Normally when I do later season races in Prospect Park, I will enter the master’s race as they are calmer races, I stand a better chance of doing well in a race of my more mature peers and I get to write pithy comments about us racing to stay ahead of the Grim Reaper’s Reynolds 531 scythe (masters racers appreciate more traditional materials for the implements that grant eternal rest). For Saturday’s race, I eschewed my normal circuits with the bingo crowd to join the Pro/1/2/3 race. Normally that moniker (Pro1/2/3) means a bunch of cat threes getting pummeled by a pack of cat twos and a handful of cat ones or the occasional continental pro—but mostly the only "pro" thing about these races are the rare instances when racers fall to the back of the pack and leak urine all over the asphalt of the recreational jewel of Brooklyn. This morning’s race was special however, as we were joined by a bona fide Pro Tour professional bike racer.

If you’ve never heard of João Correia of the Cervelo Test Team, you are scary because you’ve probably been living in a Unabomber style shack for the last year. His comeback to the highest level of professional cycling at the age of 35 after a long absence and subsequent weight gain has made him a popular interview subject for almost every magazine, web site, blog or bulk email that deals with cycling (he even talked to us, for crying out loud). He is the Charles Nelson Reilly of the professional peloton: affable, available for chats and able to absolutely rock an ascot if he had to.

So when the opportunity to test myself against the convivial chuckling guest star of the Pro Tour presented itself, how could I resist? The race sold out days begore the registration closed, which made me think I wasn’t alone in my desire to see what our returning Euro Pro had in his legs. Of course, this racerly curiosity would put Joao in a slightly untenable situation. If he were to show up and try to rip the race apart, he would be accused of being the big bad pro fish in a tiny pond. If he were to show up and take it easy, he would have to deal with the complaints from Cervelo World Headquarters about the piles of resumes faxed in because 98 cat threes had beat him in a race in Brooklyn.

I, of course, planned on being one of those cat threes because I like a challenge, and because I’ve found a really awesome font for my cover letter. My plan was to get across to moves and hope for the best. The race moved along at a very park race pace, with furious bits of action followed by Five Borough Tour-esque sections of gridlock. To be honest, with all the people there, it was pretty difficult to follow the action. I would put in an effort on the front, and by the time I had recovered at the back of the race, any number of things could’ve happened: a break could’ve got away, the race might’ve split, or we could’ve taken a wrong turn and ended up in Long Island—it was difficult to tell. While my plans were to try and sneak my way into a break, I’m sure João’s plans for the race were as follows: don’t crash, tolerate schmalz’s inane comments, avoid crashing, get some miles in, and finally to sidestep any crashes. Over the course of the race I had even convinced myself that I was a Kmart version of João—I race for a team sponsored by a bike company, my socks and gloves match, I write an online journal read by upwards of dozens of people, and people have a tough time saying or spelling my last name. But I think the difference between the racing I do and the racing João does is similar to the difference between a suburban basement game of ping pong and Wimbledon—sure they both involve knocking balls over a net, but the scale and magnitude are completely different. In one case, you’re competing to best your siblings and neighbors, and in the other you have the eyes of the world upon you while you compete against top notch talent.

Ball-knocking metaphors aside, the race whizzed along at a pace that made breaking away very difficult, and a field sprint seemed inevitable. In fact, I started my lead out bartering with about 4 laps to go, and was able to work out a mutually beneficial arrangement with another team and our own (sorry, the parties involved cannot be named, as deals made on the road fall under a strict non-disclosure agreement). We rolled towards the line, deals in place and planning on a field sprint.

Of course, this wasn’t the case at the front of the race. Dan Zmolik of AXA and João had got away with just under three laps to go. Wilson Vasquez of Mengoni had bridged to them and they were working furiously at the front to stay away. Back in the crowd at the rear of the race, many of us had no idea that they had escaped; and as we headed towards the finishing line, I couldn’t figure out why neither AXA nor Mengoni were assembling a lead out. Obviously with teammates up the road, they weren’t going to add any speed to the race and I had no idea there was anyone away, so I went to the front for a lead out—blissfully unaware that the race was 20 seconds ahead of us. I did my time at the front, and pulled off in time to miss the inevitable pile up that happened before the sprint. I rolled to the finish area to find out that the guy everyone had one eye on had somehow escaped our spiteful clutches and finished third behind Zmolik and Wilson. I could go ahead and say that he shouldn’t be picking on us poor category riders, but I will confide that it was fun to have a Cervelo test Team racer in our midst, and that it was fun knocking balls around with him.

schmalz race report

A six for being dumb, but a three for basking in pro-ness.

The head song of the day was "Anarchy in the UK" by the Sex Pistols.