"And so is a series of savage beatings," added the cheery voice in my head that makes me such a joy to be around.

  Fall is my favorite time of year, and not just because of my peculiar sporting obsession. The temperature drops, trees hint at the subtle shades that pass for autumnal color in the Rockies, and the magazines I scribble for go back to once-a-month publication.

  This year, with Interbike relegated to mid-October, I have a chance to do a few 'cross races before stuffing the Tacoma with outdated electronics and overextended credit cards for another visit to Vegas, "this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething."

  But as usual, fall has managed to catch me unaware and ill-prepared, pulling on knee warmers and looking for the jacket I hope will stay missing, thereby giving me an excuse for skipping my first group 'cross workout of the year.

  No such luck. The jacket turned up and off I rolled, into a light rain, feeling like a Halloween pumpkin on stage with Gallagher and his sledge hammer.

  That was Then ... I used to know how to ride these bicycle thingies, sort of. I actually won the masters 45-49 category in the Colorado cyclo-cross series once, thanks to a solid attendance record and one heavy snow day that favored the sort of ne'er-do-well accustomed to running with an armload of something expensive.

  But I haven't raced seriously since 1999 — actually, "at all" might be more accurate — and once you've stepped back that far, it's hard to get a clear picture of how you might fare against the guys who've been pinning on a number every weekend since Y2K proved to be just another after-Christmas sale.

  Spend a few years riding a 'cross bike alone and you think, like a fat man in a room lacking mirrors, that you look pretty damn' good. You lack objectivity, which comes back like a bounced check when you straddle a top tube in company and find yourself striving not to lead, but simply to keep up.

  Š And This is Now. My illusions vanished after a handful of group road rides. I hung in there about as long as a billion dollars does in Iraq. Same goes for my three mountain-bike outings, where I rode with the confidence and panache of a blind hemophiliac in a briar patch. Keep up? I was happy to keep upright.

  So I was nervous as I rolled into Memorial Park for some formal training with a small group of fellow 'crossers. I needn't have been, though. Two of these sessions later, I've remembered why I enjoy the discipline so much.

  Sure, 'cross is a niche, as a few overeager manufacturers discovered when everyone tried to dive into it at once, like clowns piling into a Volkswagen. But it's a niche that contains some of the finest folks on two wheels.

  Dennis Collard organizes the weekly workouts; he built the barriers and brings them to the park. But everyone helps set up and tear down the course, riders on rival teams share tips on technique and technology, and there's enough general rustiness and heavy breathing to make me feel better about my own long list of athletic shortcomings.