In my weekly pilgrimage to the non-hallowed ground at FBF, I have to cross the Hudson River, drive under the East River and then burrow my way through traffic heading out to Long Island on the Belt Parkway. It’s a journey that can be waylaid by any number of maladies: broken down cars, accidents, traffic or Long Islanders returning to spawn. Some nights it can be a long, frustrating trip, but last night’s journey was especially frustrating. There was traffic on the GWB, there was traffic on the West Side Highway, there was traffic on the Belt and in the trousers of Long Island—but trouser traffic is nothing new to Long Island in the summer.

In fact, traffic was so bad that in order to make the start time for the race, my traveling companion Mihael and I had to resort to Belt Parkway stripteases while changing our clothes in the car. I will wait now while those of you who know the two of us can clear the bits of undigested food out of your mouths that burst up involuntarily from your stomach while reading that last sentence. There? All Better?  Good, because Mihael also had to resort to a "trucker’s toilet" in my bike seat to avoid leaking urine all over the interior of my station wagon. It was a dicey trip to say the least, but I can say that it was an exceptional feeling rolling along the Belt without any pants on—and again, I will wait while you clear out more foodstuffs.

We made it to the race with nary a second to spare, and as I rolled to the line, I was pretty unprepared. I had no warm up or course reconnaissance to judge the wind conditions, so I was a little under informed, but no matter, I had my man garbage covered and was ready to race. We rolled out and there was a slight headwind between turns one and two, a circumstance that would, along with the large pack size, predict a field sprint. Of course, that didn’t stop attempts at breaks from happening. We had the obligatory attacks, but none seemed to have the horsepower or inclination to stay away. And as we hit two to go, the sprint writing was on the wall. Normally, I am not one to contest a sprint in a 1/2/3 race, as time and numerous 22nd placings have shown me that I do not have the power to hit the money in those finishes, but in a 3/4 field, I have a chance. So I set about getting into position when we hit the bell lap. The next 3/4ths of a lap was spent moving, positioning and shoving my way to where I wanted to be in the field, and as we hit turn four, I was right where I wanted to be. The NYVC team was leading out, as no one else wanted to or was able to, and they had three guys on the front, thinning the pack out slightly.

Since it was a head wind sprint this week, the conventional knowledge was to start your sprint late, and as we came to the line, the NYVC guys pulled off. This is when I should’ve jumped, but I was watching Frank Arroyo, and he hesitated also. James Joseph jumped in the way that only James seems capable of, Frank followed, and there was a slight gap between them and myself. The guys leading out for NYVC came back through the pack, and I had to make my way through them like the traffic I negotiated through outer Brooklyn—with pants on this time. My pants and I were able to salvage a 5th place, which give me more points in the overall, but I lost ground to both Frank and Chris Castaldi; but treading water points-wise on a sprint night is not a bad proposition for me.

Side note from the night

The outdoor BBQ place is operational! I opted for the pulled pork sandwich, as it’s hard to screw up pulled pork—and they didn’t! Look for me there again next week—and the weeks thereafter.

schmalz race report

Still making points, so that’s a positive. Pants-free driving, well, that may be a positive also.

I forget what the head song for the night was, so let’s harken back to last week and go with "Only Time Will Tell" by Asia.