“You’re a big boy now,” she yelled as she slapped my soiled jean shorts and sent me on my way. Dazed and confused, I made my way past the mud-splattered male and female strippers and hopped back on my bike. And that was just the first five minutes of racing.
- The horse: A custom Rock Lobster singlespeed cyclocross bike
- The course: The Singlespeed Cyclocross World Championships
- The equipment goal: A performance-minded singlespeed for the weirdest cyclocross race in the world
Steel may be real, but alloy can be awesome
Paul Sadoff of Rock Lobster Cycles has been building custom steel and aluminum frames for 38 years. The Santa Cruz-based builder has gained a loyal following with cyclocross racers. He was a proponent of low and slack cyclocross geometry long before it was mainstream.
Sadoff’s approach to ’cross geometry is in line with my own predilections. As is his no-frills approach to frame building. You won’t find hand-cut lugs or excessive livery on his bikes, just a quality steel or aluminum frame designed to be ridden, not worshipped.
So why aluminum and not steel? Well, I was after a purebred singlespeed race bike. I wanted a frame that was light and stiff — any compliance I need can come from low tire pressure.
When it came to sorting out the finer points of frame geometry, I asked Sadoff to base the angles off one of my favorite production cyclocross bikes — a 52cm Specialized CruX. From there, the top tube was made a touch longer and head angle was slackened slightly. It’s a mountain biker’s cyclocross bike, which is exactly what I was after.
It proved up to the challenge of a Singlespeed Cyclocross World’s course that would have given the UCI a panic attack.
Time to get weird
In its 10th running, this event was the best type or organized chaos I’ve ever participated in. The course combined serious racing with an inspiring amount of absurdity.
We began by laying our bikes down in the center a cornfield and taking our place at the actual start line. After a wooden replica of Seattle’s Space Needle was set ablaze, a shotgun blast signaled that it was time to sprint through the mud in search of our bikes.
To my surprise, I was ahead of Sven Nys at the start. My Midwestern youth prepared me for the perils of sprinting through cornfields, but a childhood in Kansas will only take one so far in a world championship race. In my case that distance was approximately 300 yards. From there I drifted back until I reached my rightful place in the middle of the massive 200-person field.
The first obstacle we encountered was a party bus filled with adult entertainers. Volunteers shuttled our bikes from one side of the bus to the other while we sprinted past male and female dancers. A few riders decided this was a pretty good place to take a pit stop.
Next up on the non-sanctioned list of course features was a dual slalom track built in the middle of a pumpkin patch. Mud and the detritus of pumpkin fights made it all the more treacherous.
From there we came to the shark jump. A small wooden ramp gave racers the option to huck their meat into a shallow cattle pond. I’d already watched two riders break forks from poorly executed landings earlier in the day, so I opted to take the less heroic line. Needless to say, I was not a crowd pleaser. Sorry.
The final major obstacle was a pit filled with exercise balls. Actually, its official name was the “Amazeballs of Fury”. This was the rowdiest section of the course, and it quickly turned into a drunken game of dodgeball, as spectators hurled the mud-covered balls at racers.
But that’s not all we had to contend with. Regardless of what your local race officials want you to believe, hand-ups are never a crime.
You name it, it was available to you while racing: beer, liquor, cotton candy, even fondue. The most professional people at the race were the spectators; they had all the bases covered.