chapter 9: you can't rollerskate with a herd of buffalo

Thirty five years, and nine months ago my parents had a night of passion, and got busy. Nine months later, I was born. My mother wanting to be different decided to name me Marc with a “C”. I have often wondered how things would have gone if my mother had named me Mark with a “K”. Would I be well adjusted? Would I have a drive to fit in? Would I be happy with a normal life, drinking beer, enjoying football, and yard work?
But she didn’t, and instead we end up with this:














Okay, I have to say all things considered, I’m really happy with how my life has turned out. I have a great family, awesome friends, a great job, cool bikes, nice dogs, and an amazing wife. So for someone often described as skater-fag, dirty hippie, fat fuck jackass or freak of the week life’s been good to me.











Today for my birthday Diane (chunky monkey) got me some really cool stuff.

First gift: sweet ass sunglasses. Guess she was tired of me wearing my $5 Gucci knock offs.















Next gift: a sweet pair of Chukka boots by quicksilver. Diane knows how much I used to love my old vans chukka boots, so to replace with these is a dream come true.














Finally she got me a sweet cycling bag, as for years I have needed one, but have always used courier bags, or pillow cases, or a series of smaller bags, but for cross you need a big bag, And I finally got one. So sweet.














The boys of the midatlantic got together today, and handed me down some serious ass whooping, as my race didn’t go as well as I had planned today. The course was very technical and should have suited my strengths, instead I rode tentatively, technically poorly, and tactically blind. First lap, 2nd corner I laid it down. I was instantly off the group, and couldn’t seem to close the gap to them. In the barriers I never could attack, and even totally botched a re-mount about mid race. I’ve been racing cross for a while; I have never done that before this year. Finally, I had some rat fuck sucking on my wheel the entire race. He did no work, just sat on my wheel. I kept telling myself he was breathing way harder than me, and that I’d drop him when it counted, but with one to go, he finally went around me, I didn’t, I couldn’t respond. I’d burned all my matches trying to get up to the group, dragging his rat fuck ass around.

Cheers to rat fuck for racing smart, shame on me for been so thick and not turning around and making him work, I freaking know better. Rat fuck don’t take the knick name personally, you’re probably a hell of a nice guy, but at the time of writing this rat fuck seems to be the most fitting knick name I can come up with.

Worst of all, I drug rat fuck up to Nystrom, who he jumped at the finish. I said last week, that if I based my entire worth on my racing results, I’d be sorely disappointed, so I admit, I was pleasantly surprised to see at the end of the day I finished in the top 10, as I thought for sure I was fighting for a mid teens finish. I can take getting beat, I’m okay with that, what I hate is beating myself, not taking advantage of my strengths, and in short, shooting myself in the foot. That’s a bitter pill to swallow.

After a moment to reflect, I am incredibly lucky that I spent my birthday doing something I love to do, race cross, with people I love to race with, the Delaware Cyclocross Coalition of Delaware, and all my friends in the racing scene. There is always room for improvement, and lots more races for me to embarrass myself. I folks, have a ton of work to do.




Going to get a beer, and hit the sack, 9:00 am ride time is not going to come soon enough.

respect
fm