To those unaccustomed to the staging of an amateur bike race, the lines, the mulling about and eventually the call to the line that finally assembles the mass of racers into an expectant cluster resembling an ill-fed flash mob all seem rather random and erratic. But when viewed from the racer’s perspective the scene transforms into a series of rituals and preparations meant to ensure the racer can get into the proper mindset to, for instance, fling themselves around a wet city park at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning.  

First and foremost, there’s the sign in. This is where racers discover whether they have fulfilled the registration requirements for the race. If they have, they move on to the pinning and mulling about portion of the morning. If they haven’t they move on to the begging and bargaining stage of the registration process. I have been both registrar and registree, and I can give you hints as to what works and what doesn’t. Indignation, disgruntlement and shouting are rarely effective. The holder of the clipboard behind the folding table is rarely the one who makes the rules, so any extra hassle you pile upon them at 6 am is not going to work in your favor. The best bet is to be patient and perhaps humorous (try to avoid working "blue" here), but do not offer any Cinemax-style back rubs—I can tell you from personal experience that this does not get you into the race.

After registration comes the individualized anxiety-controlling rituals of each racer. Some pace, some sit quietly, some become chatty and try to work out race strategy. Personally, my pre-race anxiety sadly manifests itself through my digestive track. Plainly put, I’m a pooper. Unfortunately, fight or flight mechanism has a default setting of "revolting". For evening races, this isn’t an issue, but for morning races, it is a challenge. I have to rise at least two hours before the race start time in order to properly serve my gastro-intestinal master—not once, but twice. Yes, I am a double deucer. Sometimes I wake and things go smoothly, other times there’s challenges. I won’t go into (more) distasteful detail, but I can assure you of a few thing: garbage is urban equivalent of fallen leaves, toilet paper-wise; almost no one takes notice of an emergency stop on the Major Deegan at 5:30 on a Sunday morning; and some of the fertilizer spread on the parks of New York is "people".

This is all digression. I really meant to describe the CRCA A race on Saturday morning, but once I get started on digestion, it’s hard to stop that ball from rolling. When I awoke on Saturday morning to begin my biological launch sequence, there was no rain or precipitation to be found, but once I hit the FDR, tiny drops of impending malady hit my windshield. I contemplated turning back home, but being filled with caffeine and empty of bowel, there would be no return to slumber. I was up, so I might as well race. My goals for the race quickly downgraded from "affirmation through personal achievement" to "surviving with pink pelt intact".

There was a large turnout for every field, which usually portends a sprint finish or a late opportunistic break. We rolled off and took the first lap at a rather gentlemanly pace, not because we are Rapha aficionados, but to survey the road surface and the obstacles we would be seeing for the rest of the day. Of course, after the rather sedate first lap, the game turned—volleys were fired and answered, most of which never amounted to much. The activity didn’t produce a decisive action until about two laps to go when a group of eight or so assembled at the front of the race.

As of late, our BH/Garneau team has shown a tendency towards acquiring rather tall (for bikes—not the real world) racers, and when these racers are added to our already un-diminuative roster, the "big guy in a BH kit" effect gets compounded. I fell victim to this effect on Saturday morning. Initially, I thought we had teammate Eric in the breakaway, but when Eric pulled alongside of me, I quickly reassessed and figured that Marcus was up the road. Marcus then rolled up and asked who was up the road for us, I did a double take and cooly assured him it was Stoffel—I find it best to appear confident when uttering complete nonsense. I was certain that one of us was ahead in the break (out uniforms, are very distinctive), I just wasn’t certain who it was. Despite this identity crisis, we worked for our unknown teammate, and on the final lap the break had a precarious 30 seconds or so. Die Hard was working for a Ricky Lowe sprint, which we had absolutely no answer for, so we sat back and hoped for the break to succeed. Coming through the horse dung (I think the day’s flavor was "oats and Burger King wrappers") the break was still holding, then Ricky jumped from the pack and put himself and two others halfway between the break and the rest of us. This was not good, Ricky could potentially launch himself from that position in one final sprint to the line and sweep past the entire break.

None of this occurred. There had been a bad crash in the women’s race and our finish was rightly neutralized, giving all of us the same result. I would now like to take this opportunity to thank all of my teammates for aiding me in this placing, and I can genuinely say that today, we were all winners.

Side Note from the Day

If you guessed "Pascal" then you had the correct answer to the identity of the BH racer on the break.

I would like to send out a sincere "get well"  and "speedy recovery" to the women involved in the crash—that’s a terrible way to start a season.

The head song for the race was "Web in Front" by the Archers of Loaf.