I didn’t kill it.  I swear.

But it was there.

Big, squishy rat.  Cyclocross roadkill.  On the course.  Just after a jaunt through a pile of rotten pumpkins (rideable).

It reminded me of the sacrificial bird and I rode faster.

Something about riding over dead things brings back the primal viking urge of my ancestors that lies dormant most of the time.

My mother and father were in attendance today and it’s safe to say that my mom is now officially cowbell crazy.  She vows to bring a “real cow bell” with her the next time she returns for cyclocross mayhem.

We spent the evening before the race listening to a Nat King Cole Christmas album on my record player (she’s a Christmas fanatic) and I daresay it was the ultimate in pre-race relax-o session.  Another indication that I am finally as old as dirt and equally as boring.

Race report pending.

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