The legally binding contract with the voices in my head dictates that I write something about every bike race that I take part in, so in fulfillment of that imaginary contract, I am here to type about the previous three races I’ve participated in.

Branchbrook Park March 19

I did the elderly racer double up, racing both the 45+ race and the 35+ race. We had a good team turn out for both races, so we were able to do team things. That meant that Aaron got himself into the winning three man break in the 45+ race, and James was in the four man break that escaped from the 35+ race. They both finished third, which are both great results for the team. Myself and the rest of the Rockstar games contingent rode to crush souls and dreams in the fields behind the breaks.

I like crushing souls and dreams in a bike sense. I have never claimed to be a good person.

CRCA Club A Race March 26

Saturday’s club race saw another good turnout of Rockstar Games racers. Victor, Pascal, Aaron, Andrew, Paul, Chris and myself were in attendance in the A race and we had agreed on a loose plan for our race strategy. Like everyone else, we planned on being involved in every break that had Weather Channel or Lupus riders in it, and we would take opportunities to escape the tyranny of a field sprint because that’s not our bag, man.

We lined up in the early morning chill and then shoved off to execute our plans. We were doing six laps of Central Park and the details of the morning’s athletic happenings have mostly been lost in a haze of repeated attacks, reactions and elevated heart rate induced stupidity. With about one or two laps to go (my HR stupidity cannot remember which) there was a break away that was us-free, so we began the tedious and tiresome work of chasing. I loathe chasing, as it means that you’ve done something wrong and then you have to exert yourself at the front of the race for the amusement of the teams that have someone in the break ahead.

So we chased, and brought back almost all of the breakaway. Somewhere around the base of Harlem Hill, the mythical Mike M of Weather Channel managed to shake the remoras from his fins and glide to a solo victory. The rest of us were left to pedal ourselves to a sprint-ish finish. Teammate Victor was positioning himself to participate in the herd gallop, but the rest of us were caught in the solid mass of hopes and aspirations trailing just behind the front of the pack. The wall of bodies was so thick that moving ahead was impossible without a plow or an Old Testament Sea Parting Staff. So I watched from behind as the Lycra clad sludge oozed towards the finish, stuck in the sludge, unable to move up and unable to help.