Trepidation, if I were to describe my feelings before returning to FBF for what feels like my 100th season, I would say I approached my return with trepidation. As of late, I have been busier than a one-legged fella in an ass-kicking contest, so my racing career has taken a back seat to graduation (now is the time when long-time readers can feel old by thinking to themselves, “Jesus, your kids have graduated high school?”) and business-based activities. (I actually do have multiple real jobs. In the past, people were convinced I made money typing about bikes on the internet, and I would like to let you know that no one makes money typing about bikes on the internet. That’s not a thing.)
A brief aside about the absurd situation where a private company is renting a national park back to the people who pay for it
I may have a dated way of thinking about things, but I’ve always thought that public parks were paid for and therefore available to, you know, the public? In my mind, you request a permit, a person in a funny ranger hat looks at it, approves it (or not) and then charges you five bucks for the processing fee. This, to me, seems like the way the process should work. But what we have now is the Parks Department allowing a private company to come in and act as a public park pimp and attempt to collect fees for events based on a valuation that is, as far as I can see, comically inflated. Clownishly inflated.
Unless I’m mistaken, there’s no queue of activities competing for the hot Tuesday night spot at FBF. Maybe there’s a backlog of those Tough Mudder, outdoor Cross-Fit dirt-calisthenics events jockeying for the domination of weekday evening time slots, but I haven’t seen any tank tops or head buffs strewn about the concrete at FBF, so I think the estimation of this venue’s potential is a bit overblown. But the park pimps insist that the FBF races pay the same fee as an apocalypse-themed bar mitzvah or a VR headset launch. The situation seems untenable, and speaking as someone who has raced at FBF for over two decades, I think that the survivor of this financial face-off won’t be the organization relying on raising revenue from a weed-filled concrete trapezoid. That doesn’t mean we can do nothing and hope things shake out for the best, you can donate to keep the racing going here.
Enough about park pimping, let’s get back to the real attraction here, the athletic career of a 54-year-old suburban dad. I have done one race so far this year. In normal racing seasons, I’d be about 5-8 races in and I would have a firm assessment (for better or for worse) of my pedaling prowess. My last race was in March, so I had no idea whether I was ready to race or ready to retire. I restarted my summer Tuesday night race-packing ritual and as I drove out to FBF, I might have secretly hoped that I forgot to pack my helmet or my shoes and I would be spared the indignity of a race thrashing that would shoot me out the back of the field like spoiled sushi though an adventurous truck stop diner.
Sadly, I packed all of my gear. I registered, got my number, met up with my teammates, and toed the start line. My plan was to not end my night pedaling alone in a mist of heavy breathing and thoughts about my inevitable march towards the grave. You know, the usual motivational stuff. The race started fast, and with a lack of wind, it stayed fast. Many people think that fast races must be hard because they are uh, fast. But that is not always the case, sometimes fast races in a large pack can be easy to negotiate because there are lots of places to hide. And hide I did. We rolled about at an average of 27.8 MPH, and I kept my face out of the wind. Did I smother myself in glory? Nooooo. But I did manage to get an assessment of my current condition, and I’m happy to announce that I am mediocre. Which for me at this point in the season feels like a major triumph.