"So I hear you are into cyclocross," said Martina from Clever Cycles as we chatted on the second day of Interbike. I responded with genuine amazement. "Me, into cyclocross? What makes you say that?" And then I remembered that I'd spent the previous evening live-posting a continuous stream of blurry snapshots from Cross Vegas - "the biggest cyclocross race in America." I gave up two other industry events to attend this thing. I guess it did seem like I was pretty into it! But as I was quick to explain, I am only interested in watching, not racing. In fact, of all the forms of cycling out there, cyclocross is the one I am least likely to actually take part in (it combines every aspect of cycling I am terrible at!). Moreover, I had never before been able to tolerate - let alone enjoy - watching sports of any kind. So what makes cyclocross so appealing?
As it happens, Molly Hurford has just written a book that seeks to answer that very question. It's called Mud, Snow, and Cyclocross: How Cross Took Over US Cycling. Having borrowed a copy from the Ride Studio Cafe library, I finished it just days before Interbike. Aside from providing historical context, Hurford's book helped me make sense of my own feelings toward this bizarre sport. As race promoters all over the country have discovered, cyclocross is in many ways the perfect spectator event. And so I thought it might be interesting to describe it from the point of view of someone who is purely a spectator - and a fairly clueless one at that.
To do this, I will backtrack to last year's Interbike, where it all started. I had zero interest in attending Cross Vegas, but tagged along with Chris Kostman, who insisted I should at least stop by ("Come on, you can't go to Interbike and not see this!"). We drove to a giant field on the outskirts of town filled with tipsy people and flooded with electric light. In the distance I could see a colourful blur of bicyclists making their way through an elaborate obstacle course. As the sounds of cowbells and screams filled my ears, I remember wondering: "What am I doing here?" Five minutes later I was leaning over a barrier, ringing a cowbell and having a shockingly great time. And that's pretty much your typical "my first time watching 'cross" story. No one intends to like it, but inevitably they do.
This year we arrived to the spectacle of Elvis performing on stage before the start of the elite races.
Visitors wandered around purchasing water, beer and cowbells.
Cyclists rode around the grass warming up. Bicycles were being adjusted.
Before the crowds became too dense, I got the chance to survey the empty course. Winding around the grassy field, it did not look too technical, though there were lots of tight turns and a couple of short steep hills.
And, of course, these. I still remember how stunned I was when I first saw the riders hop right over them without breaking stride. How is this possible?
And then the race began. First the women's elite race; the mens would be next. Watching the hoard of riders charge cross the start line, the excitement of it all came back to me. I got goosebumps.
The thing is that at a cyclocross race, you can stand so close that you feel the energy of the riders wash over you like a wave.
And this wave is not some abstract poetic concept. It is very real, visceral. Even if you know nothing about race tactics and don't follow the background stories of any of the riders - just standing there and feeling so much human power and speed happening inches from your own body is a physical rush.
Watching track racing is more abstract in comparison, because the riders are further away. And with road racing you can only witness a small portion of the course at a time. But with cyclocross, all is laid out right in front of you in close proximity. The course winds around the spectators; it intertwines with them. There is a feeling that everything is happening everywhere, all at once.
Pressed against the barrier, I can see the riders' flushed faces, gritted teeth, twitching fingers, razor-burned legs. The physicality and rawness of it are overwhelming.
And then there are the technical parts that differentiate cyclocross from other forms of cycling. The obstacles, the vertical uphills, the dismounts and remounts, the bouts of running with the bike. No matter how graceful the rider, there is an intimate awkwardness to these struggles that makes us feel as if we are witnessing something private that perhaps we are not supposed to be witnessing.
Equally intriguing, is when a group of riders is so synchronised in their movements, that the dismounts and remounts appear to be done in choreographed unison - like a staged ballet.
And of course there are things like this - at which point it is the crowd's chorus of gasps that seems choreographed.
Watching first the women's, then the men's race, I noticed differences. The men stuck in larger, tighter clusters while the women were more strung out after the first lap. There were also difference in demeanor and body language - too subtle to describe, but nonetheless there. Watching the two races were separate experiences.
As the lead group of riders made its way through the course, spectators would rush to position themselves in different spots. This too was interesting to watch.
Through the elbows of others, I could see the anticipatory face of each rider as they crossed the finish line.
What struck me was how much they seemed to be savouring the moment, rather than rushing through it. There was a performative, theatrical element to it.
Photographers were everywhere, capturing the action with impressive lenses and flash units. John Watson's Cross Vegas photos on Prolly is Not Probably are especially worth a look.
While my low-light snapshots are far from professional quality, they do reflect my experience of the event as a spectator: dark and chaotic, punctuated with bursts of light and blurs of colour.
I am not sure whether any of this really explains what makes watching cyclocross fun. It is an evasive quality, but ultimately it is about entertainment - genuine entertainment. You don't even have to like sports or racing to enjoy it - though you might surprise yourself by developing a taste for beer and cowbells.
Accessible and awe-inspiring in equal measure, cyclocross strikes the perfect balance between a country fair, a bicycle race, and an alcohol-fueled block party. While the circus of Cross Vegas examplifies this more than typical races, it truly is the ultimate spectator sport.
When people learn of my travels to Vienna, they typically want to hear about all the things they associate it with: the gilded neoclassical buildings, the opera, the horsedrawn carriages, Wienershnitzel, Sachertorte, and Mozart. But while all of that is indeed here, it is very marginal to my experience of the place. The centralmost 1st district - with its maze of white stone, processions of tourists, ticket peddlers dressed as historical figures, and endless shops selling fur coats and stockings to overcoiffed ladies - is a place I keep away from inasmuch as possible. The absurdly grandiose architecture of the famous Ringstrasse is something I look upon with fond irony, but it does not define the city for me. My experience here has always been that of an on-and-off resident, rather than that of a tourist, and "my" Vienna consists of real neighbourhoods, out of the way cafes, small parks frequented by locals, and other places you are unlikely to find in tourist guides. For me, these places are what makes Vienna special, what creates the captivating atmosphere that so draws me here. And yesterday I spent the day wandering through one of them, on my bike. 
While many are no doubt familiar with the Prater - a large park that runs through the Southern part of Vienna and includes an amusement park, a stadium, various athletic facilities and horse trails running through wooded alleys - few venture beyond it into the tiny neighbourhood of Freudenau on the outskirts of town. On the map it does not look like much, and descriptions of it are not particularly inspiring: there is a golf course and a horseracing track, but otherwise it seems unremarkable. But the maps and guidebooks say nothing of the gravel trail that will take you through what can only be described as an enchanted forest, past a cluster of mysteriously abandoned mansions, ancient stables and ethereal-looking horses.
The horses are unexpected, because they really are in the middle of the woods, and not always contained within enclosures. They can be found wandering around untethered between the moss and ivy-covered tress, grazing serenely. I suppose so few people happen through this area, that no one bothers them. 
The horses are not only beautiful, but tame and very sociable. You can pet them and feed carrots to them, which I sometimes find lying around. 
I've been trying to understand what the horses are doing there and who they belong to, but there is never any human around to ask. I could be wrong, but I do not think that these particular animals are racehorses; the racehorses I've seen are not kept like this and don't behave like this either. A friend suggested that these are therapy horses for handicapped and emotionally disturbed children. Apparently Vienna has an equestrian therapy program, and this could be where the service animals are kept.
Riding on the gravel trail through Freudenau is a soothingly surreal experience. There is such a haunting sense of history, and I am nearly always the only person there. I can hear nothing but the sounds of overhanging tree branches creaking, ravens' wings flapping, horses hooves clip-clopping over dried leaves, and my own bicycle tires rolling over gravel. 
Perhaps the uneven gravel, with its occasional ditches and root protrusions, explains why not many feel compelled to venture here. But Jacqueline handles it without a problem. 
On the way back to civilisation, I am delighted to pass one of my favourite signs in Vienna. It's charming, because it suggests that the sign is for the cats themselves, rather than humans. "This way if you're a cat."
Of course it's only a sign for a cat shelter.But Katzenheimhas a more romantic ring to it, and I choose to imagine it as a genteel home for wayward felines - no doubt with miniature Jugendstil furniture and catfood served in little crystal dishes.
Right before Freudenau connects back to the Prater, there is a small cafe where I like to go. With traditional outdoor cafes like these in Vienna you never know what to expect. Some will serve awful microwaved food and packaged supermarket sweets that they simply open and dump onto a plate. Others will serve homemade dishes prepared with local ingredients that are as delicious as anything you could order in the best Viennese restaurants. This one leans toward the latter and I am never disappointed with even the simplest food I order there.
I don't usually feel compelled to photograph food, but readers have been asking about this more than anything else! So here is a ridiculously stereotypical meal, photographed just for you: frankfurters and sturm.
Sturm is a sort of fermented young wine, made from the first grape harvest of the season.It is naturally fizzy and low in alcohol, and tastes somewhat like a grapey version of hard cider. There are loads of vinyards outside of Vienna that compete to make the best Sturm in celebration of Autumn, and it's typical to sample them from as many places as possible this time of the year.
And a Viennese Apfelstrudel: heavy on the apples (local and fresh, not canned or jellied!), tart and not sweet, and very light on the crust - which is thin like filo dough, only soft instead of crunchy. There are also raisins mixed in there with the apples, which I could personally do without - but the rest I love. It's hard to eat Apfelstrudel elsewhere after getting used to the version they make here.
It's difficult to explain my attachment to Vienna without discussing my personal background at length. But I hope these pictures help express what words fail to.
Vienna is a large, sprawling city and some of my favourite places are difficult to access without a bicycle. Cycling is truly the best way to travel off the beaten path and to visit all the places I love - on the road and off.
