The winter is coming, icy rain instantly freezes anything that it touches. The wind blows, it never stops, trying to tear down everything in its path. For the sane, it’s days like this that are best spent inside…hiding. Cyclists are seldom described as sane. Racing thousands of kilometers against all the elements is what makes a champion.

At the turn of the 19th century the myth behind the birth of cyclocross has it that road racers would race each other to the next town to maintain fitness during the dark months. There was no set course. Man and machine against each other and anything that got in their way en-route to the town on the horizon. Through farmer’s fields, over fences, if you knew the shortcuts then you’d reign supreme.

It wasn’t until Octave Lapize attributed his win in the 1910 Tour de France to his off season cyclocross masochism that the sport began to grow and, as is the progressive nature of life, it wasn’t long before the cyclocross specialist was born. Those that focus purely on the mud, the embrocation and lactate imbalance they thrive on to intoxicate every muscle fibre.

The development of the sport, popularity, and festival race scene evolved spreading from Europe to the U.S. but one thing remains and always will. Cyclocross is for the strong. Expect it to hurt you bad or you might not survive.

The warning is out...