We bike racers love getting shirts. Well, we actually like getting jerseys, but saying we love shirts feels like a more ironic way to start a journal entry than saying “bike racers love jerseys”, because “jersey” is a more technical term that really only resonates with bike racers, and I’m trying to explain to the world precisely how dumb we bike racers are. I will say it again, we are dumb. We spend hours and hours upon our bikes just to be proficient enough to get our asses kicked. Many bike racers go through their entire bike racing life and never win anything. Can you imagine a beer league softball player playing on a winless team year after year? No, you can’t because even terrible softball teams can win via forfeit on occasion. There’s no forfeiting in bike racing—it’s called “getting dropped”—and the sad fact is that it even happens to racers who spend hours getting ready to race bikes.

Bike racing is stupid, abusive and heartless sport. But I digress. I began this journal entry by explaining how much we bike racers like getting clothing, especially when that clothing gives us the opportunity to display how special we are. Take a leader’s jersey for example, it’s a symbol of the acme of our sport—and the leader’s jersey at the Tour de France, our holiest event—is literally a golden lycra fleece. It’s no wonder that many local amateur races offer a jersey to their series leaders. It gives the riders that are lucky enough to be in the lead the thrill of wearing some free clothing. I myself have worn a leaders jersey on more than one occasion (I even won a race series, although ironically, I never wore a leader’s jersey for the entire series, as I won the series on the last race—it’s a long story that I tell whenever I have more than three ounces of alcohol), and it changes you. You are a marked racer, other racers notice you, and even begin to think that you may actually know what you are doing. Wearing a yellow jersey also means that other riders follow you, because racer logic dictates that finishing ahead of the guy in the leader’s jersey is the path to their own leader’s jersey. I know this because, as I wrote before, I’ve worn leaders’ jerseys before.

And now I will be wearing one again. Due to my dogged mediocrity and two consecutive fourth place finishes at the Branchbrook Spring Series (Saturday’s race was won in a field sprint by Etsu, congrats, Etsu!), I am now tied for the series lead in points. I finished two place ahead of my rival in the most recent finish, so I am the series leader. That means the jersey is mine. I will wear it next Saturday in the most aged race category the series offers. It also means that I will not be anonymous, as I will have been outed as a person who can consistently finish moderately well. In addition, a leader’s jersey means that my attitude towards the race will change. If I want to keep the jersey and win the series, I must race for points. I must also be aware of the points of my opponents and keep track of where they finish.  Oy. It’s tiring to race this way. There will be four of us who will be constantly keeping track of one another, racing with our heads on swivels.

It’s nearly impossible to not get swept up in the fever for points. I will spend the week with possible race scenarios running through my mind during quiet moments. The series scores points for the top 20 places, so there’s no chance of a break getting away and eliminating all chances of scoring points—removing a chance at an easy series win. The series will be raced to the finish. So here we are, I am being swept up by my stupid desire for another shirt. A shirt that I will only wear for one day. (Wearing a leader’s jersey out in the real world is the sign of a real knob—or a sign that you are Mihael Ginghina.) They jersey may not cost anything, but that doesn’t mean it’s free.