Chapter 1: In Which We Meet Our Hero, Ishmael

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse and nothing particular to interest me in the cycling world, I thought I would ride about a little and see the tracklocross part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before track bikes and bringing up the rear of every group ride I encounter; and especially whenever my hygienist assures me it’s time to get out more, then, I account it high time to get on my bike as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.