I do my own yard work. I live in a rather middle class area, and it seems that many of my neighbors—even the ones with worse cars than mine—have landscapers. This notion to me is unfathomable, perhaps it’s my roots in the agricultural Midwest; but I cannot imagine not mowing my own lawn. I can’t help it. And if my grandfather were to find out that I didn’t use my lawnmower, he would question whether my genitals were indeed, functionally correctly. Of course, many people do not own lawn movers, but the notion that someone would pass up the opportunity to own something with a motor would be as alien to my grandfather as the concept of skinny jeans for men.

I mention my activities as my own landscaper because I have recently found that if I take my leaf blower and point it at the ground beneath the cuffs of my pants, I can get a 150 mph gust of ricocheted wind to waft up my pants leg—and if I am to be honest—this is what counts as an illicit thrill for me these days. One of the other few illicit thrills I have (besides the neighborhood pet guinea pig death pool) is bike racing, and thankfully the Tuesday night races at FBF have begun again, as I will be able to use them to metaphorically blow wind up my pants for the next few month’s worth of Tuesdays.

The Tuesday night races at FBF are the closest thing we have to a Parks and Rec style "bike league". The races are like the summer softball, volleyball or roller derby leagues put on by cities all over the country. The competition can get heated, but for the most part the participants understand that they are there to enjoy themselves, dress up like their professional counterparts, take a night’s break from reality and forget that they have nearly 250 things they could be doing that would be a better use of their time.

There was a headwind between corners 2 and 3 last night, and that meant there would be a tailwind sprint. I finally had my new BH team bike built up, and I picked it up the day before the race. I managed to get in a shake down ride in as I pedaled to the registration table at FBF. It’s always nice to have a new bike, and I’ve made a habit in the last two years of having each bike’s maiden voyage occur at a Tuesday night race at FBF. As I rolled to the line, my bike felt solid, but I couldn’t say the same for myself as I haven’t done any riding in a week, due to a business trip to New Orleans, family commitments and sloth.

Since I was feeling a little "unfresh", my reaction was to of course, try and get away just after the first corner of the race. I was brought back quicker than Kirstie Alley’s goal jeans, but I decided that if I was going to feel terrible, then I might as well try to feel terrible at the front of the race. My ensuing escape attempts faired as well as a Liberace Rock Opera, but they did manage to give Sean Smith a chance to counter. He took the opportunity and dangled doggedly off the front for a solo lap or two. We collected him back eventually and despite the odd escape attempt, things were looking like a field sprint.

With two laps to go, I felt as if I had finally blown all of the Andouille out of my system and began thinking about positioning myself for the sprint. Since it was a tailwind finish, it would be critical to be near the front, as it would be hard to overtake—and I stood a chance as I could power my way to the finish instead of having to rely on a pure jump. Sean Smith came to the front on the last lap near turn 3, and stayed there, powering the field. I was about 5 places behind and I was waiting to see when he was going to run out of steam—but he kept on going. This was good for me as the field was strung out , and I was sitting at around 6th place. Sean probably saved about 10 lives with that move, as we weren’t bunched up going into the finish. Of course, I ruthlessly passed him after his stint at the front, but that is bike racing. After Sean’s pull, Jon Orcutt jumped and I knew it was time to go. I put my head down and searched for openings and wheels to follow and pass. I was coming around on the right near the front of the race when Chris Castaldi hit the line, Rob Lombardi got me on the right, and I threw my bike to pip Tony Maisto for third. A field sprint podium—somebody needs to tell Stalin to get a snow shovel.

schmalz race report

It’s hard to argue with a placing in a field sprint, I’ll go with a two.

The head song for the night was "Hot N Cold" by Katy Perry.