CRCA A race, 5/30/2009

Because I work at home and therefore unencumbered by any of the structures (meaning shoes, and increasingly, pants) required by a proper office environment, I never have any regular appointments that I have to keep. I keep regular office hours, but I don’t have any set staff meetings or the like. Most of my business dealings are done on an “as they come” basis – if it’s a Wednesday at nine AM, I don’t have to be planted in a squeaky chair with wheels gathered around a laminate-topped, kidney bean shaped conference room table as I direct my dazed stare from the sight of my manically drumming fingers to the puzzled look on my coworker’s face as they probe their inner thesaurus for yet another synonym for synergy. It’s one of the perks of working for yourself – and helps to keep the lurking twin specters of poverty and insolvency from driving you mad. My one regular appointment is driving out and racing at FBF on Tuesdays. It is a reflection of my life that the only event I am guaranteed to be at is a race at an abandoned airfield in the outer wilds of Brooklyn – this is a thought that’s both empowering and distressing. But I am not in the mood to be bummed out, so let’s describe my current life’s schedule as a representation of my scheduling freedom. 

This Tuesday night was like any other in the summertime; I packed my car at four and headed out to the concrete playground at FBF. There was a forecast for rain, but I would not be deterred from my life’s only appointment – I am nothing if not reliable. The thing about rain is that it is usually accompanied by wind, and wind makes for very interesting times at FBF, think of the wind at FBF as a hill that can also knock the rug right off Burt Reynold’s head. I am not going to wallow in hyperbolic ickiness and say that a wind at FBF give me a feeling of tumescence, but it does excite me when the flags are flying, because that will help any break stay away. 

I lined up for the race with a tingly feeling and teammate Andy Shen – yes Andy Shen, in a bike race – as company. The Wonder Wheels team had nine guys at the race – I’m not not sure how they got so many to come out – I’m assuming they told everyone on their email list that showing to FBF either counted as jury duty or they planted a rumor that Matlock was appearing up to give away free passes to Denny’s. Whichever method they chose, it was effective; and there would be no breaking away without a Wonder Wheel rider involved. There was a sparse rain falling when we pushed off. 

From the beginning of the race, it was evident that Brian Rafferty of Wonder Wheels wanted to get away. I know this because he attacked repeatedly and probably spent about 8 laps off the front of the race – many of them by himself with only rain, wind and his own grunting to keep him company. I myself also took lots of shots at slipping off the front. The wind was from an unusual direction on Tuesday (a headwind between turns 3 and 4), so it was an atypical feeling at FBF, like wearing someone else’s shoes or attending a family get together sober. There would be 2 intermediate sprints for those who would like to take part, and since the wind was blowing, they would do so at their own peril, as a counter to the sprints could bear fruit – and who doesn’t like sticking it to sprinters? I have my power data from the race, and I did no less than 7 jumps of at least 700-950 watts in the first 7 laps. As I said before – I am nothing if not reliable. Unlike bowling a strike or playing the lotto, a break often doesn’t just happen on the first try; you have to soften things up a bit. And between jumps from the field and Brian Rafferty’s insistence at riding away, things were softening up nicely.  

At 3 laps to go there was an intermediate sprint, I decided that I would counter that sprint, and if things didn’t work; I might have enough left to sprint at the end of the race or vomit onto my shoes, either way – a win-win. I did counter the sprint and things strung out as we hit turn one. As we hit turn two, the ever-persistent Brain Rafferty countered my counter; which was a very savvy move. I got up off my vinyl perch and joined him, along with 4 others. Our first lap together was frantic, as successful breakaway efforts need to be. it took us a while to settle in, but we still managed enough speed to stay away. Plus we had Matlock Wheels behind us to help discourage any chasing. Things were looking up. I began concocting my strategy for winning the race. The field was close enough to quash any notion of sitting on until the last two corners, so I dutifully did my rotations. I was trying to size up my competitors, I only really knew Brain, Sam Martinez from United, and Atilla. I decided to wait until the final stretch, try to follow wheels, and come around late – as there was a cross wind on the finish. We rolled around the final corner, and Sam was looking tired, so I made a rash decision – I would go early. This was a decision born out of panic and fear, and it went against my earlier plan that was formulated with a calmer head – and it turned out to be a poor decision. Everyone was much fresher than I had surmised. I ended up leading out the finish and could only hold on for fourth place. Sam won, with Sean Berry and Brian Rafferty a close second and third. I was put into fourth place where proper idiots belong. Now I’m not saying that I would’ve won the race had I played the finish cooler – usually Brain and Sam beat me in sprints anyway – but I have to try and salvage some dignity here; so at the indulgence of those fine racers that finished ahead of me, I will say (in Scooby Doo Villain fashion) that I totally would’ve won that race if it hadn’t been for my own stupidity – and of course for those darn kids. 

I had the Tap attached, so here are the power numbers for the race:

 I also have the numbers for the time spent in the breakaway, here they are:  

FBF 3/4ths race, May 19, 2009 

On awaking most Wednesday mornings after a Tuesday night FBF race, my body feels like an ashtray full of spent matches from all of the efforts made the night before. I move slowly in the morning — like a pensioner with time on his hands shuffling his way to the community center to complain in a town hall meeting about illegal shrubbery. I can feel my legs hating me for abusing them the night before in a delusional binge of attacking and aggression. And sadly, these morning pains supply me with a twisted sense of satisfaction at a race well done, a race where I at least tried to have an effect on the outcome; a race where I didn’t just sit in and watch the inevitable field sprint unfold. But this Wednesday morning, I am without my customary satisfactory aches, as I left the race far too early to properly abuse myself.

 Last night, there was promising wind blowing at FBF Tuesday, a classic half crosswind between turns 1 and 2 that served to buoy my hopes for getting away from the pack. There was a pretty big group of 75 racers out, so a breakaway would be a tough proposition, but I would have to try, no? Otherwise the night would just be a 9 lap lead out for a sprint — and that’s no fun. I tried a few jumps early in the windy section to try and split things up, but the mixes that formed at the front didn’t work out. I went back into the pack to bide my time for my next attempt. We passed the start and I went to hop the pothole in the road placed just past the line. Upon landing I felt a crunch and my bike started skidding, I suspected that I had either whacked my rim or knocked out a spoke, causing the rim to hit the brakes. I quickly dismounted and checked the situation, the tire seemed intact and the rim looked to be in one piece, so I surmised the wheel had been knocked out of the drops. I popped the wheel back, but as I rolled along my brake was rubbing. I loosened my brakes, but they were still rubbing. As the pack disappeared from sight, I had to stop again and knock the brakes back into alignment and off the rim. I then chased for 3 laps out of spite and anger disguised as tenacity. And that’s the story for the night, bad skewering, no race and the denial of morning after suffering — bad times all around.

 Side note from the night

FBF is beginning to seem like a Jaycees haunted house, with new surprises and volunteer frighteners doused in fake blood everywhere you turn. Last night, in addition to a movie set in the parking lot, there was a special surprise wedding tent complex being erected on the straight between turns 3 and 4, leaving about 20-30 feet for the race to slip through. I can just imagine the pitch to the bride for this location, "Honey, we’ve managed to get permission to use a New York City park for you wedding!" "Oh my God, you got Tavern on the Green?" "No, it’s a little farther out than that. " "Prospect Park? I love the gardens there." "Well no, but it is a National Park – well technically it’s a National Recreational Area." "What’s a National Recreational Area?" "It’s Floyd Bennett Field!" "Isn’t that where Amelia Earhart died?" "No dear, her body’s never been found."

Schmalz Race Report

A 10, there’s nothing worse than a mechanical.

And to add injury to insult, tonight’s head song was "Cracklin’ Rosie" by Neil Diamond.

CRCA Alpine Uphill TT, May 16, 2009

As a rule of thumb, I do don’t like doing time trials. Personally, I find no joy in the isolation of pedaling by oneself, with only your heavy breathing and pending disappointment as your companions; to me it’s much better to fail in a crowd rather than alone, as I can commiserate with other racers who have finished near me; and as soon as they leave – I can blame them for my own shortcomings. I also do not care for the amount of equipment that needs purchasing to be an entry level time trialist, as I am thrifty and lack the analytical desire needed to hone and refine and perfect a speedy position (a position, more often than not, that eerily resembles the position one would assume if they were trying to have the most uncomfortable bowel movement ever conceived) on the aforementioned superfluously purchased cycling equipment. I admit it’s obvious – I do not care for time trialing. But an uphill time trial is an exquisite exception to my rule – there’s no special bike to purchase, no bars that need to be clipped onto the front of your bars that force you into a position like you are reading the world’s tiniest and most wrath-filled prayer book – an uphill time requires none of that supplementary gadgetry. You just need your regular bike and a hankerin’ for pain.

But there is an issue with any timed event that is very troubling to me – at the end, you get a time for your effort – a naked expression of your talent or dearth of ability. There’s no pretending. Your time is your time, and a direct representation of your prowess. Like an aged burlesque queen, I like to hide my faults beneath the demure feather boa and oversized bubbles of a sheltering peloton or a breakaway group. And just having a naked number posted removes all the mystique of my effort, it exposes me as the feeble man of advanced age that I am. So I went to the time trial Saturday morning with the goal of not embarrassing myself.

This was also a rare opportunity for me to ride my bike to a race. This meant I would have to ride my race wheels to the event, but I came up with a foolproof plan for avoiding any trouble – I avoided riding over anything sharp. I rode to the race at a "mosey" pace, registered and prepared to ascend to the Palisades Police headquarters. The start of the TT would be without a holder, I don’t have enough confidence in my track stand skillz, so I started with my foot on the ground. I opted to stay in the small chainring for the whole hill, as I didn’t have enough confidence in my mechanical aptitude to guarantee that a shift from big to small chainring wouldn’t end in disaster. I rolled to the line, waited for the beeps to count down, and when the moment came, I took off up the hill. What followed was (according to the official results) 5:48 of anguish. In fact I have my power numbers for the aforementioned anguish below:

A quick bit of number crunching puts me at about 5.24 watts per kilogram, a number that matches what Alberto Contador does when he’s combing his hair. But there is a consolation, I was 8 seconds faster than Andy Shen.

There was no head song for the day, as the only noise I heard was pain, in fact the actual transcript for the feelings going through my head went something like this, "—  ..-  -.-.  ….!"

Side notes from the day

Former NBA player Pat Garrity showed up early to try his hand at the TT, all 6’9" of him. I think it was great of him to show up and try his luck, and I think that the fellow at Independent Fabrications who made his head tube will be able to now put his kids through college.

Schmalz Race Report

As I’ve said before… Lots of pain, but over quickly, a 5.

FBF 3/4ths race, May 12, 2009

Last night was both a typical night at FBF and an atypical night at FBF. It was typical in that the wind was blowing, there was a brief rain shower, and there was a chill in the air. It was atypical in that there was a faux Hollywood North Korean DMZ set positioned on the finishing straight, and that’s odd because ordinarily the finishing straight is set up for a Bollywood dance extravaganza. So it was a bit off-putting to be rolling through the plywood and paper mache concrete walls and razor wire, as we are usually accustomed to racing through glitter and disco balls. The feeling of being un-fabulous was compounded by the fact that the DMZ set squeezed the finishing straight into an even tinier area than before, foretelling a potentially disastrous end to the race, as the counterfeit guard tower for the entry to the fairy tale DMZ was set up at an angle to the course that was as right as Rush.

And so the stage was set for another season start at FBF. The first night can be a little hectic as it’s winner takes all, or at least wins the leader’s jersey for a week – never underestimate the effect that free Lycra clothing can have on bike racers -and this week was no exception. It seemed that everyone took a shot at the race this week, myself included. Scot Willingham tried to get away by himself on numerous occasions. I even tried to put together different mixes of the willing and able off the front of the race, but my mixes went over like an "Achy Breaky Heart" remix at a PM Dawn concert, and since Scot didn’t seem interested in joining our two wheeled game of kickball at the front, my efforts went for naught.

With about 2 laps to go, Marc Adam and Marc Cesare managed to put together a love match off the front of the race. This was distressing because Marc Cesare’s presence meant that Wonder Wheels didn’t have to chase, and as the duo dangled off the front at the bell, the situation was getting dire. We had to catch them soon or they would stay away. Now I like Mark and Marc, but my teammate Frankie has a mean sprint, so I moved to the front of the race to extinguish their aspirations. I was also playing into the hand of Wonder Wheels as I wouldn’t be available for any lead out at the end, but that’s bike racing. If I had any smarts I would’ve been up the road with the Marcs. I pulled the race from the start/finish line until turn three, where I expired. The Marcs were caught right before the finish and Tony Maisto won the field sprint over Frankie, who ended up second. It could’ve been worse I guess, I could’ve  ended up in the razor wire or kidnapped to write private butt jokes for Kim Jung Il.

Side notes from the night

Best. Bathrooms. Ever.

Schmalz Race report

As I’ve said before… You can’t complain too much about a teammate getting second place, but I can’t help but think that if I had been able to do a lead out, things might have been different, a 4.

And Just for giggles here’s my numbers from last night’s race 

Tonight’s head song was "Cashin’ In" by Minor Threat 

Prospect Park 123 Race, May 2, 200B

I have a thing for combovers. Whenever I see one, I’m fixated by the sight, and try as I might, I cannot help but visually gorge myself on the spectacle of the sparse remaining hairs that are flopped carefully over the shiny braincase of the guilty party. Who are these men who decide to go the way of the "cranial bar code"? What makes then tick? And what combination of vanity and poor decision making brings them to the point where they decide to carefully cultivate a long flap of hair to use as a covering for the areas their hair has evacuated? It’s a decision that fascinates me, as it requires not only lunacy, but also a conspiracy.

I assume that no combover-er acts alone. They must have a barber accomplice. And I assume that it’s always a barber that engineers a combover, as I cannot fathom that a woman would play along with such a hairdressing travesty. The combover can only be the work of male subterfuge. Only in the world of men can someone walk into a barbershop, sit down, look the barber in the face and say, "I’m going to grow the few precious remaining strands of hair that I have into a long apparatus of deception that will fool no one, but will serve to inexplicably prop up my vanity. Can you help me out with that? And is this the latest issue of Playboy?" Then the barber happily sets to work crafting a hairstyle that covers little yet reveals so much about the perpetrator. For instance it reveals that the wearer may have no properly operating mirrors in their house, or that they do have a mirror, but it’s been customized with an elaborate mural that shows the owner in the midst of a manly act such as lion shaving or horse groping, with a hole cut out for his reflection to fit like a novelty photo stand found at county fairs. It takes a lot of effort to avoid reality in such a complete manner, and in a strange way I find myself admiring those in the legion of the wind wary.

And I have so many questions. Where do those willing to sport a hairstyle with the look of a hair-shaped doormat find their collaborators? Are there barber shops out there that specialize in combovers? Idyllic places where those looking to suspend their dignity can go to get their lonely long strands woven into a tapestry of narcissistic ecstasy. Are there acknowledged masters of the craft? Is there a secret underground network of sparse hair wranglers? Do they have a union? Do they have a newsletter? Where do they learn their trade? But I’m afraid my questions will fall on deaf ears, as I do not navigate the world of the woven-topped masses. I can only speculate at how these men can toss the meager leftovers of their mossy coverage over their skull in a desperate last grasp at virility.

And why am I rambling on about the subject of male follicle lunacy? Because after such a dismal race on Saturday morning, it’s going to take near combover levels of delusion and denial to get myself back into a race again.

Schmalz Race Report

Like I’ve said before… When you have to find solace in the world of guys that style themselves after the Cryptkeeper, things are not going well – eight.

The head song of the day was "Love Removal Machine" by the Cult.