Last week’s race journal left my fans with a bit of cliff hanger. (I claim to have fans, even though I know that to be a wild exaggeration, I mostly have people who read out of a sense of obligation or who read to find out of I’m dead [not yet, suckas!], but “fans” is much easier to type—it’s a real time saver.) Would I win the Branchbrook Spring Series 50+ overall title and add the precious yellow shirt of triumph to my closet?

Yes, I did. I won the race. I won the series. I won the shirt. I won beer. I won coffee. Wait, did you want a long, drawn out dramatic telling of my daring and trepidation? A heartfelt saga of relief and redemption? A real fan would know I don’t really venture into those areas often, because every hack that podiums at an industrial park crit turns into a reflective and maudlin word spewer when they turn to their keyboards to humble brag their triumphs to the world. That’s just now how I’m built. I’m actually worse at finding meaning in winning because, from a storytelling standpoint, winning is boring.

When it comes to my race on Saturday, I know exactly what I achieved. I beat 30-ish other older fellers to the finish line in the early morning at a public park in Newark, NJ. I don’t type those words to belittle the efforts of those riders (or myself), I type those words to bring a sense of perspective to what I accomplished. I won the race, and winning is a very satisfying feeling. I have won bike races on four occasions now—in a “career” that spans over twenty-five years. Four. Races. (I’ve mentioned this before, but that’s a ludicrous winning percentage.) But at the risk of sounding preposterously obvious, I don’t race for the winning—because if I did—I’d be hopelessly suicidal.

(Allow me a quick aside here. I know I just said that I don’t race for the winning, and I feel that I need to qualify that. I can survive for long periods of time without winning (or winning at all, ever), but if I am in a situation, where a win is a possibility; I am just as psychotic as any other bike racing lunatic. I’m not Bike Ghandi, for crying out loud.)

What I’ve learned from this sport is to live in the times between wins, because that’s where the near entirety of the time in this sport is spent. Seeing the sun rise as a pack slips silently through the city parks, watching a friend or teammate find success, coming home to have second breakfast (perhaps the best part of morning bike racing), these are the moments in the sport that buoy my enthusiasm to keep racing year after year.

With that being said, let’s delve into the specifics of Saturday’s race and potentially contradict everything I just typed. I was tied in points for the lead of the overall series with Fedor, who had beat me in a sprint from a break two weeks earlier, but I was able to come back the next week and finish ahead of him in a field sprint. This meant that I had a good chance to win the overall series if things came down to field sprint. I spent the week before the race resting and eschewing alcohol and junk food (this is the worst part of pretend bike racing, in my opinion). I felt confident that I had gone through multiple race scenarios in my mind in the week before the race, so I was at ease as I made my way to the racecourse Saturday morning.

After twenty five minutes of spirited singing along with my Spotify playlist, I arrived in Newark. I surveyed the course and competition, Fedor was there, as was Mike from Houlihan, who had won the first race of the series. I knew Mike to be a strong racer who could break away, so I knew that no move would succeed without him represented. We lined up, shivered, and took off. I was feeling good, so I just stayed near the front for the whole race. Mike was attacking, I was following and Fedor was watching me. There were two sprint jersey sprints, and I countered the first one, but I only managed to get myself free. I pulled the plug and went back to covering the front.

The second green jersey sprint came with one lap to go in the race, which meant there would be two sprints in a row. Fedor contested the green jersey sprint, which gained him the win in the competition, but meant he would be tired for the final sprint. I moved towards the front and made sure to watch Mike, as he had gone early in the sprint two weeks before and had held his gap to the line. I was also aided in these moments by my volunteer “legion of the aged”. During the race, two different racers came to me and offered their support, which was very touching (who knew that people liked me?) and more importantly, would help fill keep things together at the end of the race.

I gambled on Mike jumping from the front, getting a gap and blowing the sprint to pieces. And that’s what happened. Mike surged, I held on for dear life, and being a merciless bike person, came around at the last moment to win by half a wheel. Fedor finished behind me, giving me the overall title. I let out a mini screech, and allowed myself to savor a moment I knew would pass as soon as the next race started.