Today, I pondered next year’s tracklocross worlds in Barcelona; as my mind fragmented around the idea, I started to think about Roland Barthes, so today’s post is a homage.
Desire
The longing for the perfect line through the mud is incessant. I desire the feeling of control amid chaos—the sense that every skid and slip is orchestrated. The rider ahead becomes not a competitor but a symbol of my yearning, their wheel a siren’s call.
Initiation
I remember my first race: the nervous energy of unclipping too soon, the wheel spin, the roar of the bell. It is not a beginning but a baptism. I am now a part of this unspoken brotherhood, where gravel is gospel and scars are scripture.
The Mud
Mud is not an obstacle but an essence. To ride through it is to embrace its authority, to let it mould you as much as you carve through it. In the British rain, mud speaks—its viscosity whispers strategies, its splatter christens your kit.
Obsession
I check the weather forecast compulsively, scanning for rain and wind. A dry course feels like betrayal. My evenings are spent adjusting my chain tension, truing my wheels. I whisper to my bike as one might to a lover: Are we ready, my steel companion?
The Crash
Falling is a language every tracklocross rider must learn. The crash is violent and absolute, but it is also intimate. The ground rises to meet me, and in the bruise of impact, I find truth. The taste of blood and dirt is a reminder of why I ride.
The Hill
Every hill is an adversary. I rise out of the saddle, legs screaming, and yet I feel alive. There is beauty in this agony, a kind of communion between rider and incline. To conquer the hill is to conquer oneself.
Rivalry
The rider I pass, or who passes me, is more than an opponent. They are my reflection, my shadow-self, pushing me to my limits. Their movements predict mine; we are locked in a silent dialogue, where each corner and sprint carries the weight of pride.
The Bike
My bike is not a machine but an extension of my body. Its geometry cradles me; its drivetrain hums beneath me like a heartbeat. I polish its frame not out of vanity but reverence. The single-speed simplicity is poetry: direct, raw, unadorned.
The Finish
The line looms, and I sprint—not for glory but for catharsis. Crossing it is an anti-climax; the ache in my legs is the real reward. I roll to a stop, panting, and let the moment sink in. My achievement lies in the effort, not the placing.
The Weather
Tracklocross is dictated by the skies. A drizzle invites adventure; a downpour brings mayhem. Sunlight on damp grass transforms the course into a theatre of risk. I listen to the patter of rain on my helmet and smile: this is the sport in its purest form.
The Audience
A handful of spectators, huddled in raincoats, cheer with an enthusiasm disproportionate to their number. Their voices carry through the course, lifting me. I do not ride for them, yet I do; their applause is the rhythm of the race.
The Ritual
Every ride begins with ritual. The lacing of shoes, the donning of gloves, the tightening of bolts. These small acts bind me to the discipline, grounding me. Each creak and click of the bike becomes part of a sacred liturgy.
Euphoria
There is a moment, rare and fleeting, when the bike and I are one. A perfect drift, a smooth dismount—it is an ecstasy born of balance and instinct. In these moments, I feel infinite, as though the world could not hold me.
Fiefdom Tracklocross 
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