Saturday morning’s race was a typical summer Prospect Park race in many ways, there was a large pack, numerous break attempts, a field sprint and a slightly horrific crash in the final kilometer. This brief description doesn’t tell the whole story of Saturday’s of course, as there were many familiar sights missing from this Prospect race. 

There were no dogs in the road, for instance, nor were there any "Jamacian smells" coming from the side of the road. No jogging strollers made their way into any of the cross walks. All of the pace vehicles seemed mechanically sound. I didn’t see Clarence, but I did see Spider. There was one threat of a punch to the head, but no on-bike pushing matches. Mike Gacki did not ride to the front of the race and take his hands off his bars to grab something from his jersey pocket. Wilson didn’t win.

These inclusions and omissions aside, this race, like all others, had its own  story and was special in its own way—if I am allowed to borrow a notion from almost every children’s book ever written. There were four BH/Garneau racers accounted for: myself, James, Chris and Kevin. Our plan was to go along with anything that looked promising, which I think is the same attitude that led to the formation of the "super-group" Asia. Hopefully though, our plan would turn out better than a few synth-driven albums filled with vague songs about feelings.

The race was a sell out, which meant that there would be somewhere near 100 racers trying to justify wearing onion squeezing man leotards at six in the morning in a public park. The race’s pace was hectic from the onset, shaping the pack into a long, panting line like those found at the DMV. I only toed the line once to get my picture taken against the blue felt background. Greg Olsen from Adler jumped before the downhill section, and foolishly I decided to join him and two others. The speed of the race dictated that any break would probably need about ten riders to be successful, and our group was about six bodies short. Greg however, had a bike that was at least six miles per hour faster than mine, so I figured that was good for another two people or so. I made the mistake of thinking that I could match pulls with Greg, and I rolled through perhaps two times. I then felt as if I had passed a bit of one of my kidneys through my digestive track, so I returned to the pack from whence I came.

We rolled along at a preposterous rate of speed for the rest of the race, Kevin said that he’d be willing to sprint, so we made a plan to string things out and allow Kevin to pick his spots for the finish, which cooincidentally was also the plan for the career of the band Aerosmith. As we came to the last lap, James got into a promising late move of four riders, so I just rode near the front to take in the sights. The move was brought back just before we hit the downhill, and I went straight to the front to string things out so we didn’t all perish in the bottleneck at the corner—it’s really hard to win a bike race when you’re dead.

I pulled off after my very brief moment at the front. I then hit the gutter like a bum’s burp, hoping to stay out of harm’s way. I was successful, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any carnage. As I was coasting towards the finish, I heard the unmistakeable sound of bikes, bodies and best intentions hitting the asphalt. I saw a clump of bodies hitting the road along with a lone bike bouncing above the pack, the group split and moved on, leaving behind three or four riders on the ground. I stopped to help and thanked almighty Asia that I hadn’t been involved.

Kevin seemed to think he finished in the money, but didn’t participate in the post-race caucus, so he wasn’t listed in the top fifteen, but I don’t think he cared. Sometimes surviving a bog race in Prospect is reward enough.

schmalz race report

I like surviving. A five—right in the middle.

The head song for the race was not by Asia, it was "Goodbye to You" by Scandal, which is not in any way a vague song.