Ugh, I’ll admit it, I’ve been racing bikes; and the contract I’ve made with the voices in my head stipulates that I mention every race that I take part in. Even if I only mention those events in a nominal sense. So I will nominally mention that I raced at Branchbrook Park for the last two weeks in the masters 45+ and 35+ categories. There, mission accomplished. Contract stipulation fulfilled. Now I can collect my compensation of absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Of course, there’s more to those Branchbrook events than just a basic participation on my part, but it almost pains me to write about it because sometimes bike racing, even for participants, can be very monotonous. It can also be tremendously simple to comprehend tactically. Most third graders can grasp about 90% of the nuance involved with bike racing after a fifteen minute conversation. Being a pretend bike racer is by no means rocket science, it’s not even earth science—it’s like beginning fractions. So I will spare you the tedious blow by blow of four races contested by elderly gentlemen in a New Jersey park.

But now that leaves me nothing to talk about. I have emerged from a long winter’s worth of bike-perched toil that included many many hours on my trainer in my basement. These long hours served mostly to keep me not fat, but they weren’t the best preparation for racing a bicycle outdoors. My first week at Branchbrook was a series of kitten-like attacks which were brought back with ease by the pack behind me. I finished eighth in the 45+ race through guile, treachery and gumption. I then sat in during the 35+ race and contemplated the difference that 10 years can make in the composition of a race. And quite honestly, it makes quite a difference.

My next week at Branchbrook was an order off the same menu as the week before. A 45+ race followed by a tow in the 35+ race. The races at Branchbrook have competitions for a leader’s jersey, which means some teams will race the races as if they were stages of the Tour de France, just without hills, time trials, long distances or any public interest whatsoever. And this is fine, because once you know who’s competing for the overall, the racing becomes predictable. And on Saturday, we rolled along in a very predictable manner. Attacks were chased, counter moves were covered and a late move of three was slowly reeled in just before the finish.

Personally, I was gearing up for my usual assault on eighth place in the field sprint. I was near the front and out of the wind after the corner just like nearly everyone else in the race. Then I was visited by an angel. The angel passed by me with flowing blond locks and said, “Schmalz, get on my wheel.” This angel was Bill Elliston, rightful winner of the 2004 Mengoni Gran Prix, and because I am not a moron, I allowed Bill to take me to the front.

Bill then turned into a blond motorcycle. I am not sure why Bill felt charitable towards me (I think he may have liked my new $10 goggles), and we really didn’t have time to discuss the reasons for such generosity because we had a gap on the field and the line was approaching fast. Bill ended his effort and I took off. Now, had I been a capable sprinter in any sense of the word, that effort would have ended in a victory. But, alas, there was a fellow who was one place smarter than me and he followed my wheel to victory. I grunted and gasped my way into being passed by three more racers. I finished fifth—three places better than the week before.

But I was glad to have finished fifth. I was in the money. And there’s nothing a pretend bike racer cherishes more than winning enough money to not even begin recouping the costs of bike racing. Sometimes an angel takes you to heaven, sometimes they take you to the last paying position, three places better than you were the week before.