The Parable of the Drunk Girl and the Bug
Cyclocross is an odd sport where one waits for the least reliable weather, suits up in their finest lycra, hops on a bike built for neither road nor mountain, and then, essentially, rides a cross-country steeplechase through mud, sand, tree roots, man-made barriers1, and up and down ridiculous inclines, both manmade and nature-provided, with plenty of weaving about through tight turns, many banked to throw the riders off the side of a hill.
If this sounds fun, you and my spousal unit would probably get along. He finds this to be one of the better uses of a weekend. I tried it, once, and am happy to ring my cowbell to cheer riders on from the comfort of my waterproof boots2 on the sidelines.
A favorite event of both of ours is the Trek Cup held at the Trek bicycle factory up in Waterloo, Wisconsin. Some years it is a local race, some years it is a part of the international championship series for those who play with bikes in the mud for a living (lucky ducks). Every year it is a good time.
While cyclocross is a professional sport, it is also very accessible to amateur mud/bike enthusiasts. Thus, the spousal signs up to race on one or more days, and I spectate. Ideally, I do this from my hammock strung between trees at the Secret Bar3, which is exactly what one would hope for from the name: it’s a pop-up bar in the middle of the woods that exists only on race weekend, with disco ball hung from a tree branch. The Secret Bar Beer (brewed specially) is free, and the tips all go to charity.
At the end of a particularly rainy race weekend, I joined the spousal unit in the long line for the bike washing station. As we stood there, shooting the bull with friends and waiting our turn at the pressure washers to get at least most of the muck off his bike before we schlepped it home, I noticed that up on top of a hill overlooking the factory, a Volkswagen Beetle was showing every sign of being stuck in the copious mud4.
Having spent my day keeping the Secret Bar in business, by this point I was a little…sauced. Inebriated. Still moving under my own steam and capable of forming complete sentences, but with no business operating heavy machinery.
After watching the car struggle in the mud for a few minutes with no one helping, I did the only thing I could: I climbed that hill in my slippery rain boots, put both hands on the back of the car, and started pushing.
Now, what do you think the chances are that a 5'3" drunk girl in rain boots can muster enough force and friction to unstick a VW Bug from ankle-deep mud?
Not great. It didn't work. Physics were not even remotely on my side: my feet were slipping in the mud at least as badly as the car’s tires were.
But here's the thing: It actually did work. Physics may not have been on my side, but once I started pushing, other people showed up. Big people. Strong people. People wearing boots with actual tread.
I couldn't do it on my own, but the group that formed around the work to be done could. And when we realized that the rain had washed out the path down the hill, we found another way: it was a blind drop that took the driver between two boulders. And yet, it worked. Once one driver had made it successfully down, others followed because they could trust that the path was clear.
There is a lot to be done in this world. Much of it is bigger and scarier than any of us can face on our own. When you see work that needs to be done, do what you can, even if it might not be enough. Because often, when we take action, others appear and help.
Railroad ties are a classic—and one gets bragging points if they can "bunny hop" over them without getting off the bike.
Regardless of the weather forecast, always—always—bring waterproof boots.
As a fun bit of trivia, the origin of the Secret Bar was a keg and a sleeve of cups left unattended at the top of a gnarly hill, which is a great spot for spectating/cheering/heckling the riders. Astute readers will note there is something missing from this scene. As the spousal unit and I cheered riders and speculated as to why a keg was sitting on a hill, some dude walked up, tapped the keg, and left. Having attended this nation’s finest institution of higher-learning-and-keg-stands (Go Sun Devils!), I knew an invitation when I saw one, so I started pouring beers for all and sundry. Needless to say, things have become rather more formalized since then.
Parking for this affair involves a lot of "found" spaces, many of which are even officially designated as parking.