In keeping with cycling superstitions, my unlucky race number is upside down on purpose. All photos by Colin Darling

Somehow, cruelly, I’ve ended up in the front row at the start line. Behind me, some two-dozen riders ready to tackle the New Brighton cyclocross race: 40 minutes of semi-off-road cycling on a short, twisty circuit in a park on east Vancouver’s waterfront.

I’m fairly fit, and know how to ride a road bike for long distances, but this is a different challenge. Cyclocross is kinetic in a way I’m not. It’s up, down, left, right, start, stop, grass and gravel. It is my first time doing this and I’ll be out of my comfort zone. I suppose that’s why I’m here – about to be run over like a Lada on the Autobahn. And I’m not even racing with the best guys. The “citizen” category is a wonderful marketing euphemism. It makes me and my competitors, the newbies and under-skilled average joes, feel better about the fact that we won’t be flying around the course like the stronger riders racing later.

I rode with running shoes and flat pedals. The true mark of a novice competitor!

The all-important remount

We’re off and it’s remarkably civilized (we’re citizens, after all). The pack rapidly spreads out into a single file as we negotiate a brief paved stretch, then bunny-hop a curb onto a grass uphill. Cresting the rise, we get ready to deal with the “cross” of cyclocross: two short barriers that we have to run over carrying our bikes. Momentum is key – no braking here. You dismount and hit the grass running. Bike up, jump over, run, jump over, bike down. And now the crucial part. Hands on the bars and a flying leap onto the seat, landing on the inside of your thigh rather than any other part of your anatomy. Flat tires are easier to change than flat gonads.

Far right, a racer with a proper bike carry. Centre, a rider plows through in the saddle. Me, left, doing it the least efficient way possible.

Riding dirty

As adults, we lose our sense of play. Predictability and comfort win out as we age, and so we turn to physical activities that emphasize those traits: jogging, swimming laps, spin classes, yoga, walking. Cyclocross is BMX for grownups, basically. There’s nothing very predictable about  launching yourself at speed into thick dirt, tires spraying sand in your face as they fishtail, pedaling furiously to keep momentum. The better riders make it all the way through the beach. One guy loses his balance and keels over in slow motion in front of me. I eventually bog down, dismount, and run.  I’m not terribly good at riding in the dirt, but boy is it fun! My tip of the day – do something childish, like a somersault. I dare you not to smile.

Grit and Grind

The fun comes at a price. It is more of an individual battle than a race. There is very little passing or being passed, once the pecking order has been established by fitness and skill.  With  two laps down and three to go,  breath becomes ragged and the old familiar burning sensation comes back to the legs. Cyclocross isn’t a very zen-like activity. Push hard up a steep hill for ten seconds, kick into a heavier gear as you barrel down the other side, flick your handlebar slightly to avoid a pothole, grip the brakes to get around a hairpin turn, ride into the dirt, dismount, push, remount. You try to do each lap better than the last, but at the same time fatigue erodes your ability to think ahead and plot your course. What was relatively easy the first time through can become preposterously difficult as the race ends. We cross the finish line without any particular fanfare, coast to a stop, chat with other racers while catching our breath. I go find a spray hose to wash the mud and grass off my bike. Hot chocolate, pastries, and conversation follow.

New Brighton Park

In keeping with the mud-spattered image of cyclocross, Sunday morning was awful. The rain showers held off during the race but the sky remained dull gray.  The venue is one of my favourite places in Vancouver. What makes New Brighton park so great is how it blends the stunning views of  Burrard Inlet and the North Shore mountains with an industrial landscape. Freighters and railway cars are being loaded noisily nearby, and the hulking Ironworkers Memorial Bridge looms in the middle distance. For me, the jarring contrasts between the natural and built environment make the park more appealing.  Year-round, it is a destination for joggers, soccer players, dog walkers. In the summer, its outdoor pool is alive with children splashing about. While you’re focused on racing, none of the scenery matters, of course. But there are worse ways, and places, to spend a Sunday morning.