Believe it or not, the racing season has begun. Three separate race series began their competitions this past weekend. Some may say that it’s ridiculous to have so much racing at this time of year, as the weather can range from "preposterous" to "debilitatingly cold"; but this is the way things are. Promoters would not have races if they didn’t have racers showing up, and racers show up in the early spring, mostly because we have all been driven mad from long, isolating winter rides. We are so desperate to ride in groups again that we are willing to race in appalling conditions, conditions that, for instance, we raced in this past weekend.

For me the return to racing season also means a return to the rituals I’ve developed over the years for the races I attend. For early morning races, I follow my "three twos" ritual, I wake two hours before the start time, I have two cups of coffee and I, um, have two pool drops offs for the kids, so to speak. I also have very specific procedures for dressing and packing that I won’t go into here because they are involved and tedious and I am submitting them to the US Patent Office because they are awesome.

My drive to Central Park races has also been analyzed, optimized and committed to memory. I have memorized the sequencing of the lights on Lexington Avenue, and I also know how to get across Park Avenue without having to stop for the light. I have figured out a parking strategy, and I am reluctant to share that information with you here, because find your own damn parking spot. I have discovered special "emergency only" bathroom spots that I will take to the grave with me. Upon arrival, I repack my bag to carry only the essentials I will need for the day’s race.

After all of these procedures have been followed, I arrive at the race roughly thirty minutes before the start, depending on the success of my pool "drop offs" and an efficient crossing of the George Washington Bridge (actually not a euphemism). Saturday morning, my procedural success got me to the first CRCA Club Race with plenty of time to spare before the start. I picked up my race number for the season, and made my way to the bathroom to pin up, because it’s warm in there and I am not a fool.

Upon entering the bathroom, amongst the sadly familiar sounds (the clacking of cycling cleats, the panicked unzipping of layers of jerseys and the chorus of grunts) there was a new noise to be addressed. Amidst the nervous manifestations of the fight or flight response, there was a low murmur coming from in front of the mirror. A man was staring intently into the mirror, oblivious to the Lycra clad activity whirling around him. He was shaving his face and calmly addressing his reflection in the mirror. The discourse wasn’t so much a discussion as it was a recitation about salvation, damnation, redemption, death, God and worms.

The man was obviously not well, and in different circumstances, I would like to think I may have tried to help him; but I was trapped in my own tractor beam of ritualized procedure. I knelt behind the trash can, pinned my number and then joined my below racers. I returned a little later for a final race pee, and saw the man finish shaving, collect his bags and walk towards the center of the park while continuing his dissertation.

We lined up for the race and took off. Zach K, fresh from a training camp in the Carolinas (which is totally geography doping as far as I’m concerned), took off on the second lap. My teammate Aaron went with him, and they were joined by Chad B and Charles A. The foursome stayed away, with Zach taking the win ahead of Chad. There was a chase group of three behind the break that contained my two other teammates Dylan and Evan. That group also stayed away. I remained ensconced in what remained of the pack. After the breaks were well out of range, my teammate Pascal and I traded some attacks in order to seem like we were racing. Pascal’s attacks were effective but covered and my attacks resembled an inflated balloon dropped on the floor without a knot—with a flatulent initial blast followed by a complete deflation—leaving me to return to the pack to mutter quietly about salvation, damnation, redemption, death, God and worms.