I’ve been racing at Harlem since 1995 or thereabouts (I moved to the East Coast in late 1993, and it took a year or so for me to figure out where all the races were by combing through the back pages of Velonews—again, I am old), so it’s really difficult for me to write about any new sort of experiences at the race—short of winning it, of course—and I’ve never been close to doing that. In years past, Father’s Day meant that I was required to attend some sort of Father’s Day event for someone else—but now that I have made two people, I am a father, and I chose to spend the day honoring my fertility riding around in tremendously perilous circles. It’s what bike racers do.

2013 has been my season of the athletic groin punch. I have been racing in the more difficult 1/2/3 category at FBF in order to race with my teammates and to see what the color the sky turns when I’ve exerted myself so strenuously that my spinal fluid boils. (Sadly, it just turns darker blue.) I’ve been hoping that these body altering efforts will hone me into a faster racer, and I have noticed improvements, so I went into Sunday’s race confident that I could at least try and do something in the category 3 field. I noted that there were a few teams with a lot of racers signed up, and calculated how that would affect strategy (bring along a Six Cycle, lest ye be chased). I warmed up for the race by eating french toast and playing a cut throat game of two square, and then I drove to Harlem.

Charlie I. has taken over the promoting duties at Harlem, and from a racer’s perspective, the change was seamless. I signed in, pinned on a cloth number (extraordinary) and found some shade. Teammates Wei and Aaron were in attendance and we discussed the race ahead. We didn’t really make any specific plans other than to try and avoid the inevitable mishaps that would be occur. We watched the obligatory final turn crash in the cat 4 race, lined up and took off.

The first lap of the race averaged about 28 mph, which was pretty speedy, but that didn’t quite register with me, and after we passed the start finish for the start of the second lap, I was preparing myself to spring into action. (Sometimes early attacks work—honest.) After turn two, I made my way up the field along the inside, sprinted to the corner and I was off. Actually, I was just ahead of the field, which was probably just maintaing the speed of the race. No one was interested in what I was selling at the front, and after about a half lap, I was brought back. And thanks to the miracle of Strava, here’s the data for that move:

I attacked at 31.4 mph. The move lasted 58 seconds. I averaged 28.4 mph with a heart rate of 185. I do not have any sort of power measuring equipment—that’s Andy Shen you’re thinking of—so I don’t know what sort of watts I was generating.

The data above clearly shows that there was absolutely no chance of me getting away from the race by myself, so I slipped back into the field and inhaled through my ears for 5 laps or so. I’m sure that things happened at the front of the race during my 5 lap coalescence, but I was in no condition to do anything about it—and I was fine with that. The race stayed mostly together for a time, and I began to feel frisky again.

Sometime later in the race, Paul C of Axis had slipped away and had a small gap. Paul has been riding well as of late, so I sprinted past the field just before turn two and made contact with Paul. But alas, this move was not to bear fruit either. We were brought back and I began another bout of rest. The laps wound down very quickly, and there were the obligatory crashes that I managed to avoid using my special "try to not die at Harlem" techniques (which I will not share, as doing so will make using these techniques difficult to utilize in upcoming edition of the Harlem race—sorry, there’s only enough room for me in this lifeboat).

As we got down to three laps to go, I was behind Chris Chong Tenn, because "duh". And I was hoping for an opportunity to try a last ditch move to try and get away from the sprinters—because I stood no chance against the sprint talent in the race on Sunday. I was looking for the race to get really fast and then hopefully the speed would drop suddenly when a lead out faltered, bunching up the field and creating an opportunity for a fertile guy from Jersey to attack, create a gap and win the race while tearing the sleeves off his uniform. (Remember, I do live in Jersey).

But my finish line sleeve ripping was not to be. The race just never got slow enough for me to attack. I bided my time, but my time never came. The bell sounded for the last lap, and there was little chance for me to move up. I braked and rolled past the inevitable last lap crash, and ended up in the middle of the pack someplace, sleeves intact.