Now that the days are longer and the buds on the trees have burst into leaves, flowers and floating allergens, it is time to begin thinking of summer. And summer means many things: warm temperatures, exposed skin and Tuesdays spent putting forth efforts on an abandoned patch of tarmac that are so difficult that they might actually deform your DNA. This is how bike racers enjoy our summer months, because we are mental.

You either really like racing at Floyd Bennett Field (FBF) or you don’t—it’s that simple. There’s not a lot of casual attendees at the Tuesday night races. Certainly, there are plenty of racers who come out a few times, come to their senses and vow to never return again (and who can blame them?), but for the most part, FBF races are contested by packs of staunch regulars who can manipulate their schedules to make the start time and have numbed their undercarriages to the point that the constant tarmac rumblings have little or no effect.

Plainly put, it’s a tough crowd. We’re used to things at FBF being challenging. Things happen at FBF, in my 16 years of circumnavigating that dusty airfield I have seen floods, synchronized ballets of street sweepers and even exact replicas of the Korean DMZ, but last night was exceptional—even for FBF. Last fall Hurricane Sandy swept through the East Coast, wreaking havoc, disrupting lives and leaving a path of destruction in New York and beyond that many have still not recovered from. FBF was not spared from Sandy’s destructive meanderings. The hurricane tossed all types of detritus and debris upon the desolate course, making the already challenging circuit all the more challenging. The holes were deepened, the cracks made wider and there was a field of debris on the stretch between turn one and the turn for the short course that made it seem as if one was racing through a mulched garden.

The course conditions promised to create an eventful night. This year, I have decided to race in the 1/2/3 field at FBF, because it’s been a while since I’ve been properly punched in the groin region. I was accompanied to the race by my life coach Mihael and cohort Rick. I also can enjoy the new FBF experience of having teammates in the pack when I race the 1/2/3 race, so I was joined by teammates Marcus and Ale.

There was a tailwind in the finishing straight, which normally predicts a brisk pace and a field sprint. Of course, that isn’t an inevitability, it’s just that those conditions put the odds towards that sort of outcome; it would be up to the riders to determine what sort of ending this race would have. Judging by the relentless attacks and surges during the race, my prediction for the finish was for toil, followed by exhaustion and then some light weeping. We were moving along at brisk pace (my Strava data after the race said we were averaging 27 mph for the portion of the race I was involved in—foreshadowing!), but I was able to contribute to the race when necessary. There were desperate moments when splits needed to be made, but for the most part, I was able to accomplish what I needed to.

I tried my best to avoid all the garbage, rocks, race mulch and the new and improved holes (now deeper and with sharper edges!) during the race, and I was doing a pretty swell job at it also, but fate intervened, and on lap five after crossing a split, I was near the front, but with company around me going in to turn one, where the deepest and most foreboding of the new hole lurked. I rode the course before the race and made sure to take note of the new hole of the damnded, but found myself caught in a tight spot with no recourse but to tempt fate and try to Evel Knievel that Snake Canyon.

Sadly my attempt at leaping the canyon was about as successful as Evel’s was. Entering the canyon was fine, exiting however presented a challenge. The sharp edge of the hole contacted my front wheel, and the resulting explosion sent pressurized air and Stan’s fluid spraying in all directions, as my tire burped away its contents. I had hoped that my tubeless tire set up wold save me, but the contact was so violent that I could’ve been riding with the front wheel from a monster truck and still would’ve lost all my precious air.

I walked my way back to the start and watched as my teammates try to make a break work. The 1/2/3 field caught the 3/4 race (a rare occurrence), and their efforts were nixed. Teammate Marcus joined the puncture club, and teammate Ale finished a fine fourth in a field sprint finish. We then set about fixing the flats tires of all four of the car mates before the drive home, amazed that we could go perfect four for four.