Race Report: Johnny Cake Lane #2

I woke up early on Saturday, and, AGAIN, my clock radio was playing Foghat's "Slow Ride." Maybe I should call PYX 106 and request "We Are the Champions" or something. I had a big breakfast and prepared four layers of clothes for what was surely going to be a couple of chilly hours in the saddle. The fickle March weather had taken a turn again. I had some of the usual pre-race jitters, and reminded myself that they tend to go away once we're actually rolling.

I got to Coxsackie and did some warming up, and spotted some of my Tuesday-night buds. We were all in the same place mentally, taking a what-the-heck attitude toward an early-season race of three six-mile loops on winter-ravaged country roads. I rolled up to the start on the late side, and consequently got a place near the back. The "C" group was a motley mix of riders and bikes: men, women spanning about 40 years of age, and a few kids bravely straddling bikes with grown-up wheels.

We got the usual lecture from the race official, and were reminded again of the center-line rule, due to some unfortunate mishaps last week resulting from a few racers' bad decisions. We were soon off and rolling. The first lap felt like a parade, as we filled the entire lane. I assured the triathlete (and newbie road racer) by my side that the pace would pick up.

The bullhorn from the follow car barked occasionally, sounding like the adults on "Peanuts." No matter--I knew it was repeated reminders about the center line. I settled in, absorbing the mid-pack ebbs and flows in speed. The pack expanded on the slight downhills and contracted on the gentle rises. I was on the wheel of a big guy, who was wearing some kind of floppy pants, his number haphazardly pinned to the center of his back. I'm not a bike snob, but I knew this guy was a bit green. Not that I'm a war-hardened rouler or anything, but enough time in packs gives anyone a sensibility, even if--like me--one does not get much faster. We hit that little rise by the tar-paper shack, and the pack folded in on itself, riders standing and throwing their bikes back. Mr. Sweatpants started to swerve, and I got around him.

Okay, cool, I thought. Lap one, done, and I'm in the pack. The speed was reasonable, and I was hanging. Threading my way through to the front? Not happening.

Lap two, the carnage started. The speed had picked up, and the pack felt twitchy. We went up the tiny hill again, more sloppily, and riders bumped and went down right in front of me, cursing as they fell. I escaped, somehow, and managed to join the riders who had pulled slightly ahead. It's a ruthless triage, but in the absence of any real hills, crashes split the pack.

Bell lap, and the pace picked up even more, but I wasn't feeling the pain the way I have in the past. A little burn after the s-turn and the rise after the Murderkill Bridge, but that's it. I and others would gain a few places, then lose them. I found one of my Tuesday-night homies, looking strong after a long pull at the front as we barreled toward the 1K mark.

Sprinting is one of the nerviest things in bike racing. I've seen enough on Versus to know that it's not for the faint of heart. I felt pretty content to be in the pack, and decided to take it easy and stay alert. Good call, as it turns out: the rider in the lead wasn't familiar with the course's last turn, and he turned prematurely, taking out the two riders behind him. I saw the whole thing from about 50 meters back, one racer hitting the pavement on his right hip. The little splash of cheers and applause from spectators was cut short by that awful sound of bikes and bodies going down. The pack reacted quickly and skillfully, and the rest of us remained upright. We sprinted the last 400 meters, and I'll bet all of us felt relieved that we'd made it to the totally nondescript finish line on the windswept industrial road. I overtook two or three riders in the last stretch, making for a finish in the top 15 or 20--not bad for a cold day in March. Upright and intact.