Cyclocross Worlds Day One

 

Marianne Vos, the Eddie Merckx of women’s cycling, did it again.   She won her eighth World Championship nipping her teammate Lucinda Brand in a sprint after the two led the field for all seven laps of the two mile course up and down and winding through the forested terrain atop Millsap Mountain on the outskirts of Fayetteville. 

Wearing matching orange jerseys and red helmets it was hard to tell them apart, except that Vos had a yellow fork on her bike, stalking Brand for much of the race.  If one could spot their numbers, Brand wore number one as defending champion, and Vos number two. Vos, the elder by two years at thirty-four, regains her throne.  She’s still a dominant force, fifteen years after her first World Championship.  All the younger fans in attendance will have the privilege of saying decades from now that they saw her race.  

My friend Lèo, a Brit who lives in France and has written more than a dozen books on bicycle racing, emailed that he read an American account of the race which referred to her as the Goat.  He had never heard that term and was perplexed, as her surname actually translates to Fox. He’d actually interviewed her, visiting her at her home in Holland, which she shares with her parents.  I enlightened him that it is a fairly recent acronym for Greatest of all Time, and at one time to be called a goat was an insult for making a blunder that cost one’s team a game.

The Vos-Brand battle came in the third and final race of the day.  The women’s juniors began the activities at eleven a.m. in sunny, forty degrees temperatures which warmed up to fifty.  That was most welcome after night time lows in the twenties and the concern of staying warm being outdoors standing around for six hours or so.  I didn’t need any of the extra layers I brought, including a new pair of wool cycling socks thanks to Randy Warren and SRAM.  

Randy, who drove over from Asheville, North Carolina, hosted a twenty-mile ride around the city, mostly on bike paths, Friday afternoon, sponsored by Chicago-based SRAM, and presented all participants with a pair of socks. Most of the couple dozen who turned out were members of the local cycling club wearing bright orange jerseys with “Exp” and “Fay” on the backside, for “Experience Fayetteville,” the town’s slogan. It was a most friendly and amiable group, several of who are now Strava friends.

I barely arrived in time for the 2:30 p.m. ride as the fifty miles I had to ride from outside Fort Smith to Fayetteville provided the hilliest terrain yet, including a long, steep climb to 2,200 feet, the highest point of my ride so far after starting s couple days before at four hundred feet in Little Rock.  I thought I was nearing the summit when a sign warned “Very Crooked and Steep Next 1 1/2 Miles,” but the road continued upward for more than twice that.

After reaching the summit I was confronted by a cold headwind from the north making further demands on the legs.  I was glad to have made reservations at a Motel Six ahead of time, so I didn’t have to worry about finding accommodations  to unload my gear.  I was fortunate the desk clerk allowed me to deposit my gear in my room even though check-in time was three p.m. and the room hadn’t been made up yet.  

I was plenty depleted, but I initially felt airborne with my bike shed of its fifty pounds of gear as I headed over to the bar three miles away where the ride was to commence.   I started the ride strong, but my legs began to wane from the faster-than-touring-pace halfway into the ride.  It had been advertised as a “no-drop ride,” implying it would be relatively fast and there was a danger of being dropped, but the good folk of the ride would wait up.  I never got dropped, but I was completely done-in by the finish after having ridden ninety and eighty miles the previous two days.

The last I’d seen Randy was three years ago in San Luis Obispo where he was conducting a training camp and I was riding around the state dropping in on Carnegie libraries.  It hardly seemed that long as his weekly cycling podcast with his brother is so conversational it always makes me feel as if I’m in on the conversation.  He is a genuine high practitioner of the bicycle—racing, coaching, advocating, Everesting, podcasting and serving on boards of various bicycle organizations—so it is always a pleasure to have time with him.  It’s not often we get a chance to ride together, so that was almost as much of a treat as seeing Vos in action for the first time and all the other world-class cyclists.

Among the more noteworthy was Zoe Backstedt, the British winner of the woman’s junior race.  Her Swedish father Magnus won the 2004 Paris-Roubaix, and her Welsh mother was a professional cyclist as well, once again proving the impact of cycling DNA.  She won last year’s road World Championships for juniors as well, portending a bright, bright future. She could be the next Vos with her versatility and strength and lineage.  She led her five-lap race from start to finish increasing her lead on every lap.   

Her podium was rounded out by two Dutch riders.  Both women’s podiums for the day were two-thirds Dutch.  Silvia Persico of Italy prevented the Dutch from sweeping the elite woman’s podium, as Dutch riders were breathing down her neck finishing fourth and fifth.

Just as the Dutch dominated the female races, the Belgians dominated the men’s, sweeping the podium and taking six of the top ten places in the under-23s, the other race of the day. Jordan Wyseuru took the top spot with Emiel Verstynge and Thibeau Nys joining him.  The Belgian fans were having a high old time.   They were easy to spot bearing the black, gold and red colors of their flag in some manner or another.  One cluster included guys with helmets adorned with bicycle parts—a seat, handlebars,  big chain ring with chain and the seat post joint of a frame. 

I walked the entire course looking for optimum places to view it, but knowing where the Belgians chose had to be the best, as they’ve had a lifetime of viewing these races.  They chose a vantage at a turn where the racers came past on a gentle descent then made two sharp turns and began a climb.  And it was also across from one of the several large screens mounted along the course giving the television feed.  

The riders in each of the races were spaced out enough it took two or three or more minutes for them all to pass, and then just a few minutes later the leaders would begin the parade again, so there was action aplenty.  Those lagging were riding hard, but their heads were hanging knowing they weren’t in contention for anything except finishing.  One could detect a faint hint of national characteristics in many of the riders—an Irish rider or two bore a tic of Sean Kelly, a Swiss rider suggested Fabian Cancellera, a French rider bore resemblance to Thibaut Pinot,  there was a glimmer of Jan Ullrich in a husky German rider.

The podium ceremony was conducted in French and English and concluded with the national anthem of the winner.  

Besides the Belgian fans, a few orange-clad Dutch fans stood out as well and obliged folk who wanted to take their picture.  

A couple of locals jovially asked the Dutch if they knew the difference between a hillbilly and a redneck. Before they gave the answer someone interjected, “You shouldn’t give away our secrets.”   The answer was that if you did something to infuriate a redneck he’d kill you and throw you in a ditch, while a hillbilly would keep you.