Today is Nyack and Back, an alleycat-style road race organized by Crihs (yes, it's spelled that way). There will be a sprint for undetermined points at the State Line, and climber's points on the big hill on the way back.

If it dries out, I'll contest the sprint; but if it's wet and people are being cautious, I might go a little bit earlier for it. If it's wet and people are racing like it's dry, I'll sit back and let people blow if they'll blow.

I'll stay hydrated and remember to eat these miniCliff bars that I'm stuffing in my jersey. I'll save energy and mark some Studs and try to stick with them. I'll also not expect to be in the top three - placing really high expectations on myself and getting pissed off when I didn't do as well as I wanted was one of the reasons that I stopped racing alleycats. When you're an uptight nut who's pissed over sixth place instead of third and it's not fun anymore, it's time to stop.

First road race on the new bike...

The thrill of alleycat racing returns! What could be better than a Valentine's Day Race - or a pre-Race conversation with one's sweetie that goes something like this:

"Now, hon, I'm going all out on this race, so if we don't stick together - that's okay, right? I mean, the start will be a scramble, and sometimes I just make a quick turn-off for a different route."
"No, that's fine. Go all-out. I didn't want to have to wait for you at checkpoints anyway..."

...all in sensible nature and good fun. And we're not even competitive.

It was fun to race a Manhattan alleycat again - high speeds up the avenues, twisting through intersections, hopping off bikes and grabbing things at checkpoints. At the last checkpoint, sprinting with the guy I'd been riding with all race, I realized that we were in the top 5. We sprinted East on 10th Street from Broadway. I caught him at every red light but he beat me through every intersection. I rode up on the sidewalk and hopped down at 25 mph. When we finally got to the finish line - just a bunch of people outside the bar - he dumped his bike and beat me to it as I fell over his bike. A great way to end a great race - he and I catching up to each other, passing each other, and getting passed again. Working together and competing in the strange way that only alleycats can offer.

4th place overall - not too shabby.

Monday morning at work. I'm still thirsty, undercaffeinated, slightly dehydrated. Tired, but my sweat from the morning commute has dried.

I'm ammused at moments that feel like a huge contrast. Monday morning at work, and me feeling sore and fatigued from a weekend of vagabond punk bike tomfoolery in Boston - it makes me think of that delightful scene in Fight Club when Ed Norton flashes a bloody set of teeth at a coworker.

Why did I decide to go to Boston? I have a wariness of Boston that, at some point - mixed with fear and ignorance - blossomed into full-blown avoidance. I'm never racing in Boston! But this weekend, I went anyway. A whole mess of NYCers went up Friday night, and Brantley and I caught a Saturday morning Chinatown bus. Our destination? The L Street Beach, starting line for a race based on the movie The Departed. The goal? First Out of Town. The prize? A custom Geekhouse bike.

We got off the bus and popped into Revolution Bikes across the street. A dirty punk rocker with the thickest Boston accent I've ever heard in real life sold me a tube - I didn't want to be the jerk who flatted and had to bum a tube. We called Dan - who spent years in Boston - to figure out where the hell to go. I figured everything was a long ride away - after all, we're talking about going back and forth across the city!

Nope. Ten minutes had us pulling up to a bike shop where Dan and a bunch of folks were hanging out. We pulled up as it started to pour, and we took refuge inside. While hanging out, the rain kept coming down harder and harder, but for some reason, we decided to mobililze anyway, to head to another bike shop a few miles away.

We rode into some of the hardest rain I've ever seen. When you are soaked through (immediately!), you've got nothing else to worry about from the rain, so you might as well enjoy it. I should have photographed Dan skidding through three-inch deep puddles... or the sight of ten of us dripping wet all over Cambridge Bicycles.

We dumped some stuff at Lauren's house - it sucks to ride with a full traveling pack - but my bag was still heavy. You never know when you're going to need a lock in a race. Still, though, I'm looking for ways to lighten the load that I carry. Going fast is much easier when you don't have a ten pound bag on a shoulder.

It's raining less and less, and then barely at all when we roll through Southie to the L Street Beach. I'm a little nervous about this race, because of my New Very Special Plan: to have absolutely no idea where I'm going and just try to stick with the leaders, with Dan Bones, with Gary, with who ever can be fast, show me around town, and get me placing high. High enough to win some sick prizes. Cause let's be honest. I like winning prizes.

It's a huge crowd that gathers around Scott as he introduces the race, and then, with no warning, "NOW GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" I'm near the back of the crowd which means I'm early out and I hop with a fast pack that hurtles the wrong way down a narrow street and then turns onto L street, which turns into Summer and will take us out of South Boston. It's just narrow enough to be nervous and the neighborhoods are just quiet enough to make the intersections a little bit hairy. It's the lead pack I'm on and there are about twenty of us. I suck a lot of wheel and work my way close to the front, behind two fast Boston guys, a couple fast NYCers, Gary, and a few unfamiliar faces. The plan is to stick with this pack for as long as possible. These are the guys to beat.

I tightly draft over a bridge and we take some intersections together. I'm working hard and pull into the first checkpoint fourth, but there's no checkpoint worker. The moment of confusion means that the pack catches the leaders, and Dan Bones is yelling, "other way! other way!" and we all turn around and there are way too many riders together again, bombing this hill. I hear somebody go down behind me, and I need to go into oncoming traffic to avoid a traffic island.

At the second checkpoint I get in early enough to reach up to the guy sitting on the wall and hand him my manifest, but by the time it's signed i'm in the middle of a huddle and have to push my way out, not caring about people's bikes or bodies. Gary is just leaving - his green bike is distinctive to follow.

We hurtle through streets for another five or six checkpoints, doing some nasty, hurried traffic work. I'm kicking my ass to keep up to the pack, at times, making guesses at turns, keeping Gary's green bike in sight a block ahead of me. And then, a problem - Gary pulls over. "You okay?" I yell. "I'm out of the race!" he says back. Slowing down to ask that meant I had to struggle to keep the pack in sight. Every now and then I see Crihs a few blocks ahead of me, but it's hard... Luckily a guy catches up to me - I verify that we're going to the same place and that he can show me around. This is good. I can be back on track.

But what happens? Passing an intersection I see Brantley - he was ahead of me with the pack - and I turn with him and follow him to... a checkpoint I've already been to! I look up - that wasn't Brantley! It was Colin, wearing a similarly bright and ugly jersey. Fuck. Where am I, and where do I got?

I have no clue.

And by this time the leaders are very far in front of me, for sure.

I yell for directions back to Summer Street and get them, from riders headed in other directions. I meet up with some locals and follow them, but they are going slowly. No way I'm going to catch up at this pace. A few times going back and forth on Summer Street I see the lead pack - I'm two miles back. Brantley and Dan Bones are with the pack and I'm psyched for them, but realize that I'm out of the race.

With that realization comes fatigue; I'm working hard to stay on the wheel of David, a cheery local who accepts the role of navigator. My manifest is in tatters from being shoved in and out of damp pockets, wet hands, stamps and pens. It's getting dark. I could use some water. I could use to race a little smarter. I could have geared down. I wouldn't mind dry socks and a beer.

It's a long race. We go through Boston again and again, through puddles, out to lonely piers, to Chinatown Alleys. Friends at checkpoints say, "Yeah, you're doing pretty well," but I know it's not as well as I could be doing, or as I want to be doing.

Several times, seeing the leaders heading the opposite way, seeing Dan and Brantley with them, I want to skid 180 degrees and hop on their wheel, I want to pull out my manifest and scribble a signature in a few boxes and consider myself "caught up" - but come on, cheating in alleycats? I won't. Would anybody? I hope not.

Finally, the last checkpoint, climbing up Beacon to the State House and setting in to the ride to the finish line. Two others catch up to me and David, and with my last energies, I entertain a sprint to the finish line and am second in our pack of four to cross the line as Scott is counting off - he writes my name down in 27th place.

I frown, and get a funny combination of elated and disappointed in myself when I see Dan and head his way. "Seventh!" he crows. "Nice!" How'd Brantley do? I look at him. He's tight-faced and supresses a sparkle in his eye. The kind you do when you don't want to be overwhelmed as how awesome you just did... "Yeah, I got it..." he said. "First out of town!" Dan yelled! "Third overall!"

Brantley wins a custom frame! I'm pretty happy for him. He beat a casual rival of ours. Dan is super excited, too - he's got his confidence back, his legs back, and his impeccable navigation of Boston did him well - 7th in a race this size, with almost a hundred racers, is no small feat.

We celebrate with snacks from a convenience store, and a 4 pack of Fin Du Monde. Return to the party for beers, me getting drunk and yelling "I'm takin' portraits!" and snapping my camera in people's faces. Prizes all over the place. Smelly punks. High fives. We ride out to L Street Beach again to pick up Dan's chain lock, do some wheelies and other ridiculous shit before making our way - where? Who knows, but we got yelled at from a sidewalk, joined some other bikers including Scott, Brantley, and Aaronplane, and made our way to a bar for a few hours of recap, shooting the breeze, and me running into somebody from college who I cannot place.

Then we destroyed a bag of Doritos on Lauren's stoop and crashed, hard, smelly, and wet, all over her house.

The next day was brunch, desperately seeking a clean scrap of anything to wear, and long, slightly nauseated hours on the Chinatown bus before I made my way back to the Bronx for a fitful but much-needed night of sleep.

What a weekend.

I curse, fiercely and forcefully. It's just gotten dark and the rain is starting to come down hard again; I am on my bike on Broadway in the 30's, heading South of course, and I'm in the worst place possible during an alleycat race: alone. The rain exacerbates the darkness and the lights glaze everything in a shine that obscures rain-filled potholes, pedestrians sneaking out in the road, and my desire to continue riding hard. We're two thirds of the way through Broadway Bomber and I do not yet have a bruised hip, scraped arm, and cracked helmet.

Despite a few mishaps on the way to the starting line - a wipeout in the rain and a broken seatpost bolt suffered by a non-racing friend - the race started off great. We gathered in a parking lot at the tippy top of Manhattan and waited around, staying warm and grabbing snacks from an over-airconditioned bodega. For once, I didn't mind waiting for an excessively late start - the longer we waited, the drier the roads were getting. I should put it in the singular: road. This race started at the beginning of Broadway in Manhattan, and ended at the end. Thirteen and a half miles from the top to the bottom: Broadway Bomber.

When they're ready to begin, the organizers lead us over the Broadway Bridge into the Bronx, to a parking deck behind a Target, a few blocks away from the Bridge. Mike Dee abuses us a little bit when one person crashes and two people flat on the bridge - "You were advised to stay off the steel roadway! There are two perfectly good concrete sidewalks for you to use! Now shape up and get in line!" Before beginning there's a brief hype session. The top twenty finishers from the last race, Rumble Through The Bronx, are given front spots in the pack and gold stars, while the others are told that we are the ones to beat.

I'm strangely calm by the time the security guard comes around to tell us to leave. Mike Dee and Chris ignore him, finish their speil, and with a whoop and a hoot, send us packing. Not knowing how to get off the deck, I follow the dozen guys in front of me down a ramp, and for a few minutes, it's a quiet, tense scramble over sidewalks, off curbs, and the wrong way down the street until we get to the bridge. We all take the sidewalk; I decide to be cautious until we get to open street, and I think everybody else decides this, too, but the difference between me and them is that my cautious is a little bit slower. When we get on to the street and I get up to speed, the leaders have a block on me.

I hop on the wheel of a tall, wide-smiled guy on a Pogliaghi, drafting him. As usual, the first push has fooled me into thinking I'm tired, but as we start up the first challenge - a long, steady climb up to the George Washington Bridge - I settle into a smooth spin and wiggle my eyebrows at a few cheering bystanders. I'm putting space between me and the people behind me, and trying to close the space in front of me. If I can stick with the front pack...

In and out of the first checkpoint, and onward! The next checkpoint is at an island on 163rd; "Eat a donut!" Jacob from Boston says; I take a bite, yell "fifty five!" and get my manifest stamped, and head out as Heidi pulls in. I hear say, "Nope, I'm vegan..." and as I'm pulling out, see a few people overshoot the checkpoint. I settle in to another climb; Heidi pulls next to me and we chat. She passes and pats her butt, yelling, "Hop on!" and I jump on her wheel to draft, spinning well and moving fast in the open stretches of Northern Broadway. I want to work with her, so on some of the fast descents, I take the red lights with my hand brake and give her a signal so she can bomb through with no brakeless reservations.

At the 125th checkpoint we're told, "tenth and eleventh." Nice! I clip back in and we head up the hill - I see a few riders ahead of us and say, "What say we make up a few places?" We pick up the pace going up hill, but then I see something too tempting to pass up - a bus that I can catch up to. I grab a hold on the wheel well, lean away from the wheels, and enjoy a great, fast-paced skitch up to the crest of the hill. I pull in before Crihs, but pull out after him. It's hard getting my manifest in and out of my damp pocket - I finally resolve to buy a cool hip pouch.

The hills are over and we've got time to settle in to a little paceline. Crihs greets me by name - that's cool, I didn't know he knew who I was - and as we're tearing down the Upper West Side we're working together with another couple of riders, communicating well and absolutely flying. My plan was to ride really hard for these stretches of the race, knowing I won't be able to handle the sub-42nd street traffic as fast as some of the others. If I'm keeping pace with Crihs, then the plan is working. Lincoln Center Checkpoint: Check. I tear through Columbus Circle but lose half a block on Crihs and the other two guys.

Suddenly, I realize it's getting dark. I navigate Times Square badly and have to hop a curb, ride through some tourists' picture, and drop off a curb to get to the checkpoint where Amanda, Chombo, and others are working. I pause for breath and realize that I've been dropped: dammit. 42nd street is jampacked and I go through it awfully slowly. My manifest is getting soaked and gross and I don't know where the next CP is - I don't want to fly by it, and I have no security of people in front of me pulling over. Without other riders to keep up with, my pace sags.

And then comes the rain. It starts slowly, with the realization that the street is wet, but then it is drizzling, and then really coming down. It is getting nasty. I'm tense and unhappy - we're in lower Manhattan and this is not a good place for racing. I take the Madison Square Park interchange badly and need to dive across a few lanes of traffic. Kym pulls up behind me as I slow off - "Don't slow down now!" she yells. I thank her and put in a new burst of energy, which lasts me until Union Square. I figured the Checkpoint would be on the island on the southeast side, but as Broadway hits the top of the square, a guy is yelling, "Checkpoint in here!" There are metal gates, can't go through, need to turn around, and then my tires slide, bike is on its side, I'm following it down, and I hear the crunch of my helmet against the pavement.

Stop, start. This is how accidents work. Different day, different time. I get up and grab my bike and straddle it and mumble something. "How's your bike?" Someone asks me. "Don't know, keep racing," I say. I get my mani stamped and I'm shaking my head and body out as I pick up another manifest off the ground in time to see Heidi come back around the corner, looking for hers. I hand it off to her - she barely breaks stride and takes off. I struggle to catch her and do - we share a few grumbles. The race has taken a foul turn - crashing rattles me, the conditions were absolutely dangerous, and the traffic was getting worse in lower manhattan, famed for covering road work with metal sheets. I just wanted to finish this race and get off my bike.

At the next checkpoint, Kym is off her bike, bleeding profusely from her hand. Gary catches up and I get re-energized. I want to beat him. We're getting close but I don't know where to finish. A cab squeezes me against the curb and I elbow its panel sharply; a few riders pass by on the other side and I lose more places - damn. Kym blows by me, still bleeding. Damn. And then there's a bull - we must be close, but I don't know where. I barely know where I am and can barely see where I am. I hear a yell and see a finish line, well off to the side. I yell at those in front of me, do a death-defying turn between a bus and a sedan, and make for the steps of the U.S. Customs House, ahead of everyone I had just passed. I run up the steps.

"How'd you do?" someone asks. "Only went down once," I mutter, as my manifest is checked over. I hand it to Hodari and the guy with the computer and go back down the stairs again. The pack is filtering in, and then it's a swarm, and suddenly there are a lot of bikes at the foot of the stairs.

I need to walk around. I feel weird, shaken, uncomfortable. I got tenth place, I should be thrilled, right? Top Ten in a NYC alleycat. But I didn't like the last two thirds of the race, and I only got top ten because I got lucky at the finish, and I'm cold and wet and tired. I talk with a few other people and more stories fill in - a crash over here, over there. Jeremy running from Canal Street after blowing his last tube in a crash. Heidi's ankle bleeding. Oh, and that sound I heard at the beginning of the race, on the ramp? That was Dan.

But that's races. A pretty big roll of the dice, about conditions, competition, and the ability to see where you've got to go. I don't feel lucky to get top ten - I got nothing out of it, and who wants bragging rights by beating their friends by dumb luck? Points were awarded seven deep for this race - I come up empty.

I have good company. We watch the fireworks. It's okay. It's just a race. My body is sore, but everything's okay.

I'm eagerly awaiting the results from Rumble Through The Bronx. I know how I finished, but I have to admit - I just want to see it written down among so many other names.

It's not bloody fantastic or anything, but it's way better than I had really planned. I had high hopes, but more realistic expectations, and it was nice to be much closer to the "high hopes" section.

Yesterday, something significant came in the mail - cycling shorts.

I used to tell people, "Oh, I'm not a cyclist, I'm a biker." They'd ask, "What's the difference?" and I would mull for a moment and reply, "Spandex." Really, this exchange has happened several times. I think I even mentioned it in a blog post.

But I guess I've crossed the threshold.

Oops! I've accidentally been doing way more racing than I anticipated! I even put together a calendar of upcoming races, and I can't believe how much there is to do all through the spring, summer, and early fall. I don't plan on racing everything, but I am enjoying pounding the streets a whole lot.

I didn't intend to race "Three Sparks Night" during the Polo Comp, but got talked in to it. A fun, fast race that was mostly a scavenger hunt. I don't know how I did other than I didn't win, which is fine since I had a blast and also learned that too much Sparks is a very, very bad thing.

I didn't plan on racing "The Angel III," either, but since I was out at Kissena Velodrome watching the racing, I got caught up in the bug. It was a one checkpoint race; the pack hopped on Metropolitan Avenue after a few miles in Queens, and stayed on it till the end. I got out to an early start and kept passing people till I found myself racing with a group of people moving at good speed. Many downhills, easy traffic, some big intersections being blown en masse. At one point I got dropped by the pack. As the distance between us grew to several blocks - and the several more - I began to give in to the fatigue to which the hot, nonstop pace had given rise. Anticipating a red light at an big, tough intersection several hundred yards away, I just began to slow when another rider came up from behind me (in a move known as a Surprise Buttsesh) and said, "Come on! This intersection is important!" We sprinted together, made the light, and I was re-energized. I caught the pack I was with. When we got to the finish, there was a crush to hand in manifests. One of my riding buddies came in tenth; based on that I got my manifest in the collector's hands right afterwards, I figure I came in eleventh or twelfth. The award ceremony was epic - great, generous prizes, which would have been nice to win but ultimately I'm in the racing for the personal challenge and for the fun.

Then I found out about Ghostbusters Race this past weekend. Team Wreck Stuff - a loose affiliation of fun-loving scoundrels - put together a three-person team for this race. It was a 30+ mile, trivia-and-challenges points race that hit some key locations from the film (which I don't think I've ever seen, actually). We rode hard, wrecked a thing or two, experienced lots and lots of close calls on Avenues in midtown, through which we had to ride over and over again between checkpoints and the home base. Finished fairly high - fifth, I believe - but didn't get enough points to place in the top three.

Team Wreck Stuff has made a good showing lately, and we're looking forward to Grand Theft Velo this weekend in New Haven.

There are some sudden/not-so-sudden variables that might preclude my involvement, but if I go, I'm in it to win it - no doubt about it.

Racin' some bikes!

I took my chances in another alleycat race this past weekend, and rode to a respectable 10th place in New Haven, Connecticut. There's nothing quite like doing well despite a couple of mix-ups and getting lost to make you vow to do a whole lot better next time, especially when it's combined with repeatedly catching up to (and passing) a fast local, only to have them pick a better route from behind you, and emerge in front of you yet again.

On my commute to work this morning I thought a little bit about why I ride in alleycat races. I'm aware of the tendency for bikeishness to lean toward snobbishness and general jockery, and don't want to be a part of it. Bikes are for fun, not status symbols. So it was a funny moment to realize, hey, wait, alleycat races are surprisingly non-competetive. I mean, people aim to do well, but I haven't seen any idiotic cock-measuring of "I'm gonna kick your ass today!" People ride hard, cooperate frequently (I rode the whole race alternating between drafting off of and pulling another NYC rider, and was joined by several CT folks at many points of the race), and are generally out to have fun with the mentality that anything can happen in an alleycat race. It's not about speed, nor is it about geographical knowledge. It's about both, with a healthy bit of luck thrown in - are you going to get a good sequence of lights down that avenue? Flat right after the first checkpoint? Pick a direct route only to run into a devastating headwind? Kiss the hood of a taxi?

I think that a lot of riders know that when they ride, there's a lot that is within their control, and a whole lot that is out of it. The sobering threat of an inattentive driver damaging your frame or your body adds to the mix the knowledge that whatever happens happens, and it's preferable to some of the worse-case scenarios.

Bike races are fun. Before I started doing them, I was pretty convinced (based on slim evidence, mind you) that racers were a hardcore, exclusive bunch. I've since been proven wrong. When you're on the outside of something, it's really easy to be scared of stepping in. When you're inside something, though, it can slip one's mind to reach outside. That's why I like having fun at races, being friendly to bikers who haven't raced, encouraging them to race - to test their limits, improve themselves.

After all, I'm at a point where one of my notions of fun is to sprint my bike around for 20+ miles through traffic, and I can do it well enough, too. It's a physical feat that I never really thought I could accomplish until I realized it was within my grasp.

That was the point at which I thought, I wonder what else I can do - on bikes, and off.

Monster Track: I spent plenty of time waffling about whether or not I was going to race this. I gave myself plenty of excuses - the weather, my level of fitness, a cold that had been working on me - but something clicked and I got excited. I started riding around and seeing people on track bikes and whooping, yelling, "You ready for MonsterTrack?!" And people were yelling the same at me. Everybody on a track bike in the city got tingley, excited, grinning with anticipation.

Monstertrack 8, a race through Manhattan and Brooklyn in the middle of the winter, for track bikes, gained fame and notoriety through the years due to its intensity, its track bike requirement, and videos like Lucas Brunelle's helmet-cam action of Monster Track V.

I had no particular pretensions of doing well but had plenty of reason to get excited. I'm a solid biker, I told myself. Heck, the night before the race, at one of the pre-parties, I even beat two extremely fast, race-winning messengers in a thirty-second stationary bike sprint. Not the same skills that wins races but enough to raise the excitement level a little bit. A little bit more. To get me thinking, Okay, so, how good can I do?

The start was just south of Delancey - hundreds of people milling around in the cold and the snow, looking at each other's bikes, forming little clusters and shooting the shit, wondering how much later it would get before the organizers give us some fucking manifests and give us the go. When are we gonna start? Everyone's getting cold. The Organizers line us up. We stand around for a long time more. Finally Victor yells GO! and the hundreds of people make a mad dash for their bikes and to get out of the court before a bottleneck opens up - to get out to some open road.

But there were so many people that very few people found any open road, especially with the entire field going up 1st Avenue up to 61st street before splitting. It was amazing. Two hundred riders, yelling and screaming and whooping and going fast, together, tearing up 1st Avenue. Stretching well ahead of me and well behind me. You pass somebody you know or somebody you don't, throw them a shit-eating grin, and head on. At the UN, Nick caught up with me - we rode down to the race together, and he had a helmet cam. "I've been behind you," he said, "I'm getting great footage!" "Then get me some more!" I yelled, and sprinted ahead down into the tunnel. And we went faster...

It was impossible to stay with who I was riding with. After the first checkpoint the field seperated a lot and I went on my own way a lot, meeting up with people here and there along the course. My favorite part of alleycats is seeing people racing, coming from different directions, blowing by you, criss-crossing, riding together for half a mile before going in different directions. Like the whole city becomes alive with whooping bikers.

After two extensive forays to all the checkpoints between SoHo and Midtown, I went back to the base to get the last manifest, hit up the two sponsoring bike shops, and finish hard in Williamsburg. Caught up to somebody I know on the Williamsburg Bridge, jumped on his wheel to catch my breath for a minute before sprinting past me - "Get on my wheel and we'll take the bidge together!" I said - and we passed a group of riders. Then found the finish line, the bar, and dropped off our manifests.

Water. Fruit. Food. Beer.

Tired. Whew! Shit! My pants are wet and the road salt is stinging my thighs. It's dark but it's still early but it feels late.

MonsterTrack... Only a year until the next one...

Back at work, for real this time. I took some time off between Christmas and New Years', but it didn't add up to anything like a vacation. Just some time off, in New Jersey with the family, then back to NYC for a few days of work in a very, very quiet office.

Sometimes breaking the routine can be so tiring it's not that bad to go back into it, for some peace and quiet. Even if the commute is a little bit crazy and you're tired from staying out late at the Metropolitan Opera seeing the kind of odd but pleasant if confusing Magic Flute.

I raced the second annual New Years' Eve Alleykitten this weekend; last year's race was my first race and it was a lot of fun to ride it again. It's geared toward folks who haven't raced before, but isn't really easier than any other alleycat. A huge mass of people and bikes gathered by the bike polo court at Christie and Broome and I walked around saying hey to people I kind of know. I wanted to do well this race, so when I got my manifest I made sure to be thoughtful with my route; however, as with many things, once I lean toward a decision I go full-blast and didn't really pick the optimal route.

However: hammering down Broadway to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, then up Trinity and over to the East River at 22nd Street, where the CPers threw eggs at me as I rode away. I hauled up First Avenue to 86th St where I ate a piece of garlic, then found my way to the bandshell in Central Park (that slowed me down...) to capture a flag. Further slowed down trying to find the checkpoint on the right pier in the Hudson River in the 60s; then down the bike path to pushups across from the Javits Center, down to Trackstar where I had to recover my bike from a "thief" and carry a package to a 23rd place finish at Lakeside Lounge.

Not as well as I wanted to do, so here are some pointers to remind myself:

*sometimes it's good to stick with the pack a little bit, but if you do, you're gonna have to beat 'em to the checkpoint to stay competetive.
*plan a route before the race, duh, but revise it if necessary and consider alternatives. don't just plan a route and stick to it like glue.
*planning a route might still leave you getting lost, not knowing the fastest route way to a small little place like a bandshell or a pier.
*consider going absolutely 100% balls-out in the beginning.

I had lots of fun, though, and enjoyed the after party as I'm getting to know a few more people. I met a few people whose company I really enjoyed, and went with a few others to Punjabi's for dinner after the race - especially important after a handful of $2 pints at the after party...

An odd feeling: relief that Monday morning comes, so you can settle back into a quiet routine for a few days and let the fatigue drain. Cranksgiving was on Saturday and wore me out - the race, the afterparty, and showing up sweaty, gross, drunk and a little bit impolite at a Very Respectable Housewarming party. And then back to the Bronx, where I woke up the next morning feeling like I fell down a flight of stairs: awesome.

Fatigue feels great.

I met up with somebody I've ridden with in the past, at the registration point by the Jacob Javits Center, and we sat around and talked about bikes while an awkward photographer from some newswire - who said he was doing a piece on messengers - snapped pictures and asked awkward questions. More and more people show up, including a bunch of people from Hartford and New Haven, some of whom I know, some I was just meeting. One guy came with a seriously bent fork - an accident about thirty seconds after leaving the train station found him on the hood of a cab, and as we were shooting the shit, five or six guys were standing around his bike offering advice on leverage for cold-setting his fork into something rideable.

We get our manifests. We've got a lot of choice of routes for this race - we need to hit 4 of 8 grocery stores (buying food to donate instead of standard alleycat checkpoints), but we need to hit one in each listed area - east village, battery park city, upper east side, upper west side - and we've got to do them in a figure 8, with a midpoint at columbus circle (where we are told the finish line), which means lots of going crosstown, in nyc, on a saturday early afternoon. Our first stop must be a store in the east, our first option is to go north or south. We decide to go south (a bad decision; 2/3ds of everybody went North, including the winners, who are also faster so that's not really the point).

"Go!" the organizer yells after saying some thank-yous and ride-safes. We break for the crossstreets with grunts and that slight sound that your chain makes when you're accelerating from a stop; we hit the street and immediatly have to dodge a tractor that's rumbling down, and we laugh as we fly East. A sprint over to the East 20's, picking up potatoes at a grocery (a realization: yeah, bad idea to hit up the store where we had to get potatoes, the heaviest item, first). Then down to Houston and over to Broadway, hammering down to a store on South End Ave. Where's that? It's West of the west side highway. Who knew? Then 3 of us in a paceline (riding with wheels so close they're almost touching - you've got to be careful, but it cuts down so much wind resistance for everybody but the leader) for several miles going up the West Side Highway bike path, occasionally yelling to clear the way of pedestrians. One guy preferred to just yell like an animal; I tried the "charitybikeracecomingthroughsorrytobotheryouthankyou!" which was only marginally successful.

A stop at Columbus Circle and then a haul into the headwinds going up 3rd Avenue. A stop, then through the park to the West Side to our last stop, then back down toward the finish, which required weaving through madness on 59th street and a last haul down 2nd avenue, which produced the worst, tightest, most maddening traffic I've ever ridden in. I got knocked down on 59th street (just hit a mirror with my shoulder at moderate speed and couldn't recover), and I lost the two guys I was riding with in the traffic on 2nd. Made it down to 35th street & East River for the finish, and was a little disappointed to see so many finish before me. Oh well.

The course was 20miles, maybe a bit more, with long hauls uptown and crosstown between checkpoints. It was a tough time of day for an alleycat (but really, what's not?), a pre-holiday Saturday, midtown-heavy traffic. I'm eager to see the results, when they're compiled and put out over the internet.

Anyway, after a beer and some snacks at the finish line, I and some others took off to run an errand and grab some bites to eat. Then to Brooklyn to drop off the food - a little odessey of its own - then back to Alphabet City for the afterparty, where I got to recognize people I've never met and introduce them with, "oh, hi, I recognize you from the internet," to which one guy responded, "Oh, awesome! It's always nice to meet people I spend all day at work with," referring to the nyc fixed gear message board. Bike dorks with day jobs and computers...

People also talked about crashes and injuries. There were a few too many for a charity bike race. A Connecticut pile-up (thanks to a pedestrian crossing between cars!) that resulted in a broken Spinergy carbon-fiber front wheel and a damaged keirin frame. One nyc guy got clipped by another rider - knocked down and broke his elbow - and the other rider didn't even stop. That's foul, really foul.

By the end of the night I was tired and buzzed enough to accidently get the name of a friend of a friend Very Wrong (oops!) and generally be socially awkward at this Housewarming party. Left for the ride home to the Bronx, and completely hit the wall on the 3rd Avenue Bridge, absolutely crawling in the face of the cold winds. I fell into my bed - not even late, at 1 AM - but tired as hell, and slept for ten hours.

Anyhoo, woot. Back at work. Time to rest. I'll either boast or swear to improve, publicly on this blog, when results come out.