As I’ve been describing in excruciating, Val Kilmer-baiting detail, I am in the portion of my bike season where I go out and I ride my bike to "train". Training can at times be fulfilling and satisfying, and it is necessary if one expects to race bikes in a fashion that is neither futile nor slow. But as a bike racer, I need experiences beyond just plopping myself down upon my saddle and plodding through the Northern New Jersey landscape. I often use racing my bike as an outlet for releasing emotions that, were they expressed in normal social circumstances, would make me a social pariah.

I am not a perfect person. I can be petty, vindictive and I’ve developed a life philosophy based upon Hall and Oates lyrics. (Man-Eaters, beware! You are out of touch, out of time, and private eyes are watching you! *clap, clap*) As of late, I find that I have been retaining excessive amounts of aggression, and I’ve no outlet for this excess aggression. For example, just the other day I was out training, and found myself upon the receiving end of an obscene tirade emanating from the driver’s seat of an automobile. Normally, I let these things pass without incident, but due to aggression retention, I decided chase down the driver and have words with him. Obscene, aggressive words that sailors enjoy. I soon found myself in the lowest form of human interaction, the lycra versus flannel shouting match. We exchanged shrieks, gave each other instructions on the best methods for self-boinking, and displayed our shared ignorance for all to see. The exchange ended with a squealing of tires and one-fingered gesturing. Nothing was learned, no one was the better for the discussion and we parted angry and convinced that each other was a menace.

Thankfully, there was an opportunity for me on Sunday morning to let some of my aggression abate. It was the CRCA Turkey Race, six laps that could potentially save the motorists of Bergen County from terrifying tirades from a tights-clad terrorist. Normally an event for CRCA members only, this year’s edition was open to the cycling public, allowing them another opportunity to justify owning thousands of dollars worth of bike and another chance to justify wearing compression socks. (I am wearing mine RIGHT NOW.) I revived my early morning race routine for one last 201 hurrah, and made my way into the city.

The temperature upon my waking in New Jersey was 35 degrees. I planned to dress accordingly, but I was vexed to discover that New York City was 15 degrees warmer than the Jersey hinterlands and the ensemble that I had chosen for the morning would be too warm. (I assume that the temperature difference is due to New York’s proximity to the fiery gates of hell—I’ve been listening to a lot of rapture radio lately—12/12/12, save the date!). I did an impromptu costume change before the race, got an unsolicited style critique from the Stan’s No Tubes team and rolled to the start.

I have to assume that other racers have been retaining aggression also, as the race began quite fast for an event in November. The field was strung out at the beginning and then there were sorties and attacks in the first few laps. On lap two or so, a successful break finally formed, consisting of my teammate Dylan, Mike M of Stan’s No Tubes and Gerry M of Brauer. They got a split of about 15-30 seconds and proceeded to hold that gap for about 4 laps, a prospect both daunting and courageous. Behind in the pack, there were a few teams and individuals still working to catch the escapees. Steven D of Metra 54 worked tirelessly to escape, but Doctor John of Stan’s was relentlessly smothering any moves off the front. We rolled this way for four laps, until we finally caught the break at Tavern on the Green on the final lap.

From there the sprint writing was on the wall. I did one last effort on the front to keep the race strung out and (hopefully) safe, and I then dropped from the race like a steel seagull. My efforts done, I rolled in to the finish with my aggression boil lanced, saving the motorists of New Jersey from further roadside vituperation.

And in case you were wondering, here’s what a Central Park Race looks like on Strava.