Last night’s opening race of the Tuesday night series reinforced many things we already know about the Floyd Bennett Field races. Firstly, the wind blows greatly in outer Brooklyn. Last night’s wind was yet another indication that the weather God (it’s Willard Scott, and yes, technically he isn’t of celestial form as of now, but he still runs the weather—and he serves at the pleasure of Smuckers, the sweetest deity of them all) likes to punish bike racers. It was a classic blasting FBF wind that created a cross wind in turns 3 and 4. Secondly we were reminded that I am a doosh (I used the American spelling of that term instead of the French "douche" because I am a patriot and ignoramus). You may remember that I won the overall championship in the 3/4 category at FBF last season at the last race (through chicanery, feistiness and the lack of full inflation in my rival’s tires). And while I was thrilled to have won, I didn’t get the opportunity to wear the leader’s jersey in any races because I won at the last possible moment on the last night.

In these circumstances a non-doosh would celebrate their win and perhaps find a nice place to display their hard won prize. But I am not a non-doosh. Instead I decided that the proper thing to do would be to wear my winner’s jersey to the first race of the Tuesday series, as I was technically still champion of the 3/4s until another rider took my title. My jersey display was complicated by the fact that I wasn’t racing in the 3/4 race this season. It’s an unwritten rule that the winner of the 3/4 race, doesn’t return to the 3/4 field the next season at FBF, as that would be tempting the God of Fair Play (Matt Lauer) and it would bump me up to uber-doosh status (I’m not prepared to pay the extra dues that comes along with that raise in rank, the United States Doosh Association [UDSA] has draconian rules when it comes to dues—unsurprisingly, those guys are real jerks.) I weighed my champion’s jersey options, and decided to do what any doosh would do—I would wear the wrong jersey in the wrong race—I won it, I was going to wear it.

This decision didn’t sit well with Mihael, my Romanian car pool companion and life coach (his coaching techniques are based upon ridicule and belittlement, he’s looking to get USDA certification). He contended that I needed to be in the 3/4 race to wear my jersey, I contended that he was a wiener and pinned my jersey up. I have done the Tuesday night races at FBF since about 1995 or so, and I’ve done every field there except the cat fives, so I have a pretty long perspective when it comes to the racing there. In years past when I did the 1/2/3 races, there wasn’t an option for older cat 3s to do the cat 4s race, so all the cat 3s were in the "big" race. This made for larger fields in the 1/2/3 race, making it easier for weaker riders to sit in. But since the introduction of the 3/4 field option, the cat 3s have been divided between the two fields, making the cat 3/4 race larger and reducing the size of the 1/2/3 race. This means there’s no longer anywhere to hide in the 1/2/3 race, and that makes the 1/2/3 race a daunting enterprise for any cat 3s—even those wearing the yellow jersey of a UDSA champion.

We lined up for the race, and I had teammates Kevin, Al and Mike with me. Windy nights at FBF mean a split in the field, and we were prepared to get into any moves. The race went off and things were feisty from the start. I covered a few moves off the front, but they were moves mostly meant to soften the field. There was a serious move at about lap five or so, and Al went with it. About a half lap later Ricky made a jump to bridge and Kevin went with him. That put about ten guys up the road, with two of our guys in the split. This made my night much easier. I just stayed near the front of what was left of the field and covered any moves. There were a handful of guys who were still interested in trying to catch the break, and they worked at the front. I covered stuff and allowed Mike to save himself for any serious attacks. This went on for about six laps.

The break stayed away, Al was sixth and Kevin was seventh. Mike jumped late to get ninth. I rolled in behind and wasn’t sure if there were any places left in our group. I got up to contest the sprint, and subsequently missed out on the last point on the road by a half wheel—which is the proper outcome for a USDA member riding in the wrong jersey in the wrong race.