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eventsport
SEASONAL IMPRESSION
It’s cross season in Nebraska—and everywhere else, I imagine—and contrary to popular marketing and myth, it doesn’t mean it’s time to glue tubulars, or drill dismounts, or hup hup some run-ups.
Cross season in Nebraska means I’m going to hit some hidden gravel, some dry grass, some rolly pine needles in an off-camber turn and my front wheel’s going to wash. And since I’ve gotten out of it nine times out of every ten, I’m going to pretend it’s not happening, hang on a little tighter, and hope for the lucky hook up.
Too much pressure, not enough rubber, or whatever the case, it’s cross season in Nebraska and that means I’m picking myself up off the ground, emptying my levers that are now filled with a scarecrow’s share of grass and dirt, straightening my bars, and soldiering on. And only then do I remember the real feeling of cross season in Nebraska—shallow scrapes, wartime wounds, and the seasonal impressions best experienced the morning after, slowly peeling yourself from the sheets and shuffling awkwardly into the next stupid day.
Go big red.
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