Last night there was a strong Jersey wind blowing at Floyd Bennett Field, which is the opposite of the traditional wind at FBF, which normally comes off the Atlantic Ocean. And like many things that come from Jersey like the Real Housewives, Sammi Sweetheart and well, me—the Jersey wind can be treacherous. A Jersey wind means that the "gutter" at FBF switches from the safe confines between corners 1 and 2 with its mown grass and open vistas to the dodgy stretch between turns 3 and 4, with its overhanging trees, weedy cracks and abandoned trash stuffs. The Jersey wind also meant that there would be a tail wind finish, and all that it entails (and if you don’t know what it entails—I’m not going to tell you because I like occasionally winning bike races—and don’t all you guys have coaches anyway?). So in many ways, it was going to be an unusual night at FBF.

What was not unusual though, was the crowd gathered for the race. Many of the usual Tuesday night suspects toed the line, with the pack bloated slightly due to the lovely weather. A large pack of racers usually means a field sprint, as there are many volunteers around to share the workload of crushing the hopes and dreams of those who would like to escape the herd. But with the wind, and especially with a Jersey wind, breaks still have a good chance of success. We pushed off, and thankfully some other lunatic (other than myself) decided to do the "first half-lap breakaway" thing. Of course, I bridged up to the aforementioned lunatic shortly thereafter, and then the move came to grief, as it always does. Fast forward a bit and we have move upon move, usually moves of a few guys countered by moves from the Lone Racer, and we rolled like this for about 7 1/2 laps, locked in a battle between those who would escape alone, and those of us who enjoy some company.

After an acceleration by the Lone Racer, there was a slight counter between turns 2 and 3 somewhere, and when we hit turn 3, the move looked to be turning serious. I decided to join the move, so I jumped up along the gutter, staying out of the wind, but whacking many bushes along the way. We formed up into a group of around 7 or so by turn four and as we hit the tailwind, we hit the gas and got a gap. Normally I would consider a group off the front to be a break, but a group of the size we were in (which was about 7 or so) would considered to be more of a "split" than a break, and the difference between a split and a break is much like the difference between a square dance and a mosh pit. A split tends to have less cohesion, and finding myself in a split—I felt compelled to offer advice and encouragement to my companions. Unfortunately, in races my language trends more towards "sailor" talk, and in coaxing my associates I may have used many adjectives that are naughty synonyms for copulation, actually that’s not true—I only used one particular synonym, over and over. For this I apologize to my split brethren, I can be a fornicating idiot sometimes.

Naughty admonishments aside, we had two laps to get to the finish, and we were fumbling our way to the line like a blind bull trying to hump a steak. Fumbling along with me were two Axis riders, Jon Orcutt and Danny Inoa, two Blue Ribbon riders, Thomas Pennell and Eddie Espitia and two Kissena riders, Matthew Montesano and Joshua Parker. Chris Castaldi eventually bridged up to us, and we were set, roster-wise, as there weren’t a lot of teams left in the pack to chase us. Since I was all on my lonesome, and like to try and win bike races, I needed to help get our gap established. I rotated through and tried to keep an eye on the guys with teammates, as proper racing technique would dictate that they would start launching alternating attacks. The first pair to go were Pennell and Inoa, they jumped and had a 100-200 meter gap, we chased and collected them somewhere—it’s hard to remember things that happened to you while you were breathing through your eyeballs. They did get caught though, and then Orcutt flatted, eliminating a rival and one more counter attack.

We were all together after the bell on turn three, and to be honest, I started thinking about my place in the world, more specifically my third place in the overall standing in the FBF series. Castaldi was with us, and I needed to gain points on him and Frank Arroyo (who wasn’t with us) as they were both ahead of me in the standings. I think it was sometime during my calculations that Eddie Espitia jumped. It was a well timed move, as it was right before turn four and the tailwind that would whisk anyone wise enough to leap ahead of the pack to the finish. I hadn’t raced with Eddie all season, and wasn’t really sure if he could hold a move like that (it turns out that he could—and did). So I remained in the safer confines of the group—which is racer code for "I’m a chicken poopie." Eddie rolled over the line solo, and raised his arms in triumph, I was able to weasel my way to second place, and Castaldi didn’t have anything left for the finish, so I gained quite a few points.

Side notes from the night

The Jersey wind took no prisoners last night and there was a big crash after some tangled with the foliage between turns 3 and 4, I hope that everyone gets well soon. FBF is no place to slide upon the ground.

On a completely separate note, the outdoor BBQ place/bar is open on the backstretch! The first pitcher next week is on me—of course, it will also be for me, but let’s not quibble.

schmalz race report

Like I’ve said before, I’d say that finishing second is like being the first loser, but that’s so dicky. I like finishing in the points, so I’ll give this a three.

Last night’s head song was something by Steely Dan, and all the songs by that band sound alike to me, so I’m just putting up a random one.