2017 Corriganville Showdown

The fog had settled thickly over parts of the city yet by race time, in the canyon, it had largely withdrawn. It was as if the thunder of driving wheels and the slap of chain against cold, hard carbon (which just does not sound nearly as ominous as cold, hard steel) had forced it into a retreat.

The thunder, the chain slap, whoops and hollers, and not less than a few curses could, in another time, easily have been a gang of cow-hands rumbling into town at the end of a long cattle drive - Colorado to Abilene, Los Angeles to Corriganville. But no, the sounds ricochetting off rocks, dying in the thick cover of oaks, was the result of what may have been the largest gathering of cyclocrossers to ever grace this little hamlet. The second wave, or four separate races, all on the course at the same time was enough to crowd every trail leading into and out from the dusty old town square. It gave all new meaning to "stampede."

There was an abundance of sand and leaf litter, and where those gave way to slick rock, wheels (not infrequently) gave way in response. Bodies were bloodied, but like the cow-hands of old, drunk with a night on the town, these riders drunk with the adrenaline of competition carried on with the revelry. Make no mistake, stories were forged on Sunday, stories whose lore will last until the next gathering at old Corriganville when, once again, riders will thunder in from points near and far set on establishing a new round of stories, domain for new legendary tales.

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Well heck, the telegraph line don't reach all the way out to Corriganville yet and I dropped a bunch of glass plates for the old shadow box (battery for the camera ran out of juice, and I left the spare at home), but I did get things done, and only a day after the fact. Beside the few photos here, there are more at the Flickr album.

overlook

riding away

round the ol' oak tree

pretty sure that was a "grrrrr"-racing sound I heard as Isabel sped past

Big Orange

comings and goings