Life of late has been hectic, family obligations, work duties and the demanding schedule of a cat five karaoke competitor have taken up much of the time I have not only for racing bikes, but also for typing about racing bikes. Thankfully a business trip to what is known as the "silicon gulley", Galena, Illinois, will allow me the time to share my feelings about bike racing, life and the tyranny of the World Karaoke League governing body, the WKL.

I shall be writing my missive from the planes and airports I pass through on my journey to the Midwestern Motherland (being of German descent, it’s bad form to say "fatherland", that just freaks people out—and I realize that my last name leads many to believe I am quite the opposite of German, but that convoluted tale is another story—let’s just say that grandma got around and leave it at that). Currently I find myself in Newark Airport after a 3:30 am wake up call, which is a daunting hour for many travelers, but to a New York bike racer, that sort of early morning is known as "Saturday". Newark Airport is as unremarkable as you imagine it to be, but there seems to be some tech geek looking fellow giving me the stink eye. This will bear further investigation, and I hope for his sake we are not seated together in coach class, as I am a nerd slayer from way back. I will recap these events later—as now we board.

I may have been incorrect in my estimation of my nerd nemesis, upon further investigation he may be slightly brain damaged—or he works in IT—it’s impossible to distinguish between the two. But the lesson here remains as always, I am a terrible person. My misinterpretation of slight Aspergers is irreverent because I’ve been seated next to an affable soldier who is being deployed to Indiana. I have been to Indiana, and he’s about to experience hell on earth. I was assigned the window seat on this flight and upon arriving at my row, I found him in my place, I let him stay where he was, as the difference between a window and aisle seat means little to me, and the poor bastard has to go to Indiana.

At this point I should start writing about bikes, as this is a race journal after all. My last race was the CRCA club race if last Saturday. Unbeknownst to me, a sleeper cell of racers has sprung up in my village of Ridgewood. I blame Rob Kotch. Rob is the energetic and affable owner of Breakaway Couriers and lives a short distance from me. He is also the head of a cult of commuters who ride into the city on a regular basis. He has somehow convinced his minions that the next step in their quest for world domination should be through racing bicycles, and they have responded accordingly. This is a disturbing trend and will require monitoring, but the upshot of all of this cult activity is that I can now carpool to races. I have long been hoping for reliable rides to share to park races, not because it saves the planet or anything like that (I like to save the planet in the privacy of my own home), but because it allows me the opportunity to get dropped off at races and ride home, which will really add to my mileage totals. You see, every racer at heart is a selfish cretin, and I am no different. In my blind striving towards fulfilling my athletic goals, I am willing to scheme and plot to get my way. I will take my turn in the race carpool if it allows me that extra training time, yes I am so dedicated to my aspirations that I am willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and drive my car.

I finagled a ride to the race with Rob, and after signing in, I found my teammates and we set about forming a plan for the morning’s race. Usually these planning sessions are no more than asking which of us feels well enough or un-hung over enough to make a go at winning the race. This morning Chris offered that he was planning on doing something "early", so we all acquiesced, as Chris is really fast (some of us may be hung over, but we are not stupid). Our plan set, the race began and indeed Chris did get into an early move, somewhere near the second lap of the race. He was away with David Taylor and Matt Seaton, who are both savvy racers, so we on the BH/Garneau squad decided to allow them to ride ahead and win the race. A second group did form at one time, and we missed out placing anyone in the group, which was an error in judgement, but we felt confident that Chris would stay off the front, so it wasn’t a huge deal. Back in the pack, we rolled along as if we had been administered tranquilizers. Chris finished second behind David Taylor, a fine result for the day. The race finished, I began the second phase of my journey, the ride home.

I won’t bore you with all the details of my sojourn back to Jersey, but I will tell you that stopping after a race and then beginning another ride is one of the coldest experiences one can be subjected to. As I passed through upper Manhattan, I nearly shivered myself onto the pavement. My fingers stung from the cold, and I needed to improvise a solution. I found my finger’s salvation in the Napoleon pose of the cartoon insane. I rode with one hand up my jersey, altering hands when the pain from the cold overwhelmed the untucked hand. It was an awkward way to ride home, and with the howling winds on the George Washington Bridge, it was also nearly fatal. But as I crossed the bridge, the temperatures rose, and I was able to ride without a hand under my clothing. I continued for another hour or so until I arrived home, the miles behind me, but a full day of the karaoke circuit ahead.