It's Not Really A Comeback If You Never Got Anywhere In The First Place

When it comes to cycling, New York City can be heaven and it can be hell.  You know all about our bike share program and our still-expanding network of bike lanes.  You also know about the NYPD's "no criminality suspected" approach to dealing with drivers who run down cyclists.  What you may not know is that, when it comes to bike racing, this city is a veritable paradise.

Beginning in March, you can ride to a bike race pretty much every single week, and you can keep this up until September.  Of course there are long-standing crits such as Grant's Tomb and the Harlem Skyscraper, and the Tuesday night series on the old runway at Floyd Bennett Field, and even the track races at Kissena Velodrome.  But the bread and butter, the meat and potatoes, the sour cream and borscht of the racing scene are the races in Central and Prospect Parks.

As you know if you suffered through my exhaustive profile in CyclingTips, I am a veteran of those park races.  From my first foray I was hooked, and in a burst of enthusiasm and River Road hill repeats I managed to accumulate just enough points to upgrade to Cat 3, after which I never saw the front of the pack again.  Still, I was out there week after week and year after year, and my role as New York City pack fodder very much defined my cycling identity and worldview.

Eventually however my life changed.  First, I became a world famous and deeply revered bicycle blogger.  Then I became a father, and after that I moved to the Bronx, from whence I could no longer roll out of bed and into Prospect Park for a 6am start time.  I could, however, easily access dirt trails, and so I transitioned to a lifestyle of fat tires and cutoffs:

This was a refreshing change, and for years I didn't look back.  However, once a Fred always a Fred, and to my surprise I recently found myself pining for the the pack.  So this year I renewed my USAC license for the first time since 2014 and joined the local racing club, and this past Saturday I rolled on down to Central Park for a 6:25am start.

The weather in the days leading up to the race was delightful:

But then on Friday we got slammed with an onslaught of rain, snow, and wind that laid waste the the area and caused power outages that continue as I type this.  By the wee hours of Saturday morning the storm had blown over, but it was still cold and blustery, and the streets were full of tree branches and mutilated umbrellas.  A lesser Fred would have shut off the alarm when it sounded at 4am, but I awoke ten minutes before it even went off, ready to throw myself back into the arena of futility.

My original plan was to race the Renovo Aerowood:

However, I pivoted on race morning for the following reasons:

• It was really windy, and while I love riding the Renovo it just doesn't feel quite as "planted" (see what I did there?) as my other road bikes.  I don't know if it's the geometry, or the aerodynamic profile, or the 23mm tires, or some combination of the three.  Maybe it's just my psychological reaction to riding a really expensive bike.  Regardless of the reason, between the blustery conditions and my own rustiness I wanted as much stability as possible;
• It was wet out, and my other bike already had fenders;
• I was almost certain I'd get dropped, and I didn't want to be the guy who gets spat out the back on a $10,000 bicycle

And instead I ended up going with the Ritte Rust Bucket:

(It's almost as rusty as I am.)

Not only was the bike completely filthy, but I also made sure to leave both the saddlebag and the fenders on for the race so that as the pack excreted me it would be clear that I didn't take any of this too seriously.  (Even though if I'm to be perfectly honest I'm a Fred at heart so of course I take all of this incredibly seriously.)

Rolling out in the pitch black when it's 30-something degrees and windy is never easy, but there's also nothing like riding through the streets of New York in the Hour of the Wolf:

'The hour of the wolf is the hour between night and dawn. It is the hour when most people die, when sleep is the deepest, when nightmares feel most real. It is the hour when the demons are most powerful. The hour of the wolf is also the hour when most children are born.'

Think of it as the Hour of the Fred: when Freds and Fredericas from all corners of the city converge on the park, huddle over a registration table, and pin on numbers in the dark.  New York City is never truly quiet, but at this time of the morning it's as quiet as it gets, with most of the revelers having finally turned in or passed out, and the diurnal set not yet having awoken.  Certainly as a cyclist it's the very best time to feel as though you've got the streets to yourself.

In any case, we lined up as the sun rose, and we set off under its very first rays.  While I've been putting in a fair number of miles recently the fact is I haven't experienced anything like sustained race pace in years.  Had I approached this properly I'd have at least done a few group rides during the preceding weeks, but sadly those don't work very well since I keep "writer's hours" and do most of my riding on weekdays.  So as I clipped in I wondered what would happen.

The race was six laps around Central Park.  For the first lap I sat somewhere in the middle of the pack and thought, "Hey, I feel pretty good!"  By the second lap I realized I was now at the back and that, while I still felt pretty comfortable, I didn't quite feel like using the energy to move up into a safer position.  (Unlike Max von Sydow above I had but a few matches to burn.)  By the third lap I realized I probably wasn't going to be able to hang, and I believe it was the fourth time up Harlem Hill that I finally tripped the circuit breaker in my legs and slipped off the back like it was slathered in Vaseline.  

I was done.

Though a bit disappointed I was mostly sanguine, and I casually rolled over to the start/finish area to hang out and watch the Fred Parade:

Finally I headed back uptown, and I was home and contentedly stuffing my face before most people have even begun their day, which is maybe the best thing about racing in the park--well that and the park itself, because there are few things more satisfying than a spirited gallop through the heart of Manhattan.  

Anyway, we'll see if I can eventually claw my way out of this hole and finally pass a race again, but if not there's always a pair of cutoffs with my name on them.