A Sunday in Waterloo: A Haibun for the Elite Women’s Race

Dane Hamann, today’s author and photographer, edits and indexes textbooks for a publisher in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. He is the poet-in-residence for derailleur.net and the author of A Thistle Stuck in the Throat of the Sun (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Parsing the Echoes (Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2023).

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We arrive on the final day. Marks of racing exist everywhere. Wheel-dropped mud drying to dun dust on sun-warmed concrete. The tension of the wait for the gantry’s green light slowly fading from the white lines of the starting grid. The hiss of hoses cleaning tubes and shoes. Puddles of blue sky swirling with dirty runoff. It has been a weekend of many tough races. Of socks soaked in rainwater. Of mud in the teeth. Of weary post-race laughter. Of frites crisping under the food tents. We loop around the factory grounds. Taking it all in. The gentle sloping hill gleams green under a Simpson’s-eque sky. A strong breeze shakes a little gold and red into the trees.

In every shadow,
a latticework of fervor.
Joyful two-wheeled tests.

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For three years, “Daddy, you watching bikes?” I help identify riders in oft pixelated streams. Rainbow jersey. Flag jersey. Blue and red jersey. Listen to a toddler tongue garble Dutch names. Any predominantly red kit, an automatic favorite. Now, as the speakers thump an angry Taylor Swift song, I gather my daughter to the barricades. A fast opening sprint means the holeshot and a commanding place around the first corner. We’re perfectly placed to feel their speed. A rare false start. Laughter and hijinks. Pedals are rotated. Legs are recoiled. A few ticks of the clock. Then suddenly there’s a mob of bikes surging forward. We see their helmets above the crowd as they slow and string out, curving toward the descent and a close-up view. “There’s Fem in rainbows! There’s Zoe and Puck and Ceylin and Maghalie!” I emphasize that these women are the same riders we cheer for on the screen. They slice through the air, inches away. Freehubs singing with velocity.

Its own world, racing.
Time passes differently.
A serene rampage.

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On every cross course, a moment. A point. A feature. An obstacle. Maybe many. But always one question. How will the riders handle it? A congregation at the barriers. Witnesses to the most quintessential of cyclocross obstacles. Unforgiving planks. They flatten tires. Dent rims. Catapult riders over handlebars. They are mud-scruffed with scrapes and failures. To lessen the risk, most riders briefly become runners, dismounting and fluidly hurdling the barriers. Remounting. Regaining lost momentum. But hopping the barriers? At race pace, timing is crucial. Get it right—a race can be won by the seconds gained. Wrong—shoulders and face jam into earth, the race all but over. Triumphant cheers from the crowd as first the front wheel lifts and lands and then the back wheel follows, jangling the chain before torque is once again put into the pedals.

Heartstopping approach.
A smooth sequence of power.
Like pouring water.

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The sounds of a bike race form a postmodern soundtrack. A tumble of clicks and clacks and the sawing of rubber on pavement. The grinding chew of shifting chainlinks. Riders’ staccato shouts. The squeal of brakes. All evaporating into the ether of constant motion. But among the trees, we are grounded by the steady beat from a DJ and the noise of the raucous corner of the race course. At the top of the wooded hill, like a secret fort built by neighborhood kids, a slanted shack slings hoppy beers. Cheers float up into the leafy canopy. Encouragement for the muddy climb and descent. A boy swaps between an accordion and tuba, adding discordant but merry notes to the chorus. A megaphone whoops somewhere on the top of the climb. This is a celebration.

Old feelings arise.
Boots in mud. Bubbles on tongue.
Youthful symphony.

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The flyover speaks Wisconsin. Barn-door-red siding. Heavy mud trampled up the wooden ramp. Two smooth boulders, as if genuine glacial erratics, buttress the steel fencing. The blue sky of early autumn in a Great Lakes state. All very familiar. This placid comfort shattered by each short, furious ascent. Seemingly effortless slingshots into the overhead sapphire expanse. By now the small differences in chosen lines and watts have built a buffer measured in unclosable seconds. The top riders have settled into their abilities. Their minds in separate bubble universes of pain and willpower. Each rider straining to survive until the final lap.

Their bodies hide storms.
Lightning rockets through muscles.
The race, a journey.

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Palpable relief on the final corner of the last lap. An exit off the churned mud, its tire-formed ridges and valleys becoming sharper and sharper throughout the day, onto the short run of pavement leading to the finish line. The legs pleased with the level track. Riders showing raggedness as they unwind the day’s effort. Grimaces slowly propped up into smiles. They swing wide. The crowd gives them a final boost, reaching out for rolling high fives. Race-roughened gloves hit our hands with considerable momentum. One last reminder of their class.

The final meters
melt like ice under the sun.
Happy homecoming.

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We leave buoyant. Race buzz still tingling limbs. The fast-speaking announcer echoes over the factory rooftop. Music still audible among the rows of parked cars, many ornamented with mud-caked bikes. Silty rivers flowing from the wash stations, mist throwing small rainbows into the air. Boot prints and tire tracks show well-worn paths. Shadows deepen as the golden afternoon sinks. The stamp of cyclocross everywhere we look.

Did you see? Great, right?
Already, fond race recaps.
Deep sigh of goodbye.

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