Like all great (or even middling) summer tours, my tour of the public spaces used for bike racing in the New York Metro Area is coming to an end. I did my farewell show last night at FBF, and like Poison (the band, not the lethal substance), I know enough to end the show with a familiar tune, so lift your lighters and enjoy this "Every Rose has Its Thorn"-esque end to the Schmalxz (the "x" is added as a tribute to Trixter) Summer Sycle Slam (SSSS™).

It’s a little known fact that God detests Tuesdays in New York City. Not many people know this, but it’s true. Last Tuesday there was a torrential downpour that flooded the wilds of FBF, prompting a cancellation of the activities of dozens of middle-aged men in tights. This week, God tried again, but was much more wily in his methods, sending an earthquake in the place of buckets of rain in order to disrupt the plans of hordes of thrill seeking middle-managers. But even the shaking of the Earth was not enough to deter the masses of be-lycra-ed 401k aficionados and the SSSS™ finale went off as planned.

I arrived at FBF early enough to survey the course and sample the wind, which was creating a headwind between turns three and four. The wind wasn’t blowing hard enough to be an overwhelming factor in the race, but it was not to be ignored, as it could be used to launch a move. There was a big crowd for last night’s race, which usually portends a fast race with a field sprint finish. We BHes had a full and frisky roster present, so we had a few cards to play in the race ahead. We formulated some plans and took our places at the start line.

The race was fast from the start. The pack was stretched and pulled and split in a countless array of shapes and configurations (all of them involving panting). Every move seemed to have a counter move, and since we had many BHes available, we were able to either initiate moves or be represented within those moves. This was good for us, as it meant we always had a fresh rider that could contribute. The race surged and contracted like the stomach of a vomiting dog until the right combination of riders were finally regurgitated off the front with about four laps to go. My teammate Mike was smart enough to read the signs of the puking FBF dog, and made it into the winning break, along with Mango Seed’s Jermaine B, Zoltan T and Jose C.

Back in the guts of the dog, we were riding at a brisk pace, averaging somewhere near 27 MPH, which meant that the breakaway ahead of us was riding at a revoltingly brisk pace. They managed to hold off the desperate last lap charge from the race behind them, with teammate Mike finishing second place behind Zoltan—a fine finish. Behind in the pack, I was lining up for my farewell SSSS™ sprint, sitting fourth behind the last of the Mengonis as they pulled the race to the finish. I rode the dirt until the last corner, and when the sprint came upon us from the left, I jumped. I passed no one, but I was able to hold on for tenth, the last point paying position in the race.

And that is all for the season, and like Bret Michaels, I will now remove my bandanna and retire until the Tour begins again next March. And that would be an awesome metaphor to end with if it weren’t for the fact that Bret never removes that damn bandanna—c’mon Bret, we all know you got a mess going on underneath that rag—you’re not fooling anyone.