My main goal going into the Harlem Skyscraper Classic each year is to remain ambulatory after the day’s competition. Granted that’s not a lofty performance goal that one would get in an email from a coach (my life coach Mihael usually send me jpegs he’s taken of me changing clothes in public places—I’m not sure of the motivational meaning behind those pictures, but it’s soothing knowing he’s looking out for me), but for the Harlem Race, ambulatory maintenance is a legitimate goal. The race has a reputation for mayhem (the 2008 edition was so crash-y that even the winner had to surf on his nipples over the finish line), and that reputation may be deserved. But this is what happens when you have a big race, the bigger the race—the bigger the risks the racers are wiling to take. The early stages of the Tour are notoriously dangerous because everyone wants to take their shot at the win and French glory. In this way Harlem is no different. There’s a big crowd to see the race (NYC bike racers are used to insomniac joggers, time zone hopping tourists and squirrels witnessing our races), and that make the race more exciting, and increases the temptation to takes risks.

Plainly put, it’s racers that make races what they are. The Harlem course is just four corners in the middle of the city, no more or less dangerous than any other four corners. It’s the dreams, aspirations and delusions of those participating that make this or any other race dangerous. That’s the reason why they put barriers around the entire course, it’s not so much to keep the crowd from getting on to the course—it’s to keep us maniacs contained safely from the general population.

In the days leading up to the race we, like many others teams, emailed strategies amongst ourselves for the Harlem race. We are for the most part sprinter-free on BH, so we need to rely on cunning, guile and a lot of heavy breathing to win races. Our best chance for success at Harlem would be from a breakaway, but putting together a successful break at Harlem is like trying to teach Snooki trigonometry—you can try, but it’ll probably end in tears, puking and hysterics. We decided to try and get everyone’s favorite Swedish teammate Eric (sorry that you have to hear about getting bounced from the top BH Swedish spot this way Marcus, but Eric has bought me beer in the past, and that is a winning strategy, feel free to counter with a lager-purchasing rebuttal of you own) in a move in the early part of the race after the first sprint, and if a move wasn’t in the cards, Eric would do his best in the sprints.

I warmed up for the race in the morning by eating daddy eggs and playing tetherball—I dominated against my five year old daughter in order to get the "eye of the tiger". I then drove in to the city for my date with destiny (and no, not the Destiny that Elliott Spitzer had dates with). Before some large races, I like to "pre-crash" myself. I basically convince myself that there’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid a crash, so I might as well not worry about it because it’s going to happen anyway. This serves to free my mind and keeps me from fixating on whether I will crash or not. If a crash is inevitable, why worry about it?

Fresh from my tetherball triumphs and mentally crashed, I was ready to race. We gathered together as a team, and like every other racer at Harlem, we tried to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do. The race details were maddeningly vague. We knew we were doing a points race that was to last approximately 45 minutes, but we didn’t know how many sprints there would be, how deep the placings would go in the sprints or when the sprints would occur. This is the equivalent of a bike racing blind date, in fact, if you want to drive a bike racing, A-type personality insane, the best way to do it is by being vague about race details—and then NEVER posting the results online. Trust me, this will make them crazier than Gary Busey’s tax return (he files his return electronically by staring at his computer thinking about pi). As we lined up, many of us were still pondering the format, the officials finally let the cat out of the bag. The race would be 20 laps, and there would be sprint points on laps 15, 10, 5 and at the finish. The sprints would be four places deep and the final sprint counted for double points.

Eric and I were lined up next to one another and we were sizing up the competition. Godfery P was a favorite to win because he can sprint and get into breaks, Zach K has been sprinting well and there were at least 4 other sprinters who could beat us quite handily. Our spirits were buoyed when teammates Pascal, Phil and David arrived just in time to help out after racing Housatonic earlier. Yes, they are crazy. We rolled off to the actual start line and then lined up again—then we really rolled off. The race pace was pretty frisky from the start, which didn’t bode well for our breakaway chances. Fast races usually end up in field sprints because the speed needed to stay away from a fast race needs to be really high, and riding really fast is a good way to get really tired. As we came to the first sprint, we lined up to put our plan into action. I would push the pace and when I got caught, Eric would counter.

And that’s what we did. I pushed the pace, Eric countered and was then followed by everyone with a farmer tan and a chamois. We then switched to plan B, which was slow death by sprinting. We didn’t score any points on the next sprint, and as we lined up for the penultimate sprint, I moved up to find Eric at the front. Before we hit turn four before the sprint, I did the old crit trick of sprinting to beat everyone to the corner, which I did. I was hoping that Eric would see me and catch on, but unbeknownst to me, he was wiped from my wheel by the crafty Zach K. I hit the finish straight with a gap to the field and just kept going, because I thought I was taking Eric to the line, and he would jump around me to get points. Unfortunately, at the line it was Zach who I led out, he came around and I astonishingly held on for the fourth place point. So I guess that was good? Technically we did get a point, but gaining points for me was not the ideal scenario.

Coming into the finish, we need to place in the finish sprint, and the best way to do that would be in a lined out field. I commandeered my Housatonic-ally fatigued teammates for the final few laps and told them (I excel at being bossy, I’m the Lucy Van Pelt of bikes) to string it out and hopefully wear out some of the sprinters before the finish. We did this admirably, but those pesky sprinters wouldn’t play along. At the bell, we were gruppo compacto (which is Italian for "the skinney guys are screwed"). We rolled along on the last lap like a big square colon blockage. There was no where to go, and no way to move up. We made our way to the line in an orderly fashion, with Godfrey taking the last sprint and the win. My mighty sprint point was enough to secure ninth place in a race that paid seven places deep, but at least it wasn’t eighth—one place out of the money is the worst. Overall, it was a fine day of racing. I had a great time helping my teammates, I stole a point away through guile and treachery and I was able to walk away from the race. I drove home happy and celebrated by letting my daughter beat me in tetherball—five year olds need the eye of the tiger too, you know.