Iron Cross is a carnival of maniacs. For most people, 700c wheels were not made to go over this kind of terrain. For Iron Crossers, it's exactly what they're made to go over. Pushing bike and rider to the limit is the point. Mountain bikes are allowed but derided. Like going to a Halloween party with an Easter basket. Of course if you went to Iron Cross with an Easter basket on your bike, you'd find yourself in good company.
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| Courtesy G. Jakubek |
Iron Crossers love bikes. They love them carbon. They love them steel. They love them Ti. They love lugs. They love mustache handlebars. They love tattoos. They love PBR, even at the 56th mile of a 62-mile cross race when you're deep into the business of surviving. They hop barriers because it's a cross race and you have to. They hike their bikes for 15 minutes up a steep, craggy powerline because it's like no other cross race you've ever done. There's singletrack. The kind that would be perfectly enjoyable on a proper trail bike. But this is Iron Cross. And they're maniacs. I hung onto my brake hoods until my hands were raw. I jap zapped until I thought my wheels would break. I found myself going insanely fast down gravel roads, just one thread in a strand of over 350 riders snaking their way across the amazing scenery of Central PA at peak foliage under beautiful blue skies on 10.10.10.
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| Courtesy G. Jakubek |
Before the 9 a.m. start of Iron Cross X.X.X. Edition, the course looked like a traditional cross race. Ribbons, barriers, tight turns and a short hill thrown in for good measure. Of course with a few hundred riders starting en masse, it felt more like we were riding a giant carousel of bikes, with waves of racers spiraling around each other, alternately running up and over the barriers, tackling the hill and pivoting around turns, dozens of riders at a time. Orchestrated mayhem in every conceivable direction. Thrilling, hilarious, and unlike the start of any endurance event I can remember.
Iron Cross puts most of its participants deep into the hurt box. If it were an actual box, and you could look inside it, you'd see the following: 6,000 feet of elevation gain over 62 miles; about 10% singletrack, much of it just barely cross-bikeable; a very strenuous hike-a-bike section that's a tad shy of being an actual cliff; a very long, relentless dirt road climb that takes away from you anything you have left in the tank; and a final hike-a-bike section that you would almost think about riding if it were mile 4 and not mile 54. Sure, there were a handful of racers who, no doubt, stomped the course. The rest of us were happy just to finish, come across the line, collect our Iron Cross medals, which were actually wooden, and devour the delicious burritos provided splendidly at the finish.
