I think Dieter Drake (organizer of the Tour of the Battenkill)  wants me dead. Firstly, there’s the name of his race, the Tour of the BattneKILL—the word "kill" sits there right in the name. It’s not the Tour of the BattenSNUGGLE, or the Tour of the BattenTICKLE, it’s the Tour of the BattenKILL, and as such, it should not be taken lightly. My expectations going into the race were unrealistically high. Last year’s race experience left me with an artificially good feeling because my derailleur cable broke near mile 20 and left me to ride about 10 miles or so back to town in my largest cog. This I was to find out, was an act of mercy from my bicycle, as it allowed me both an excuse for not winning and it buoyed my delusions for the next edition of the race, because if I hadn’t lost, that was a bit like winning, wasn’t it?

The pilgrimage to the race again involved an early departure (4:30 am, just a little earlier than the wake up time for a park race) and the company of Ridgewood Cycling Klatch and Prime Rib Appreciation Society members Brian G and Jim M (their names have been abbreviated to prevent people from Googling them and finding out that they are awesome enough to be in one of my journal entries, if they want their full names included, that is an additional cost). The ride to the race provided stimulating conversation and we (mostly me) developed a game that consisted of carefully balancing my coffee intake and the resulting need to empty my um, used food depository. My fellow RCKPRAS members were given timely updates on my digestive struggle, and I’m sure it made the ride much more enjoyable for the both of them.

After entertaining my compatriots with gastrointestinal ramblings (and rumblings—sorry guys) on the trip north, we arrived at the high school to register and figure out how to attach out helmet transponders in the least "triathlete-looking" manner possible. This was the first big challenge of the day. After trying to discreetly attach my transponder (which in hindsight wasn’t very smart if I planned on placing, but looking good counts for 40% of any racer’s pre-race confidence; so I tucked the transponder) and picking out my ensemble for the day (long sleeve jersey and knickers, which—I was to find out—was the incorrect answer) I moseyed to the staging area, making sure to make stops at no fewer than two port-o-johns on the way.

Whilst staging, teammate Phil said he was up for trying something "early". I enjoy hearing this from teammates, as breakaways with a teammate involved only require me to sit in with the group and do as little as possible. This sort of athletic laziness is a godsend to racers such as I, and I was glad that Phil was volunteering for such a duty. I graciously authorized Phil the chance to try and ride away at the beginning of a 60+ mile race.

We rolled away on our neutralized kilometer, and we must’ve enjoyed it, because we extended that neutralized section for about four more miles. Afterwards, we picked up the pace a little to remind ourselves that we were, in fact, in a bicycle race, and as we hit the first dirt climb (I am still terribly unfamiliar with the names of the geographic features of the course, so I shall refer to the hills with monikers of my own making‚ the first dirt hill shall be known as the "feelin’ fine incline") I was feeling quite perky. I ground my way over the hill with the rest of the race. This is the point where Phil decided to make his escape, and as I watched his pastel-colored derrière (have you seen our kits?) disappear up the road, I breathed sigh of relief, as my laziness could commence.

Phil worked his way to a gap of two minutes and stayed away for about 35 miles until a jammed chain lost him a minute. It was without a doubt the ride of the day. Back in the pack, I was being lazy and trying to not be killed. Normally in "interesting" races like Grant’s Tomb or Harlem, the aggression and audacity of the racers creates the conditions for mayhem. In those races, we are trying to kill each other, whereas as Battenkill, not only are racers trying to kill each other, the course joins in on the murdering action also. You have to pay attention to every bit of sand and each pile of rubble in order to not get bounced off of your bike and land in cow dung or get tangled in barbed wire. This makes for an interesting race, as there’s no moments where you can benignly roll along, in fact, the moments of terror in the race really helped to make the time pass.

While I was rolling along and trying to not get killed, Phil was involved in another form of self-immolation at the front of the race. We made our way through the new section of the course (it contained a climb strewn with rough gravel that was an experience akin to climbing and then descending a wall of garbage) with Phil making my day easy, until he jammed his chain and was finally caught near mile fifty or so. This is when things turned sad for me. Because with Phil back, people decided to "race".

I place the blame squarely on my teammates Al and Andrew, as they decided to push the pace somewhere around mile 50 on "schmalz kill ridge". Their efforts ended my contact with the leading group, and by the time I crested the dirt apex on "house where we meet to curse Dieter" hill; I knew the rest of the day would be a mostly solo effort to get back to where I started. I descended down "point your bike through the sand and pray" gully, and hoped to find company for my ride back. I was pleased to be joined by Ben F of Scottos, as he seemed to still be interested in riding, so we did.

It was here that I lost my mind. I should now explain as background that I am not a good person. I can be impatient, spiteful and cantankerous. Usually I am able to keep these feeling to myself (I only curse all of you in my own mind), but occasionally under duress, these feelings can take the form of words—some of them not suitable even for a RCKPRAS meeting. Whilst riding with Ben F and others, there was fellow in the group who wasn’t exactly contributing. This individual had been pushing and laying hands on others and myself for a good portion of the day—almost as if he were surprised that others had joined him on his private journey through Dieter’s anguish machine. This didn’t really bother me too much—I cannot help it if someone is intimidated by my imposing size—but I did eventually lose it when this same fellow didn’t seem to want to pull through as we were working. I used some of my potty words with him, and I am sorry Ben F was there to see that. I am not however, sorry that I cursed out the pusher—that guy was a jerk—and deserved notification of that fact.

My tirade only really served to make me ride spitefully at the front of the race before the final climb. With my energy spent on being a jerk, I was dropped from our group on "really Dieter?" hill. I contemplated stopping and riding straight to the finish, but I had no idea where I was. I had no choice but to ride the course to the finish in order to get back to the car. Up front teammates Andrew and Al were in the four man break that made it to the finish. Andrew won and Al was third—a great day for the team. I rolled along to the finish, with my nasty feelings abating, but not enough that I didn’t try to pass Steve M out of spite at the finish. But alas, not even spite could fuel me at the end of the race and Steve kept his position until the finish.

I thankfully ended the day un-killed. Dieter was unsuccessful in his attempt on my life—he will just have to bide him time until next year. I ended my Battenkill experience in 31st place, over four minutes down on Andrew. I celebrated by showering with a masters racer before dining with the RCKPRAS, all in all, a lovely day to be alive.