My usual routine for Tuesday races at FBF goes as follows: load up car, pick up sweaty Romanian-American on the West Side Highway, arrive at FBF, ride multiple laps, sweat, curse a bit, wipe off grime, go home with a sweaty Romanian-American and wake up to write about 1,000 words about a race that took 55 minutes. It’s a fairly ridiculous routine, but it’s one I’ve become comfortable with. I am a person who enjoys routine to a certain extent. My coffee maker goes off automatically every morning, I go to sleep at the same time most evenings and they set the Shepard Gate Clock by my bowel movements (except those affected by Mexican food). As odd as they are, my routines are a source of comfort and security.

Last night everything was going to my Tuesday night routine, I had transported my sweaty Romanian-American life coach to the racecourse, and we started the race in last night’s moist and puddle-y conditions. There wasn’t a puff of wind to be found and the promise of bonus point for the finish made for an unusually large pack for a rainy night. This was a night for the sprinters, but of course, that does not mean we do not try, because as herds of compensated coaches will tell you, it’s all about the effort (and as a reminder, this month’s payment is late).

Early in the race, I began my plan of jumping away for about 15 times, in order to test my frustration tolerance and soften the big bunch of racers assembled for the evening. We went through the first green jersey sprint and things were forming up for a classic field sprint.

Then all the air escaped from my rear tire.

I hate getting flats.

Mihael won in a field sprint. That’s all I have to say.