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fifth street cross
"Pabst Blue Ribbon!!"
The great campionissimo Fausto Coppi remains the sport's purest example of how elegance and grace can triumph over cruelty, viciousness, misfortune, mans's inhumanity to man, suffocating cultural mores and a funny-looking nose. We are not Fausto Coppi. We are us - pretty ordinary people who ride too much but still feel as if it's never enough, who care way too much about a sport we're way too okay at, and who live lives of quiet exaltation. For cyclists like us, welding stupidity to a blue-collar ethos is the fastest way to get fast, have fun, make friends, break a rib or two, and, perhaps - whether it's out there in the dark beyond the fainting-goat field or while dribbling cheap swill down our jerseys while standing in a literal spotlight in front of a group of laughing spectators - maybe even achieve our own private instant of triumph. Or maybe racing around someone's yard in the off-season is just a good way to spend a Thursday night.
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"Cyclocross
- it's just stupid."