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We hope to launch this before the new year.

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As only cursorily mentioned before, the cyclocross season is in full swing. A discipline for all comers, ‘cross attracts riders from all disciplines and throws them in a muddy circle ringed by caution tape and redolent of embrocation.

The races so far have been fast and intense, and slightly spastic. The first 30 seconds are, as usual, a battle and circus. The last 30 minutes to hour a burn that seems to go so slowly — laps counting down with sweat dripping into the eyes, grit in the teeth, someone shoving dollar bills in your face. You want to punch your friends in the face for their jokes about your dismount technique as your heart pounds on exertion and adrenaline. But then after your race, you yell the same jokes and taunts to your friends and teammates as they struggle through their own race. Trust me, they want to punch you, too.

Things are early enough that the series contendors are not yet apparent, but everyone knows who the big guns are. A bulls-eye on the back, a secret wish that they flat in the final lap.

There’s room for a darkhorse or two. One missed race, a series of mechanicals, and the points go to someone else, and with them, the jersey and the small shred of glory from amateur bike racing.

There are two months left of this madness and we’ve only just started. My tub of embro is still full — it better be empty by the time States happens.

There are rides when all you do is go hard and there are rides when none of that is important, when the company is all that matters. Jen and I rode out to Fairfax, CA this past weekend. Her first time on a ride I’ve done numerous times now. It’s a good 50 miles roundtrip. It was hot, sweaty and moist north of San Francisco in Marin. The good kind of heat that left the muscles warm and loose.

A recovery pace if I were to use training terms but really, just a casual touring jaunt pace if distance were the goal. A pace where you could enjoy the scenery and watch the world go by as you tried to travel against it.

In Fairfax, there’s a great little brewery, called Iron Springs. I’ve not partaken in their namesake but have their food. And it’s solid good honest brewery grub. Good fries, good sandwiches and if you’re ever in the mood for black bean nachos, they have some of the finest.

We turned around and proceeded to head home. The heat was becoming a bit much for the lady and we decided instead of climbing back up over the big hill in Sausalito to the Golden Gate Bridge to take the ferry from Sausalito back to downtown SF. We’d never done it before so why not? Bikes lined up as we waited to board, trying to stay hydrated as the heat beat us overhead. The ferry, full of its load, left the pier and off we were, the breeze a welcome friend as we crossed back over to the city we live in.

“…almost race pace.”

The words floated in my mind, as I headed up the mild hills toward the park. Enter the park and navigating my way around traffic and the slickness the fog has brought with it. It’s still early so it’s rush hour traffic and the fog hasn’t subsided yet. I’m already spotted with dirt and I’ve only ridden on the street and paths thus far.

I’m trying to find the course.

It’s not a race day. It’s a training morning and CX is on deck. What better way to get an almost race pace CX workout than to find the scene of last evening’s edition of Team DFL’s CX races, an underground institution of 15 years, and actually do a few race pace laps?

I see tracks.

The scene slowly revealed itself to me and there it was, amongst the trees, nestled away. I scouted first, to find remnants of how the course was laid out. Painted arrows, directions, treadmarks and flattened grass. Single, double, triple track. Gotcha. Try to figure out how a course would be laid out here so I ride around a bit looking for more signs and eventually sort it out. Not too big, tight and fast. Compact would be the best way to describe it.

Clip in and I’m off. I build up the spin and follow the signs. Fast, loose. The trail lets you be loose, requires you to be. Otherwise, you’re going to slide and wipe out if you’re too rigid, too uptight. Let the limbs be loose and let it flow.

The only things that stop me twice are a long-ish section of what’s essentially a sandpit. The dirt on this misty, moist morning resembles fine chocolate powder. I want to eat it but I remember that it’s dirt. Like hot chocolate… wipeout. Can’t keep the rubber down. The wheel turns left, right, sharp right, sharp left and nowhere else to go because there’s no more traction and that means down.

Ah, pillowy chocolate dirt-sand.

Remount and onto the other section, through some trees, dismount to run some choco-dirt bits and remount. Now comes a section, a sharp embankment down. How to take it? I decide to clip out one foot to pivot me down and around the tree. Going well, going well, going down. Back up and at it.

A few more laps and I’m done. I decide to explore the park some more to find the singletrack and trails I hear about. I find some, ride it out to the beach. It’s warm out there. Maybe because I’m warmed up well. I watch a Chinese man watch a helicopter being unloaded onto the ground. I watch as a film crew sets up for the day. I’ve got the day ahead as well.