Lately it seems that all I've been doing is thinking about bicycles, looking at bicycles, talking about bicycles, and riding bicycles. Luckily, between school friends and work friends, I've a whole slew of partners in crime with which to geek out on the topic. But my housemates still stare bewilderedly at my spandex-ed rear as I clip-clop my way out the door most weekend mornings.

Iga's a rider as well — of the equestrian kind. Sitting over breakfast yesterday, we started to nail down the thought which I was able to expound with sangria-fueled passion by that evening. What drives us to ride is that liberating certainty that you can go anywhere in the world you damn well please, fueled only by the power of your body and the synergy between it and your steed, (whether equine or titatnium or anything in between).

All this is by way of apology for the point of this post, which is more bicycle arcanity: This afternoon, I went to Golden Gate Park to watch the last of the 6-race US Gran Prix of Cyclocross series. Cyclocross, you ask? It's done on bikes only slightly more rugged than road bikes, and races consist of laps around a short (around 2 mile) course of mixed pavement, trail, grass, hills, and obstacles, some of which require dismounting and shouldering the bike. (Wikipedia tells it best.)

Because the courses are so technical, the riders are in good view for much longer at a time; because the courses are so narrow (from 3 feet in the most wretched uphills to around 20 feet for the flat sprint starts and finishes), fans could goad each other into being louder and louder. By far the mood-setter of the day was a passel of folks in neon orange jumpsuits, cowbells a-jangling, beer bottles a-opening, camped out near the top of a dusty, steep climb, and setting dollar bills in overhead branches or just-off-the-track beer cans for a quick mid-race grab. The very top contenders were busy contending for the race, of course, but after about twenty the rest of the field started learning to make full-faith grabs at the "prize", eliciting jubilant cheers when successful and a chorus of "Awwww..."s when not.

I <3 emerging underground sports.

My camera and I haven't been on very good terms recently, but here are some speedy blurs of color that I shamefully call photos from the Grand Prix Clark Natwick on Flickr »