In regards to being person who races bikes, I consider myself "actively retired". I do not travel to out of town races, as they require high levels of preparedness and physical fitness, and they would concurrently place stress upon my family life, resulting in abject misery for not only me, but for all of the people I have made and whose company I enjoy. Plainly put, I don’t have the time or inclination to put in the work be a factor in out of town races, so I avoid them and therefore life is pleasant.

I didn’t race at Battenkill last year because business commitments prevented proper preparation, and I really didn’t want to travel north to get my keyster kicked. I didn’t plan on racing at Battenkill this year either because I simply didn’t want to sink into the month’s long obsessive sequence required to batter my aged body into a vessel capable of competing at Battenkill. In a nutshell, I am lazy and old. And since I am lazy and old, I put any thoughts of racing at Battenkill out of my mind months ago.

But the devious Dieter Drake, organizer of Battenkill, found a way to tempt my shiftless self into returning to the dirty hills of Cambridge NY. He created the Tour of the Battenkill Grand Fondo. I know that many of you very important racers with sponsors and matching arm, leg and toe warmers may look down upon the Fondos as "fred bait", but hear me out. I wasn’t going to go to Battenkill, but since there was a Fondo, I did go to Battenkill, adding to the weekend’s overall body count—and ensuring that the event happens in the future. My presence helped to finance all of the events, even those filled with thin, baby-armed wattage monkeys—feel free to thank me the next time we meet.

Armed with the carefree spirit of one who would be participating in an event with no real repercussions, I set about arranging my trip north. My plans for a bro-mantic weekend fell through when a traveling companion had to bow out due to a family emergency, but I was unfazed. I carried on with my plans anyway. I drove up on Saturday to help fly a frickin’ drone to test the waters of aerial videotaping (that’s all I shall say about that, I’ve said too much already). I wandered about on Saturday, watched the races finish, had an enjoyable dinner, and spent the night nearby. You’ll notice that I did none of the following: I didn’t badger everyone I knew about tire choice or recommended pressures to fill those tires with; I didn’t have bad dreams about descending through sand within a pack of nervous and excitable cat threes; I didn’t care who was registered for my field; and I gave exactly zero poops about whether I had trained enough, ate enough, or had pooped enough (other people worry about this before races also, don’t they?).

Therefore when I made my way to the start line, I was in a state of semi-tranquility. I had managed to meet up with my friend, Brooklynite Mike W and we assembled together in the staging area. Looking around, I noticed that we were in the midst of the entire range of the cycling rainbow. From the be-camel-backed to the tri-bar-ed to the aforementioned wattage monkeys, everyone was there, and sadly, as I am in my heart a crazy bike racer, I set about formulating a plan for sporting success.

This is how a Fondo works: you ride around a race course and there are timed sections, you ride hard in the timed sections, and the person with the lowest accumulated time wins. There were three timed sections at Battenkill, near mile 5, near mile 26 and finally at mile 60. And because Dieter Drake wants to create suffering, these were all climbs. Being a sneaky bike racer type, I quickly surmised that this was essentially three rides to three mini-races, and that expending energy on any un-timed sections was not only tiring, it was also foolish if you wanted to do well. Therefore, I decided to move through the pack, find a group of riders that could tow me along and ride hard on the timed sections.

We came to the first climb and I was on the front of the Fondo, I went all out, and placed in the top ten, and, as I am not foolish. I stopped trying. The front group was only a few hundred yards ahead of me, and I slipped into a group of riders that were working together. Normally this would be a good situation, but in the upside-down world of Fondos (Caution may contain race-like experiences), this was not ideal. These brave souls were working to catch the front group, which made absolutely no sense, because working to catch them would only add fatigue for the next timed section. I did my best to explain this circumstance, and the pace settled. We hit the next timed climb, and I went all out. Just after the line, I again stopped doing anything at all. I met back up again with Mike W and we were joined by New Yorker Martin B. Our group then set about trying to have as pleasant a jaunt through the hills of the Battenkill area as possible. The next timed climb was 33 miles away, so we moseyed through the country side, and unlike the times when I raced at Battenkill, I was able to converse. I looked at the scenery, I smelled things.

Our group stayed together until the second feed zone where some riders were still under the impression that the whole ride was timed. They enthusiastically grabbed at water and foodstuffs (in fact, they were so enthused, that they knocked over the table holding those foodstuffs). Mike and I grabbed some food and water at a normal pace, and then set off again out onto the road. I must say that I am very thankful for Mike’s company, not just because he is pleasant person, but also because he can pull like a Stannard, which was very helpful in the lead up to the last climb. We gathered up some more stragglers and had a group of about 6 going to the last climb. I rode at a team ride pace, and when the last climb appeared, I rode off to have my date with timed destiny.

A revolting seven minutes and fifty seconds later, my racing day was done. All that was left was to roll back to town. I waited for Mike, and we set off, but since I am a jerk racer at heart, I wanted to go all out until the finish. I left Mike behind and set off towards the line. I rolled alone through the undulating hills and wide pastures. I waved and thanked the marshals at the many intersections. I caught no one ahead of me, and I rolled across the finish line alone.

I had no idea where I may have placed on the day, and to be honest I didn’t really care, as I was in a rush to return home. I washed in the parking lot and was on the road in no time. It wasn’t until I had returned home that I found out I placed 9th overall and was first in my age division (had I been racing "barely legal" [45-49], I would’ve finished second in my age group, and would have knocked Mike down to third). And for this effort, I received absolutely nothing, and that is apt, because everything I wanted I found out on the road anyway.