Saturday was my first race back after a few weeks off. In a demonstration of monstrous understatement, my bike racing activities as of late have taken a backseat to more serious life activities. This means I have been busy doing important things and neglecting bike stuff because bikes are cool and all—but bikes aren’t life, no matter what banner ads tell you. 

Schedules and responsibilities aligned on Saturday morning and I was able to go racing. Although the start times are bananas, early morning park races are the easiest way to race and resume life activities with a minimal effect on the people in your life. (A tip for those new to early morning races, an afternoon nap is the key to resembling a human being for the rest of the day. If you have young kids, I’m afraid a nap is probably out of the question. I ground my way through many weekend days waking early to race and then enjoying full days with my kids and then I would fall over at about 8 pm. The kids got used to it, and I was unconscious, so I didn’t mind either.) 

I did the minimal amount of prep for Saturday’s race. I wrangled my clothes, wiped off the bike and set off into the milky darkness of Route 4 East. The schedule called for an 8 and a half lap race that would finish on West 98th street, which would total about 50 miles of racing. Was I excited about racing for that distance? Not especially, but sometimes you feel fortunate that you are alive and able to complete such a task. I made my way to the restrooms to find them locked, and my notorious spot was compromised by a park bench sleeper. But I was not to be denied (and I was also motivated to not have to go home with a soiled chamois), and I improvised a new location, one that actually shows promise for the future. I met up with Rhode Island Jon afterwards, and shared the location of the new comfort station, as it would be a shame if I had to return to New Jersey without racing, but it would be a real tragedy if Jon had to return to Rhode Island with only a mess to show for it. 

Then we lined up, we did race stuff, and I broke my chain at the bottom of Harlem Hill. Normally, this would the farthest possible point away from the finish line, but the 98th street finish meant a relatively short walk. (Side note, recreational cyclists in Central Park do NOT ask if you need anything.) I walked up the hills and coasted when possible until I made it to the finish. I borrow a chain tool and hacked my chain back together. (When I checked it later, my chain was terribly worn, but as of late so am I, so one of us had to give out.)

I decided to hang out and watch the races finish, and cheer on my teammate Greg. I then realized that watching races from the side of the road is, how should I phrase this? Oh, it’s tremendously boring. I watch a lot of bike racing. And it’s really a sport that’s meant to be televised. There’s a reason they don’t set up a camera to watch the pack passing by (shots of the field passing are strictly B roll, and the shots need to be enlivened with fields of sunflowers or with groups of inebriated Dutchmen dancing to techno music). Bike races are best watched from the front or from above from motorcycles or helicopters. Standing by the side of the road gives only the briefest glimpse of the pack, and often gives the spectators almost no idea of what’s going on.

I can attest to the fact that bike races are actually interesting. I know this because I’ve been inside of them. You are constantly moving around, watching attacks and attempting to save as much energy as possible. It’s mayhem. And what did Saturday’s race look like from the side of the road? It looked like an organized ride to the sleep center. And I know for a fact that the race was not as calm as it appeared from the roadside. Those guys were bumping, chopping and knocking each other around—you just can’t see it without a helicopter.

I wasn’t alone at the finish. There was an impressive collection of friends, spouses and well-wishers assembled, especially when accounting for the time of day. Could they tell what was going on? Not really. Park races pass by eight times, and it’s nearly impossible to tell the race situation by watching from one spot on the course. These spectators were just cheering on their friends and loved ones as they passed. My family has watched me race once. At Harlem (and given the action at that race, there was a good chance they could’ve seen me chucked into a metal barrier also), and that was enough for all of us. The action wasn’t exactly compelling for my wife and daughters, and it added a layer of logistics for me to bring them along and get them settled. (They did however, get to watch Biz Markie enjoy a few Red Stripes.) We later decided as a family that local bike racing was an event best experienced directly. By me. Alone.

But there are some spectators that I’ve seen regularly over the years. I always loved seeing the Koops set up their lawn chairs at the finishes of park races, they would cheer as the pack came by, but they were definitely biased towards their son Zach. And maybe their perspective from the lawn chairs is one I could learn from.