What better way to invoke one’s inner seer than the tried and true, one-two punch of heat and hallucinogens. Cue the poor man’s sweat lodge: slather the body with hot balm, don 5 layers of winter cycling clothing, vigorously ride the rollers in your cramped, basement bike shop in the company of numerous portable heaters, inhale deeply the pungent vapors of newly cracked Continental tubular cement tins, black out in a heap on the concrete, and await the ghosts of cyclocross past. Through the haze, the murkiness, the throbbing in your head, the din of clanging cowbells, the hum of Karcher pressure washers, chimes the chorus of Eric De Vlaeminck, Roland Liboton, and Andre Dugast:

First place. Ryan Trebon.
Second place. Jonathan Page.
Third place. Todd Wells.

Tomorrow’s Elite Men’s podium.