocross bike, but it was possibly a distant, but fitting, prelude to my destination after the morning run: the Northampton Cyclocross Race.

But before that, the run felt good, the best one has felt in a long time! Our mellow group finished at precisely the same time as Amy's husband, and my friend, Brian finished his lap of the 7 Sisters course. I even opted to join him, and his at least marginally slower self after his first run, for an extra loop to the East, and with that statement I further confirm what the first group learned earlier: I'm one of the rare oddballs who describes directions with north, south, west, and east.

I didn't join Brian for all his extra run, instead pealing off onto the Robert Frost Trail after we descended Norwattuck, which had me back to my bike not even a full hour later than I originally anticipated. A extra layer added, I bumped my hybrid (It can do it all, none of it perfectly. That's a perfect match for me!) down the old, less-used woods road through Earl's Trails to a stand of hemlock where I could more discreetly swap sweatier running clothers for more and drier layers, then I was off to the races.

A bit late in the season, I'd listed a few cyclocross race events on my calendar, but there'd always been a more enticing option, so Northampton was the first race I'd spectated this year. I arrived just as the junior race was finishing and witnessed a USA Cycling official grumping at a group of young racers who'd just crossed the line a hundred yards (although, to be a cool cyclist, I should write "meters", but I'm not, so I won't) away, huffing, "Move out. You're in an active race course." I suspect there might be friendly officials who want to make the sport fun and inviting, especially for new competotors. Mr. Grumpy didn't seem one of them.

Then came the elite races. My first impression: they weren't that big, nor all that awe inspiringly fast. In recent years, Adam had given up the UCI status of the race in protest of their policy disallowing transgender athletes, and this had definitely dropped the draw of fast talent. This year, the announcer was spouting the UCI designation, but the numbers hadn't seemed to rebound. The woman's field had 33 starters, and I asked my friends if it seemed small, or if I was just forgetting how badly USA Cycling is at encouraging people, especially non elite men racers, from joining the sport.

The men's race was bigger, but only just. The crowds watching were also much, much smaller from what I remember ten years ago when the sides of the course would be packed. In fact, half my friends didn't even stick around for the men's race. I myself left after only five riders cleared the barriers on the final lap, more concerned with having time for a snack and changing my attire again, before the All Bodies on Bikes Halloween ride across town. The best things I saw at the races: my friends. In some ways, I guess that was always true, but maybe less poignant.

I didn't take any pictures of the race. I didn't take any pictures of costumes on the ride. I enjoyed both of them, but left both on the early side, the latter because my collection of orange, stripey, zig-zaggy clothes were not keeping me entirely toasty. I didn't bemoan not staying until the bitter end of either. Plus, my friend Adele who set me up with floor space for the night to avoid a dark pedal home didn't join the Halloween ride, so early departure meant more time for connecting there.

Oh yes, Adele said I lost them as a reader of this blog after the dying turtle photo. I get it. Adele is a caring, sensitive person, and while I can defend my choice to present the too often gruesome reality of motor vehicle transit, if you were likewise turned off by the image of the crushed turtle, but not so entirely that you are still reading, here are my apologies, at least for the part I played in that happening.

Home on Sunday, 

I partially cleared the tree by hand, 

enough for a bike to pass with ease. 

I'll get to the rest, someday.