It is time. The West Coast Insane Fan Posse are also drawing deep, measured breaths as they prepare to scream into the faces of manic ‘cross racers. Red cowbells a’clangin’ and Big Red S beanies a’blazing in the crowd, they're taking their pilgrimage from headquarters in Morgan Hill, California to Reno, Nevada seriously. The goal? To be the Biggest Little Stokers in the World, for this is their time, too. They're primed to ring cowbells incessantly, to heckle and rejoice, and to crank the stoke volume so high it rumbles up the Sierra Nevadas like a ball of pure "YEW!"

They feel like they've been waiting all week for this moment, tumble-weeding their way around this strange city to the imagined BEEP-BOOP-BLING soundtrack of penny slots and change jangling in pockets. The anticipation for the main event has been building, and now is really the time. For real. Time for all that work at the heckling clinic to be put to good use. Time for all those freebie Specialized beanies to make the warm faces beneath them emit noises akin to “Up! Up! Up!” and “Ride it!” Time to scale Heckle Hill, hover a finger over a megaphone button while conjuring up some beer-soaked witticism, and unleash it into the face of someone who can barely breathe in this rare mountain air. It's show time.

The pendulum swings.

It’s time to call it. A charge for the line and with a grin and arms raised skywards, a time bandit claims their reward. Confetti rains down. Stars and stripes and the glory of winning Nationals burns and bubbles and emits a glow from their aura that can only be classified: Red, White, and Blue. But there are other colors on the horizon, too. A rainbow hangs in the distance. Will there be something at the end of it for this rider? Reno this time. Maybe next time it's Worlds?

Only time will tell. But if we can be sure of anything at the UCI Cyclocross World Championships in Valkenburg, it won’t just be time to kill it—it’ll be hammertime.

**

UCI Worlds will be held February 3-4, 2018

Collared by the wind, the guttural sounds of a Belgian announcer are dragged across the dunes. The words drift in and out, flapping through national flags, puffy coats, and the ears of an eager crowd. Beanie-headed and red-cheeked, fans cluster near barriers, waiting. A yellow hessian fence, edges tattered and worn, waves beside a section of deep and ravenously hungry sand. Here they come, a fleet of human dune buggies, tractoring through the camel-colored grit. There’s a sort of controlled desperation to their actions. They must keep the momentum steady and moving forward, ever forward, in the wet, churning mess. Sand splashes up like suds from a sink of angrily washed dishes, and is hurled and shunted sideways by crazed wheels. Riders fishtail in the pit.

It’s a Belgian full-palette sky today—with all the shades of grey, and the occasional hint of sun—but the gloom you would normally associate with this kind of day is missing. They say love conquers all, and so it is with cyclocross in this country. It digs exuberance and joy from any able body, like teasing out a splinter from a foot. As riders pedal-stomp their way by, the herculean efforts of these heroes are rewarded with cheers and oddly polite clapping. Riders are enormously respected, revered, and worshipped here, particularly—no, especially—if they happen to be Belgian.

Of course, it’s not all sand. There are stretches of solid track through the green grass, and some paved sections near the finish, but sand is what Koksijde is famous for. It’s what makes this place hallowed, cyclocross ground. There are long stretches of it flanked by exuberant fans, three or four-deep in places. It is a delicious spectacle for them, but a scene of urgent frenzy for the racers. They grip their bars and torture their bodies as the course dips up and down through the dunes. Some riders hug barriers as they storm through, while others veer wildly from one line to another, carving ruts deep and unforgiving as they navigate the stuff.

Lungs suck down the frigid Belgian air in giant gulps, lap after exhausting lap. Legs burn, their fuel cells nearly depleted. And while much of this course relies on brutish leg strength to simply power through the traps, the run up—a crowd favorite on the side of a dune—takes a different strategy. It is dainty. Footsteps become short staccato beats of action, and it's as though these riders have spikes in the toes of their shoes as they peck them into the side of the dune. Left, right, left, right, peck, peck, peck, peck—up they go, shouldering bikes and sand-crabbing to the top before remounting and thundering on. Much like the women’s race earlier, a lone rider dominates and crosses the line. He is alone.

Later, in a post-race interview, he says that he enjoys riding in sand. He is obviously not Anakin Skywalker—more a lone Tusken Raider. Sand people know how to dominate it, but they also must have a little bit of future Darth in them. Because to dominate the sand is the use the Force. To feel it flow from the heart straight to the legs and there, spin those legs in a triumphant mix of constant churn, burn, and yearn. They trust this instinct. They put away their doubts and choose the right lines, keep their speed constant, and pilot their bikes to their destiny.

They love the sand.

The cruel run up is so steep and so 100% Euroland-hard, it hurts. Literally. It hurts everyone, including perhaps a fan that inadvertently grabbed a thorny tree to stop herself from sliding down the steep spectating slope. It’s ok, the blood flow was minimal. Regardless, the Divine Off-Camber Creator sends us these things to test us. And today’s exam—can you dig the tips of your toes into the side of a hill without crampons and billy-goat it to the top, all while carrying a bike and looking cool doing it—was a doozy. Many received an A+ here. [Triumphant plastic horn sound]

Around and under the flyover they moved, grinding along at a frenetic pace. They jumped a couple of barriers, cool as The Dude, and before long were flying along what could easily be termed “the back nine” of the course. Did you see the woodland creatures back there, dotted in amongst the trees and skulking around a secret bar? You no doubt heard them with their techno-groove, cowbells, and spirited high jinks. Perhaps you were a cash-dangling fisherman, or a cupcake siren, tempting these warriors each lap? No matter—the High-Heckle Priestess loves all her creatures, great and a little tipsy. She commends you for your intimate, in-yer-face interactions with those fine professionals.

Photographers fired as riders emerged from the darkness of the technically challenging woods, caked in fine Wisconsin dust. It seemed to get thicker with each lap, did it not? Before long, our brawlers were duking it out on Factory Hill, trying to catch the leader. What did you witness there, my friends? Did you see skill, guts, and determination stomped all over that thing? Did you see that perhaps the best way to take an off-camber tight right-hander is to skid the rear wheel around it? The sniff of the end drew near and we, like charging hordes ourselves, rushed for the finish. To have witnessed artistry, I ask you: how blessed are we?

Deep breath. I leave you today with this. American ‘cross is young, spirited, and wild. It may seek its rhythm in the fields, but gains its lifeblood from you. So take these lungs, for they are filled with the sound of your revelry. Take this brain, for it is curious for the challenge. Take this heart, for it is filled with love for the unpredictability of…everything. Take all this for this is my body, and this is the body of ‘cross. And it. Is. Awesome.