I’ve been racing at FBF for a long time. I started racing there in 1995, which doesn’t sound that long ago to geezers like me (I’m so old that I think that the 80s just happened—I’m still holding out for the comeback of fuzzy leg warmers, Sigue Sigue Sputnik and suits with pushed up sleeves), but a quick calculation brings the realization that 1995 was 15 years ago. I’ve seen a lot of things happen at the old airstrip in my years of circumnavigating the course’s coarse crust. I’ve seen epic battles (Pollo, Wilson and Dave Melchior battling it out for the overall win in 2001, Mihael battling against free pastries at work in 2004), but personally, I’ve never been involved in a race for the GC before. I’ve raced for teammates who were involved in the chase, but I’ve never had to contend having GC aspirations of my own. The weekly tension associated with amassing points can lead those involved to succumb to "points fever". 

I’ve seen riders in the throes of points fever before. I’ve seen arguments, secret alliances, collusion, malice and deception. I’ve seen riders mark each other so heavily that they’ve woven their way around the course in big mad loops, trying to somehow get some separation from each other. I mention this because I now have a case of points fever. I come to race every Tuesday consumed with the notion of piling up points in big fat stacks. It’s become a compulsion. I know the points totals and gaps between everyone in the top five places. I’ve calculated who I have to watch lest they move up to within striking distance of my GC position before double points night. I can quickly assess the danger posed, point-wise, of any move that gets a gap. I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t tiring.

Last night’s race presented the second to last opportunity for amassing those precious points. The wind was blowing at a moderate clip, which meant that a move might work, but it would take a lot of attempts and it would probably go late, as there’s a lot of chase in the race these days. Frank Arroyo had his teammate Bernie in the race last night, which meant that in order for me to get away, I had to contend with the pursuits from both Brauer and Wonder Wheels teams. Plainly put, if I didn’t get away with both Frank and Chris Castaldi, chances were that I wasn’t going to get away. But the wind was blowing, and there’s never a guarantee at FBF that the wind will return from week to week, so I had to try, so try I did.

I must’ve initiated or slipped into about 5 or 6 moves. Marco did a huge effort in the middle of the race to help me jump across to a move off the front, but the shuffle of the cards at the front never produced a winning hand. We had moments when all the crazy eight players were present at the front in a split, but no one wanted to put the work in to maintain the gap. Like a bass fisherman’s jig and pig, I would pop off the front, only to be reeled in.

Eventually the race put a decent bit of bait off the front with about two laps to go, Paul Carbonara and Jon Orcutt from Axis were in a move with Leszek Sniadowski, Graham Macbeth (who never left the front, he was literally near or off the front of the race the entire night) and Marc Cesare of Wonder Wheels. The move had about 15 seconds, which prompted a chase from Bernie. Bernie was able to bring back Jon and Paul with about one lap to go, leaving Leszek, Marc and Graham off the front on the last lap. I was faced with a decision. Should I try to jump across or should I hope for the race to close the gap and take my chances in the sprint? I was convinced that if I tried a jump so late in the race, I would have a long line of clingers following me to the line, and sprinting past just as I caught the break. I tucked in behind Bernie with Chris and Frank undoubtedly close by (I didn’t look around to see, as I was busy trying to hold my position and not hit the crust, but I knew they were there). As we hit turn four, Bernie did a last effort, but was probably spent from chasing Paul and Jon, as it didn’t last long. I saw Frank coming up on the left, and I went around Bernie on the right. As I jumped, I felt the telltale friction of someone’s wheel rubbing my back tire, I slowed briefly, regained my momentum and continued my sprint. Behind me I could hear the unmistakeable sound of a crash—a sound which, to my ears, resembles the note that would be made by a gibbon banging a really beat up cymbal. I didn’t look around. I lunged for the line, and finished third in the field sprint, sixth overall, one place out of the points.

As I turned around to go back to the parking lot, I found out that Chris Castaldi fell hard in the sprint. My heart sank, Chris is a friend, and despite our "battle" for the GC at FBF, he is genuinely a joy to race with. Was his tire the one that rubbed against mine in the sprint? I’m a very cautious sprinter, but had I been squirrelly this time? Was Chris a victim of my points fever? I would never wish to crash out anyone, but to crash out my friend? That would weigh heavily on me.

I found the Wonder Wheels team and tried to figure out what happened, but no one really had a clue. Chris said he got taken out by another rider, but was that the rider who’s wheel rubbed against mine? Did I knock over the first domino that sent Chris to the ground? I felt terrible. I eventually found Chris. He was sitting in the passenger seat of his brother’s car in a neck brace and breathing into an oxygen mask. I told him I was sorry, and he took a hit from the mask, pulled it down and asked me if I got any points. They may be able to fix his fractured pelvic bone at the hospital, but I doubt they will cure his points fever.

In an attempt to raise my level of aggressiveness, I set my internal speakers to "Naked Raygun", the night’s head song was "Coldbringer".