It was never my intention to become the person who writes incessantly about his bowels. I may mention them quite often, but that’s mostly because, as a bike racer, I am the engine that propels the "race car" that is my body; and any functions that can affect my race performance need to be monitored and remembered. Breathing, cardiac activity and sadly, digestion are all systems that require scrutiny if I am to perform at an acceptable level. I write these sentences in order to prepare readers for what is to follow, as this race journal will contain so much talk about poop that, in the words of my grandfather Cletus (his real name—not made up), it will make your eyes turn brown.

My troubles started with traffic. I drive to FBF and along the way I pick up Mihael, my traveling companion, in Manhattan. I pull off the West Side Highway and collect him from along the roadside in what would appear at two in the morning as a rendezvous between two lycra fetishists. Normally, we have plenty of time to drive to the race, get dressed and ride a lap to warm up, but last night we ran into complications. We were waylaid by traffic, and had to turn to desperate measures on the Belt Parkway.

I have only missed an FBF start due to traffic once (never trust a Romanian with devising a short cut route through outer Brooklyn). I have had some close calls recently that required dressing in the car on the Belt Parkway while driving, but I’ve made every start. Last night’s traffic was heavy enough to require that I, once again, get nude on the Belt Parkway (Miheal helped by photographing me). I shall now issue my apology to all the drivers that happened to pass whilst I was unclothed, but it couldn’t be avoided, and honestly only you folks in the SUVs had a clear shot at the man cabbage anyway—and serves you right for driving such an awkward vehicle in a city anyway.

But I digress. I was able to change into my bib shorts and we were getting off the Belt Parkway at 6:30. Our start time was 6:45, and it looked like we were going to make it in time. We would miss out on any warm up and would need to dress quickly, but we would make our start time. It was during the rush to dress before the race that I felt "it". I have already gone into revoltingly accurate detail about my pre-race bowel routine (in short, two pops and I’m ready to go), but that’s for morning races. FBF happens in the evening, so it’s not a normal drop off, so to speak. Sometimes there’s a need to enter the repositories of damnation known as the FBF outhouses, and sometimes there isn’t. Sadly, last night was a might that required an outhouse visit, but due to our late arrival, there was no visit to be had.

I suited up, pinned on my number and set about trying to ignore the urges of nature. It was a very windy night, and that usually portends a split in the race. Normal protocol dictates staying near the front of the race until everyone behind you has disappeared, and then you ride along with other racers until your heart explodes or the race finishes, whichever happens first. And this is what I did. Near lap two or so, Mike Pearlberg of Kissena, who won the race last week in a break, was dangling off the front of the race by a slim margin. Graham Macbeth of Setanta made a move to go across, and not being an idiot, I went with him. We made it to Mike and there soon was a group of four of us: myself, Mike, Graham and James Joseph. Yes, that James Joseph. Normally, it might be a concern to have a sprinter like James in the midst of a breakaway, and Mike voiced some concern, as James was (rightly so) not taking any pulls, but there was a ripping wind last night and I knew it would put everyone to their limit. I told Mike that we wouldn’t need to worry about James, as he’s unbeatable at the end of the race, but a seven lap break is another story entirely.

We settled into our rotation and lost James at some point in the race, and it was then that my need to remove some extra weight resurfaced. I was hoping that once we started the race that my "need to de-feed" would be washed away with effort and adrenaline, but this was not the case. Every moment in the race was a slow countdown to an inevitable biological fact. I had to "drop anchor", and it wasn’t a matter of "if", it was a matter of "when". Our break rolled to a good gap, and if we stayed smooth, there was a great chance that we would make it to the line. We rotated well together, and as the laps dragged on, we kept our heads. In fact we were so smooth that things became a little monotonous, and if there’s anything I didn’t need in that situation, it was time to think or reflect, because the only thing on my mind was the mudslide building within on the hillsides of my body.

I contemplated pulling over each time we passed the outhouse on the back straight, but I was unclear as to whether I could take a neutral lap for "poop" and then rejoin the breakaway. I considered the physics of pulling down my bib shorts and jettisoning old dinner, but neither of these solutions seemed feasible. I was stuck in a race against time, and only time would tell if I filled my shorts before we crossed the line.

My non-digestivelly distressed break companions were working towards the finish line in a manner that was both pleasant and rapid, and when we came to the bell lap, we were still together. We hit the tailwind in the backstretch and Mike attacked to get a gap. Graham followed and I was left to battle my backside to the line. Thy played a little cat and mouse between turns 3 and 4, but Graham eventually showed his strength and rode away for the win. Mike finished second. Making my way to the line, I was glued to my seat—I didn’t dare stand. I was going to finish third, which was a good result, but I really didn’t want to "soil" my podium finish by crossing the line smuggling a batch of last night’s burrito.

I crossed the line free of unwanted cargo, and immediately turned towards my car. I made it in time to rip off my jersey, check for witnesses (not that they would have stopped me) and squat beside my trusty wagon and watch as the rest of the race finished. I had finished third, but in the most important race, the race to not finish in a smear of digestion and shame, I had finished first.