Shawn:: "Ben Verhoeven racked up a first place finish in his first cross race at the Battle of Barlow over the weekend, below is his account of the event."
Wishing for the bell lap. Let the guy from Salem shout out to a Clydesdale, "Riders coming!" Suck his wheel onto the grass and towards the four pack. Above me I can see my teammate Shawn wrestling to force his chain back on while shouldering his bike in a run. Past the finish line and the blessed bell now. If I can just hold on, I think it's going to be Salem and I. This third guy is starting to feel it. I let the two of them open up a gap. We'll meet at the run up out of the ravine. The railroad ties are spaced just so for long legs. The clamor from a group at the peak of the climb fades off as we whistle though the woods and into the cornfield where there is that damn gravel corner that always forces me wide. It's just the three of us. Four barriers. Now it's the two of us. Salem and I slog our way up the bumpy false flat towards the chicanes. He's pushing the headwind. Salem looks strong. One chicane, he's gearing up, two chicanes, he sits down and pushes his chain a few cogs smaller. I follow suit, our derailleurs clicking. Then pavement. Smooth, whining pavement. Tucked behind him into the first turn. Get my legs in order. Catch my breath. We're out of the saddle as we crest the rise into the parking lot and the crowd. There's a speed bump. I try to pinch the last turn, but he doesn't give me the alley. Finish line is only ten pedal strokes away. Still out of the saddle, he throws his bike to one side. Then the other. Seven. I swing wide then back in. Five. It's not my legs, but my face that feels flushed and pin-pricked. Swing back in. Four. Pedal. Pedal. I can feel our shoulders brush. Two. Close. Salem says something as I pass. Pedal. "Damn," maybe. Pedal, then lunge, then LINE!