The preparations for this week’s race began a week ago when I called my wife after the penultimate Tuesday night race at FBF, and mentioned that I was considering driving back from our family vacation in Cape May, NJ in order to participate in the series finale. My wife is a very patient person, and usually when I propose something outlandish, eccentric or impractical, I am met not with a raised voice or shouts, but with silence. It’s a silence I’ve come to know very well, as I am very adept at coming up with circumstances that tend towards outlandishness, eccentricity or impracticality. I faced the same silence last week, when I tried to explain that I had an outside shot at winning the race for the overall title at FBF—a feat which in the normal world equates roughly to successfully re-grouting the shower stall in your bathroom (I’m really into grout). I listened closely for the characteristic exhale that meant that my wife was considering my proposition, "You’re going back all week?" "No, just for Tuesday night, only one day.", and then I tried to pull at her heart strings, "I’ve been doing this series all summer long, and I really do think I can do well." "Well, I guess so." was her unenthusiastic reply, and anyone who’s been married knows that answer is not so much a hearty endorsement as it is a capitulation, but I was unfazed. I had my authorization (albeit a tepid one at best). I was going to drive about three hours before driving another hour and a half to circumnavigate an empty airfield in remotest Brooklyn. And yes, I consider this fun, why do you ask?

I had my slightly subdued authorization in place for my Tuesday travels, but I hadn’t planned on God interfering in my quest for FBF glory. Heavy rain was in the forecast for the days leading up to FBF on Tuesday, which could potentially flood the course. Charlie had sent out an email informing us that if the course was flooded on Tuesday, he would reschedule the race for Thursday. I am not without my charms (I can get extra ketchup packets from McDonalds without having to resort to threats or tears), but there was no way I was going to charm my way into abandoning my family vacation twice during the same week. My opportunity was Tuesday or never.

Upon arrival at FBF with my Tuesday teammate and personal photographer Marco Quezada, I was delighted to see that the course was above ground and there was a ripping wind creating a headwind between turns three and four. And when I say "ripping", I mean that it was the type of wind that, if you stopped pedaling, it felt as if you would be blown back to Flatbush. This wind direction is atypical at FBF, but it was wind nonetheless, and presented an opportunity to make the race difficult. I lined up with teammates Jaime and Marco and was delighted to find that I had help offered from Sam and David from WS United, which would be especially helpful if the race came down to a sprint.

I, of course, didn’t want the race to come down to a sprint. Frank Arroyo was ahead of me by 5 points and I’d have to finish three places ahead of him to win the series—an unlikely (well, impossible, really) prospect in a field sprint. Our plan was to take advantage of the windy section and push it there. I would get into any splits, hopefully burning the chase out of Bernie McGarry, Frank’s tenacious teammate. It was a plan that would be very tiring, but it was my best hope. We rolled off and we immediately set to work trying to wear Bernie out.

I’m not really sure how many jumps, splits and moves I got into, but it was a number somewhere between five and "every damn time". I tired to move ahead and shake Bernie, but he was a permanent fixture in my slipstream—as he should’ve been. We raced like this until about five laps to go, when Sam came up to me and let me know that Frank had flatted. That bit of bad luck changed everything. Now I could play the race for a sprint, and couldn’t afford to have any riders away up the road. Bernie could sit in and wait for the finish, and try to take as many places away from me as he could. Now my teammates worked to keep the race together. Paul Carbonara jumped and teammate jaime went with him to cover, and the rest of us set to slowly reeling him back in, and at the bell he still had a slight gap by himself off the front of the race.

On the last lap, I camped on Marco’s wheel in fourth position, as I knew the tailwind sprint would favor those who went early. We collected Paul at about turn three, and the race bogged in the headwind. Paul tried one last attack, which would’ve worked had he made it alone to the corner, but Marco shut it down just as we hit the final corner. It was now down to one last final stretch of the bouncy road at FBF to decide the entire series. I had done the GC math and knew that I had to finish third or better to win the series. Bernie jumped at the turn and had a gap immediately. I jumped behind him and committed myself to my final effort of the season. I wasn’t gaining on Bernie, and I thought I was going to be scooped up by the pack behind. I hugged the trees, hoping somehow to disappear from the sight of the pack behind. I told myself to get up off my pathetic ass and give it al I had, as this might be the only chance at the overall I may ever have (it’s a really long finishing straight at FBF). I creaked my way to the finish, Bernie won and I was passed by only one other rider, an affable lad from Kissena. The gap to the pack was large enough that I could turn around and see that I had done just enough to win the series. I let out a squeal of joy as I crossed the line. I had done it.

There’s a quotation that states, "Luck is preparation meeting opportunity". It’s attributed to either the Roman philosopher Seneca or Oprah (according to the internet at least—I hope Seneca has a hell of a lawyer, because Oprah is totally going to sue him for stealing her line). In the end, I was prepared. I was prepared to only have one flat in the series. I was prepared to not have the course flood on my last chance to race on Tuesday. I was prepared to have my rival flat at the worst possible time. I was prepared to have the wind blow. I was prepared to have my wife and family support my racing fixation. I can’t say I was prepared or happy that Chris crashed out—that’s where Oprah’s logic misses the mark—but I am very prepared to have the help of my teammates, temporary or not. I can now return to my family vacation and sit on the sand (or "bathing dirt" as I call it) and bask in the glow of my success, a success that I can describe to people that don’t race bikes, but my words will fail to express the effort, compulsion, toil, fear and obsession required to show up and race every Tuesday night in the middle of nowhere Brooklyn with a group of like minded lunatics—as words fail to describe something that is so pointless and poignant at the same time.

At the start of the race, my head song was "I Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You" from the High School Musical soundtrack (those songs are damn catchy), but I needed a better song, so I mentally scratched that record and replaced it with "Think again" by Minor Threat.