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.