When I came back to typing about bikes on the internet, I made a deal with myself—I wasn’t going to write race recaps as race recaps tend to be tremendously repetitive. Because I don’t travel to races, I essentially race the same people in the same places week after week. This isn’t a recipe for compelling storytelling. It would be like reporting on the sunrise everyday. Sure, each one is special and different, but it kind of goes down the same way every time.

So now I’m going to renege on that deal with myself (I’ll find some way to make it up to myself, probably with hummus, I just love hummus.) and type about this weekend’s race, as it was the first race of the season and the first race of the resumption of my career as a pretend bike racer. I had two choices for racing, a club race on Sunday or racing the Branch Brook series in Newark on Saturday. There was rain in the forecast for Sunday, so it was an easy decision to race at Branch Brook, because racing in the rain, like Jagermeister no longer holds any appeal to me. (Actually Jagermeister never held any appeal to me, it was like drinking cough syrup that had exceeded its expiration date—though a dirty sweat sock.)

I like the races at Branch Brook quite a bit actually. It’s a half hour drive for me, and Tom Mains and crew provide a very pleasant and efficient race experience. (They’re up THREE port-a-potties at the start now, and as sad as it may sound, that sort of extra um, access, is very important for racers like myself with “active” pre-race digestive systems.) I usually do two races at Branch Brook. The course is shorter than the course at Central Park or Prospect Park, so only two fields can be run at a time. This means that older category three racers like myself can be quite promiscuous with our race choices. If I wanted to, I could race three races in a row at Branch Brook, but the effort to make it to the end of the third (and fastest) race would be quite beyond my capabilities and would surely end with me desperately fanning myself to stave off a wicked case of the vapors. I instead choose to race the 50+ and 35+ races, because it’s nice to be able to take advantage of my advanced years once in a while.

The 50+ race was surprisingly well attended, proving that bike racing is the sport of the future (if you’re 35), and I recognized quite a few faces. Well, I recognized quite a few shapes of faces, as it was 28 degrees at the start of the race and everyone was wrapped up for the cold. A race in 28 degree weather is about as low as I will go temperature-wise, as it takes so many layers of clothes, chemical toe warmers and heavy hand-wear. (I have sensitive fingers so I wear mittens for temperatures under 35 degrees, and no, it isn’t harder to shift or brake.) In almost all of the races I take part in, I have such a slim chance of success, one has to wonder why I race at all. But in a field of my peers (I wouldn’t say I’m peerless, I just have less peers as the years go on.), I have a decent shot at success. In a 50+ field, I can hit the top ten pretty regularly and can even get a break started on occasion.

Saturday morning was not the time for such an occasion. I tried a few moves, but after my initial efforts, the combination of the cold weather and the fact that I am an old person conspired to turn my legs to stone. There was also a lot of spirited chasing from the field as everyone seemed to be well prepared for the season. I blame Zwift of course. Sadly gone are the days of preparing for the season with frigid training rides that froze the extremities (that’s how I got my sensitive fingers) and the mind numbing roller rides that guaranteed that only the most obsessed and saddest racers started the season with any fitness. 

But I digress, the field was strong and chasing was plentiful, which meant a field sprint was nearly inevitable. Field sprinting, even against my fellow elderly racers, is still not my forte. So when we went over the “hill” before the sprint, I took off. I got a gap, and it seemed for a moment that my gamble would catch the field unawares. But alas, that was not the case. I was caught right before the line and lost the race by about a bike length. I came in third, and luckily my mittens disguised the middle fingers of frustration I was pointing at the clever fellows who pipped me at the line. My podium spot in the first race is a dangerous thing, as it leads to delusions of overall victory, which means that I will need to take part in every race in the series, despite the cold or rain. Oy.

The 35+ Race

Constantine got away on the first corner on the first lap and stayed away. I had no idea this happened, because what am I, the king of bikes?