Training and preparing for bike races, even at the amateur level, is an activity that requires a level of immersion that falls somewhere between "a lot" and "old man who decides to cut his grass using only scissors because the lawn mower misses too much". The hours of training and subsequent lifestyle alterations (a radical drop in overall body hair coverage, for example) eventually combine to create an alternative life narrative for racers. For instance, I don’t have to just be Dan Schmalz, gassy aging suburbanite; I can look to the pages of my bike racing "book of life" and claim that I am a rouleur—which is a French term for a guy who races a lot and never wins. This is, of course, a very satisfying and delusional way to define oneself and is also handy for coping with feelings of inadequacy, mediocrity or even envy due to the fact that the kid who would quietly consume an entire bottle of Elmer’s Glue in the first grade is now buying his fifth house.

But even as I live in a cycling world created of fabricated dreams and notions of athletic adequacy, I also occasionally need to get out of my comfort zone and try new things. As of late, I have been in an aerobic rut; I can zip along in a group without dire consequences—but as I need to maintain the illusion that I am a rouleur—it will take proof from the physical world to allow me to continue my sporting hall of mirrors. In short, I need breakaway practice.

My plan was to escape from the race (with help—I’m not THAT delusional) whenever the opportunity presented itself. The complication was that there were 105 other people in the race who were not really interested in me breaking away from the race and rolling in by myself, bathed in glory and sweat-stained lycra. So any moves off the front would be, to say the least, difficult. That does not mean you don’t try, of course, as to do otherwise would just guarantee a hectic 500 meter race for those that can sprint.

The race rolled off right on time, and I set about searching for opportunities. The chances of getting some fresh air on my face looked to be slight, as the pace of the race was fast, and fast races tend to discourage breaks—as the effort needed to get away from a fast race can result in a racer dropping vital organs on the side of the road as they pedal hard enough to change their body chemistry at the chromosomal level. My chances for DNA altering glory did happen in the race, twice. Both times I popped off the front on the back stretch, and was away on the descent before being collected like a spent Whopper wrapper on Bette Midler’s stretch of the LIE. All told, my mightiness for the day lasted for about 5/16ths of a lap, so I would have to say, mission to maintain rouleur charade accomplished.

Personal racer affirmations aside, the race rolled on. After the last green jersey sprint, it became evident that Mengoni and Zephyr were playing for a sprint finish. In a 123 field sprint, I am less valuable than a promise ring from Larry King; so I moved on to a new plan—the ever desperate and semi-loathesome "late move". The late move is the last bastion of the desperate rouleur, and I dutifully began my preparations. After the bell on the final lap, I began moving forward. I rose through the pack on the hill, and as we hit the back stretch, I was near the front, near enough in fact, to let Jared Bunde ahead of me to join his two Mengoni teammates on the front. I felt myself to be in a great position, if the Mengonis gunned it, all I had to do was try to hold on until the end; and hope to not lose too many positions at the end of the race.

We rolled past the Temple, and the speed of the race slowed as the Mengoni train pulled off of the front in unison, leaving just my little engine at the front. I jumped—as there was really nothing else for me to do—and my jump gained about fifteen feet of separation by the time we hit the parking lot. Fifteen feet is a long distance if you are talking about scarf knitting or boar height, but in a bike race with 500 meters to go, it is gone in the time it takes for an Ohioan to burp up a corn dog. I was unceremoniously passed like so much hot dog scented air, and slowly made my way to the finish line long after the pack had flown by, readying myself for my ride home and making preparations to spend the rest of the day clipping my grass on my knees.

schmalz race report

Rouleur renewal is always entertaining, but sometimes it can be a frustrating exercise—a 5.

Today’s head song was "Where It’s At" by Beck.