My intention for this week’s schmalz-bikes-travaganza was to recap last weeks race at FBF, then do another race at FBF this week, win that race and come back at you with a story of redemption, grit and mightiness. (I was going to win solo, so I also had a dynamite finish line dance routine worked out, no spoilers, but it included confetti.) But alas, work responsibilities intervened and I was not able to bring you the second in the series of my outings at FBF, but I was able to maintain my status as an employed person, so I can parlay my earnings into well, college, I spend everything on college—and not even for myself.

But I can recap last week’s return of FBF after a two year hiatus. Let me just go to my Strava account and check out my power data and— OH DEAR GOD HOW DID I NOT DIE?! It looks as if the Tuesday tradition of trying to bike murder one another is still alive and well. For the entire race (we were sort of neutralized for a lap when we caught the 3/4ths race—it was weird) I averaged a straight 246 watts and 26.7 mph, and that was including the two laps I took off after the field was split by the 3/4ths race (yeah, it was weird and confusing, but whatevs, I was happy to be out of the house on a Tuesday). If we go by the effort for the beginning of the race, it was 27.3 mph at 260 watts. That’s a lot of watts. Yes, I know other people put out higher total wattage, but I’m a terrifically scrawny person, so my watts per kilogram is well, again average, get off my back, ok?

Total kilojoule output for the hour was 891, which is easily what I can output in a two hour mosey around my Bergen County stomping grounds, so that was really a great time saver, if I’m being honest. It seems that FBF remains a very efficient place to get bike murdered on a weekday night. The course hasn’t drastically changed because evidently the concrete sections there are made of slabs of Stonehenge. They will be around long after we are gone, and future generations will visit and wonder why there are so many rusty safety pins scattered about. FBF seems eternal. 

But it isn’t of course, our little Brooklyn bike bustle is always in danger of being evicted from its hideaway of 30 years. The grass grows out onto the tarmac, potholes get bigger and get filled in secretly, various agencies and companies have other ideas about the best use for an abandoned airfield. We are literally as far out of the way as we can get before getting pushed into the ocean.

Lordy this post has taken a morose turn. But that’s the nature of bike racing—it’s temporary. Everything (even us) is obviously, and I guess the key to appreciate those events that we enjoy while they are still happening. So head out to FBF, get nearly blown off your bike and leave some rusty pins to confuse future generations.