Race Report: Johnny Cake Lane Series, Race 1

Spring is here. Time for all of us cyclists to put on our game faces, take our bikes off the trainers, and feel the sharp sting of the wind as it comes across the fields of beautiful Greene County. It's race time!

I pull into the parking lot at the school, and am greeted by bikes and riders milling about, along with perpetually grumpy USCF commissaires and assorted family members/friends/significant others who have been drafted into supporting roles.

I suit up and get the bike ready, as I surreptitiously eye up the other riders. I head out to the course, and pedal a lap the wrong way to recon the course. I know these roads. Small rises, mostly flat, gaping potholes helpfully marked by orange spray paint.

Just a bit of nerves now. I ease into the group at the start, glance around, see super-fit riders, collegiate team kits and thousands of dollars of bike tech. Whoops, the pro/cat 1-3 field. I sneak out, back to the "C" group, cat 5s and first-timers. OK, that's better. I recognize a couple riders, and try to guess at the abilities, style and potential dangers of others.

We ease out onto the course for a neutral start. One of my Tuesday-night buds, Dan, is driving the pace car for our group. "I'll look for you in the mirror," he says. Cool. I make small talk with other riders as we roll out. "Stay loose," I say to everyone and no one. It sounds corny, but I like it when other guys say that. And, considering my only experience in a pack recently was the previous night's critical-mass ride, it's good for me to hear it, too.

Lap one is thankfully uneventful. Small accelerations that I can mark, no problem. Little rises, some wobbly riders. I'm at fifth wheel on the back side of the course, in the catbird seat. This lasts for all of 20 seconds before the amorphous blob of the peloton shifts, and I'm ten more places back, boxed in along the road's edge. Don't crash, stay loose, I say to myself. OK.

Got this crazy idea to attack, try a solo breakaway. Never have had the chance. My usual M.O. in races is to hang on for dear life to the wheels in front of me. I feel good, heart rate's decent, and I want out of this group. There's a nervous energy that could lead to shoulders--or worse, wheels--touching. OK, I think, end of the first lap.

Mid-pack, I click up three gears, swing out so that I'm right on the double-yellow, rise out of the saddle, and step on the gas. "Who's going with me?" I yell, as much to my surprise as anyone's. We'll see what happens. I hazard a glance back--no chasers yet. Come on, guys, I'm your rabbit. Not that I want to get caught, but I can't stay out here alone for two laps. Heart rate's redlining, and I'm feeling great. I'm gaining on Dan in the pace car. You see me now? I think. Wow, what a rush.

This rabbit's getting tired. Riders behind me are stretched out, but closing on me. I may be a sacrificial rabbit, but my move woke up the pack.

The rabbit metaphor deflates as my heart-rate monitor holds steady at 171 while my speed drops. Now I'm a piece of celery, going through the Cuisinart of the peloton. Shredded--pureed, even--and spit out the back. Whoa, I think. Were we all going that fast before? No, the pace has picked up.

I hook up with a few other guys on the back side of the course, and we work together, however raggedly. Do these guys think they have a better chance riding me off their wheels? Our numbers thin, until it's just one other rider with me. The main field is way out of sight. We pass some dropped B group riders. We're working together, but it's still competition--particularly on those small rises.

One kilometer to go. He's on my wheel, no intentions of coming around. We're looking at a sprint for, what, 20th place? Game on. I try to ride him off my wheel, but it only works momentarily, and he shoots by. I let him go.

This is a very low-budget race, with guaranteed results for the top five finishers only. I have no idea where I finished. In the pass/fail scoring of my mind, I call it a pass. Hey, a solo breakaway. One or two minutes of... glory? Pain? Surprise? A bit of all of those? Pass.