The leaves are falling, the air is turning crispier and the convertible tops are closing on the trophy wife delivery systems here in Northern New Jersey, and that can mean only one thing—my racing season has ended and it’s time for my training log to return. My season really ended on the last race of the Tuesday Night Series at Floyd Bennett Field (which for those of you who didn’t follow the edge of your chamois travails of that tumultuous two-wheeled tale, it went as follows: I trudged through the 16 race series with results decent enough to keep me in contention, then the guys that were ahead of me in the standings first crashed and then suffered a double puncture on the final night, allowing me to win the series by the narrowest of margins, ending my 15 year quest for success at that God forsaken bit of Brooklyn tarmac), to be honest I didn’t turn a pedal in anger in any races I participated in after that. (I did turn pedal strokes in spite, vindictiveness and cattiness though—as those are emotions I never race without.) But after winning the FBF series, I admit that I found myself a bit lost athletically. Racing and training didn’t seem to hold the same impetus for me. Instead of basking in the glory of trouncing the aged and relatively inexperienced at FBF, I found myself in a funk.

There’s a saying attributed to assorted bumper stickers and drunks that states: "be careful what you wish for, you just might get it." And now I’m beginning to understand that message from the "bard of the car back"—I’ve also learned when to not come knockin’ and that Calvin likes to urinate on almost everything. Winning the overall at FBF wasn’t a lifelong ambition of mine—I aspire to one day see my daughters graduate from college and to drive a race car to the Super Bowl and then win the Super Bowl (that last aspiration is a hold out from the second grade)—to be honest, I didn’t even set out to win the series at FBF at the beginning of the season. I was just successful early and then the ball of compulsion started rolling after that. And since I wasn’t prepared to compete for the series won, I certainly wasn’t ready for the unexpected ennui that occurred after winning the FBF series. I am mostly non-delusional, I wasn’t expecting flocks of birds to form into Snow White-like swarms that spelled out my name whenever I rode my bike (honestly, I would’ve settled for impromptu squirrel soft-shoe routines along my training rides), but I thought I would feel maybe a little bit better about myself after winning the series. And yes, I realize that this sounds like I throwing a "boo hoo, I won feel sorry for me" pity party for myself here, but I find it odd that winning a race actually served to take away my enthusiasm for racing. 

Desires for spontaneous harmonic wildlife expressions of devotion aside, I suppose it’s up to me to get my groove back—or to just decide to quit racing entirely. It’s a tough decision, so let’s review the past season, shall we? First the points for continuing my racing "career". Firstly, I won the overall title at FBF. I was able to place there on a consistent basis—even in sprints—so that’s definitely a positive. I placed in other races also, even in field sprints. It was a good season results-wise. But there’s negatives, foremost among them was my post-FBF let down, which added to my usual end-of-the-season malaise. Bike racing also costs money and takes away time from my family. My daughters are getting older and their schedules are filling up, taking time away from daddy’s time to squeeze into Lycra and expose himself to the drivers of Bergen County. Basically, the positives and negatives, when placed in that very brief context, are a push. 

But there’s more to being a bike racer than just positives and negatives. If I race bikes, I get to be smug. I am healthier than almost everyone in my neighborhood (except my freaky neighbors who do triathlons, but I can knock them over on their bikes with a light push whenever I please), and I really enjoy having something to lord over my neighbors, as they all probably make a better living than I do. I have to preserve my self-esteem somehow. I’m a shallow person at times. Another reason for me to ride is that riding a bike helps keeps me sane. I work at home, and without my midday ride break, I would be sitting in front of a computer for about 11-14 hours a day without interruption, and if Matt Drudge has taught us anything, it’s that long bouts in front of your computer will make you nuts—and make you wear profoundly stupid hats.

In fact, that may be the most compelling argument I can find for continuing my bike racing "career"—it will keep me from wearing stupid hats. There. Decision made. I will race bikes again this year. And since I won the 3/4ths race at FBF, I cannot in good conscience race that field again, so I will contest the 1/2/3 race and will be abused like a sign spellchecker at a Tea Party Rally. This will call for diligent training over this winter season. Of course, I will fall short of most of my training goals, but that is the way of winter training. The real goal is to delay dereliction as much as possible.

This season I will use a marsupial based weight shaming system to track my girth, supplanting my rodent based system from last year. I start this year behind on my weight goals due to a trip to Vegas and a long history of dallying with sausage (please try to ignore how dirty that sounds). My winter goal weight is 152 pounds—which is a koala on my marsupial graph (I like to aim for cute animals on my weight graph). I have no training data for this week, as I haven’t changed the tire on my PowerTap wheel yet. I will mount my new rubber (dirty sounding again) and diligently report my numbers next week. In the meantime, enjoy the graph of my current weight.