CROSS CRUSADE SERIES RACE 1: ALPENROSE DAIRY

wherefore the silence since sunday, you ask? what of the coverage of the largest single day cyclocross event in the world? 'looking good in pants' has an unstated promise to the people (henceforth a stated one) to deliver on events like the cross crusade season opener. critics might even argue that our quick rise to esteem was nothing if not a buildup of anticipation for this race: introducing the players; piquing your interest in the weird world of elite bike racism; introducing the venue; and, of course, consistent reminders of the fleshly joys of spectating what's in and out of the spandex as it exerts itself on the bicycle.

a short answer isn't easy; but that alpenrose wasn't the same this year is a decent departure. in fact, i'd stop there and be done with it if i didn't suspect that i'd have to address certain accusations -- and the redress would be harder and more consuming in the end than taking a moment to give up the truth from the get-go, albeit two days late. ultimately though, we're here in the interest of the short answer, and a stitch in time, as they say, sews up the fat lips of the late-coming naysayers. then, however, i suspect again, this time that my attempts at brevity might come off as a masquerading ill will. to be brief, that is not the case.

ultimately, and this should be exonerating (though it's also the thing from which those accusations will, ironically, arise) my time at alpenrose dairy on sunday was very short. i didn't race, and i only watched the one race. the single speed race. the race that is most often the highlight of the races, and the one of which portland seems to be the most proud. there's a reason that the first two single speed cyclocross world championships were held here. but alpenrose wasn't the same this year. there were more than a few regular faces missing from the front of the race i saw. that didn't mean any fewer opportunities for heckling, a staple of the cross crusade series as much as the mud, wet and beer are.

it's not just the number of entrants that make alpenrose the world's biggest single day event, but the crowds too. people are excited, and they have been. 'looking good in pants' isn't the only outlet that channels and chases the energy of cyclocross anticipation. cyclocross is the people's cyclesport, and despite its being grueling and dirty, when portland heads out to the course, it knows it can expect to be able to enjoy a camaraderie of interest, local pride and carnival excitement before the onset of the impending winter gloom.

the single speed race is the epitome of that spirit. the leaders, sure, are the hard trainers and the technical experts, many of whom will finish the race and break for two hours just to ride again in the elite field (some without even switching to a bike with gears). but, after the pack has thinned following lap one, the center of the race is where you'll see, if not the more interesting competition, then at least the best examples of the local cyclocross color: the friendly rivalries of familiarity that thrive on mutual heckling of encouragement and the sure knowledge that the light at the end of the pain cave is the beginning of the party. people ride, most of them just leapfrogging positions, gaining some on the sections of the course that are best matched to their skills and losing them back when they get thrown something unexpected, and then they finish.

something, though, wasn't the same about alpenrose this year, and i didn't care that i missed seeing anyone finish. i hadn't raced earlier that morning, and i'd only seen a few of the people that normally make watching the men's elite race worth staying for, so maybe my mood was a little stale. i also didn't question my snobbery so much as to resist wondering if the scene hadn't become to big -- too open. i won't expound on my current perspective-from-a-distance feelings on that now, because i'm giving you the short answer in the interest of sufficiency. let it suffice to say, then, that perhaps portland might like to know its bicycle races like we like to know our bands. and yes, the early albums were better -- and whatever's the analog to knowing the bike culture on vinyl, i'll lay counterfeit claim to that understanding well. there's no pretending it wasn't always commercial, but remember when people still had the decency to leave something for you when you knew exactly why they were holding up the bathroom line for so long? we all know what you're doing. we're doing the same.

the short answer: this isn't sour grapes. things were already off before anything was afoot. call it cruel fate, but the situation was out of my hands, and self-fulfilling only to the strength of my case.

i saw the one race and then got to play the laughing martyr. the officials needed to make an example of someone, and it was better, in the end, that it was someone who hadn't anted a registration fee. i couldn't read the logo on his polo from forty feet, and so i thought that he'd just been enamored of the show between my arrival in my commuting outfit and my transition to my street clothes. looking good in pants means looking good without them. in hindsight (but not to deny the easy mistake!), it was cavalier to smile and wave. that cruel fate? through its subtle machinations, it had me tempt it. but come on. we all know what we're doing.

alpenrose dairy is apparently a family friendly venue. "you know that we could lose the venue for next year?" (not likely.) the patronizing eye contact measured the gravity of the situation. "i'm going to have to ask you to leave." i took my time changing back before walking my bike out through the parking lot of the dairy. who knows? there could still have been someone keen on seeing act two. nothing to lose if i'd pursued something then. anyway, rules are rules. though i ask, as i asked a friend via email who inquired yesterday about the wildness of my weekend: who can be friendly to his family if his to-go mug isn't probably full of something suspicious?

i should have tried to make it up to the guy by asking him to the pub.