The cornfields of Iowa were calling. Memories of Jinglecross 2017 were turned on their head for the Mid West experience this time around. One year ago, it was a game of ice packs by day and short sleeves by night with the blare from Friday night’s party on the hill still ringing in my ears and ranking heavily on the list of favourite race experiences of all time. 

For 2018, Iowa City kept it Flandrian and delivered Huttcross conditions with a frisky 10 degrees, heavy mud and derailleur destroying grass aplenty.

The days prior provided epic gravel riding with some agricultural motorpacing opportunities to tick the engine over. It was a nice reminder of the refreshment for the soul that can be found in the solitude of cranking along a dirt road. As well as the smugness that accompanies overtaking motorised vehicles (no matter how tardy) on a push bike.

My dreams of reliving Mt Krumpit-sans-dabs heroics were swiftly dashed as Iowa City got a lashing from the tail of Hurricane Florence mid-week. With the men running first in this year’s USA World Cup scheduling, Wout Van Aert and friends had spent an hour diligently carving in some sweet berms that I was excited to hit up.

However, Mother Nature scheduled a downpour just as the Elite Women’s World Cup received their final call to staging. The infamous Luge Run turned run from tricky-but-rideable to tricky-when-running-and-definitely-not-rideable with most of the field hitting the first few corners like a pack of dominoes on lap one before electing to dismount thy steed for subsequent attempts. None of it looked pretty. Nor fast.

Running my bicycle down stuff has to be my least favourite pastime. Ever. But, six degrees of separation is alive and well. It turns out that one of the tractor drivers I encountered during my daily Vitamin G intake earlier in the week, is the brother-in-law of a local Huttcrosser. Nek minnit, there was a rowdy rent-a-crowd whanau complete with unfurled New Zealand flag trackside. At a bloody World Cup. On the telly. Radness.

The weather eased for the Sabbath turning the mud into PB & J. There was a distinct possibility of losing a shoe somewhere in the Holly Jolly Hell-Hole traverse.

Race 8 of 8 of this trip was a short experience. During the World Cup the day prior, I had hit a descent at a decent clip, lost the front wheel on the exiting corner and struck a wooden stake. The following day, I took it next level on the exiting speed given the drier conditions and unbelievably whacked the same goddamn pole hard enough to dislocate my left shoulder. On lap one. At least I saved myself some bike washing before heading way South for a customs inspection.

The last 4 weeks was a whirlwind all American extension to the CX season Down Under, which for me started back in May in Canterbury. It’s time for a summer away from racing and towards some of the most epic gravel adventures on the doorstep at home.

I started cycling aged 5. My baby bro was 3. So the story goes, he wanted his stabilisers taken off and I was adamant that I wouldn’t ride my bike until I had the same dialled in setup as him (despite my higher propensity than his for hitting the deck). My fondest childhood memories are of rocking up to races together (aged 17 and 15 respectively) in a beat up car, baseball caps on backwards and ripping it up on bikes that were flogged to their absolute limits because we were so skint. High on the list of things to do this summer is going for a bike ride with that guy again.

Amen for bicycles.