Last night’s race at FBF had airs of familiarity and alienness about it: we were racing on a Thursday night instead of a Tuesday, the start/finish was located in the new "classic" Floyd location (on the backstretch of the course’s most recent layout, which was the location for the majority of the FBF finishes), and I was carpooling with Mihael, my coach and mentor—and by coach and mentor I mean that he tries to beat me whenever possible and then tells me what I did wrong on the ride home. It was a bit strange to be driving out to FBF on a Thursday in April—but I am a kind of defacto mascot (outer Brooklyn really takes a shine to ugly mascots—have you ever seen the smiling guy from the Steeplechase?) for FBF as I have a flexible schedule and can find the time to drive to outer Brooklyn with an expatriate Romanian on a weeknight—it’s my burden to bear.

Despite these subtle differences, last night’s race was a typical evening at FBF. There was slight breeze making a tailwind on the finish (that’s an important detail to remember for later), and there were about thirty racers assembled for the action. For clarification’s sake, I’ll mention that I am racing the 3/4 field at the Thursday night races. I will be racing the 1/2/3 race on Tuesdays, as I won the 3/4 series championship, and I would feel icky if I were to contest the series two season in a row. Look for me to never place in the 1/2/3 field this year.

Championship digression aside, we pushed off and went very fast for about a half lap. After last week’s throttling at Battenkill, my racing confidence was lower than Donald Trump’s presidential prospects (we haven’t had a bald president since Eisenhower, and that "stuff" on Trump’s head isn’t going to cut the mustard), so I had no idea whether I would be fast, slow or (heaven forbid) Trumply.

I was delighted to find out that I was feeling frisky. I made few attempts at getting away, along and with company, but was dragged back each time. Now I am a delusional person—I think that I am both a competent bike racer and interesting enough to wrote about bike races I enter—but I think I am telling the truth when I say that I felt like Fabian Cancellara (sans the metrosexiness and pleasant odor) last night. I could attack and get gaps, but I was marked pretty heavily. I was poison to every move I was involved in. I suppose that’s what happens when you write a blow-hard-ish journal about FBF races and subsequently go on to win the series—people assume you know what you are doing. But I will tell you this, it’s not that I know what I’m doing, it’s that I have learned—like a dog that’s licked an outlet—what not to do. And you should never get into moves with a guy that everyone thinks is capable of winning.

Two wise fellows heeded this advice, Graham from Setanta and a Kissena guy (Kissena was very active in this race, they attacked a lot) got away in the winning move with the Kissena guy (sorry, name unknown) winning and Graham (who I mistakenly called Alistair afterwards—because I’m dumb) getting second. Behind in the pack, we were preparing for a sprint as we hit the bell (a suggestion to organizers—get a bell) lap. I put in one effort to see if I could swat the nest and get the pack to catch the leaders, I ended up splitting the race a bit, and that was good because a stretched out field plays to my strengths in a sprint. This is where I should again mention that there was a tailwind for the sprint. Being an old person, I have done more sprints in the vintage finish location than in the newer location, and I know a few tricks. If there’s a tailwind, you can go relatively early and hold your position, and the gutter is a good place to be, as you can see who’s overtaking you. Coming into the last turn I was sitting at around third position, Franciso was at the front, going hard, which was another good thing for me. We hit the corner and Francisco jumped, I held his wheel and then flung myself to the line. The rest of the finish was a simple drag race. I thought that Mihael was on my wheel and I could sense someone coming around on my right, so I started to (legally, only one shoulder’s width worth—check the rulebook) angle towards the gutter, in order to force him around on my left. I love putting Mihael in the gutter.

But the sprinter in question wasn’t Mihael, it was James Joseph, and he blew through the remaining space in a flash. In hindsight, I’m pretty glad I only nudged the door towards shutting instead of slamming it closed, as that probably would’ve been disastrous. I finished second in the field sprint for fourth overall. This, of course, will help buoy my spirits for the rest of the season, as I’m sure there will be many Trumply moments ahead.

The night’s headsong was "Raise your Glass" by the Glee Cast. My daughter’s music is slowly taking over my mind, no seriously, it’s really my daughter’s music, honestly.