It's possible that I'm starting to sound like a broken record on this subject, but New York City amazes and fascinates me, and I love exploring it by bicycle. When I'm somewhere I've never been before, I'm amazed that I'm still in New York City. The outer reaches of Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island feel like these little isolated suburban refuges that seem to be imbued with a bit more life and liveliness - if quiet - than the sterile, hypoxic repetition and grids of the suburbs that I am familiar with.

Sunday was Transportation Alternatives New York City Century, which meant an opportunity to pay a couple bucks to ride upwards of a hundred miles around 4 of the boroughs, with checkpoints every twenty miles or so, in the company of friends and a couple thousand other people.

The bike - a street-worthy fixed gear. I chuckled, looking at it with its road drops and brake levers with hoods, and its low gear. Last week, it had track drops and a super high gearing, for velodrome racing. It is quite multipurpose, this bike of mine.

My alarm went off at 4.45 - after a cup or three of coffee, some whole wheat bread and peanut butter, and a banana, I strapped on my camel back and hip pouch, threw a leg over my bike, and set out. It was still dark as Heidi and I rode to Manhattan to the north end of central park. She left and I met up with some buddies, and after a few minutes navigating the confusion of the beginning - long lines of bikers of all types - we left the park, heading West. It was just light out by the time we started, and we all felt good. "What say we pick up the pace a bit?" I asked, and with a wink, we fell into a paceline and spun up to 25mph or so, passing by all the cyclists who filled the road.

We made our way down Broadway, to the Brooklyn Bridge, and eventually to Prospect Park at mile 15, where the first rest stop offered us bananas, oranges, bagels, and donuts. Not wanting to either bonk or overeat, I took some fruit but stayed light on the heavy foods. After staying around to regroup and with some of our number waiting in line to refill water bottles, we headed out.

The route took us down to the South Brooklyn waterfront, into Coney Island, and through Sheepshead Bay. I'm amazed at how often I forget that New York City has such an extensive and beautiful waterfront - but so many years of heavy industrial and commercial use (combined with Robert Moses' highways on just about every waterfront in the city) have left New Yorkers with surprisingly little access to the waterfront. Not so in South Brooklyn. It was a beautiful place to be at 8 AM, and we were all smiles rolling into the second checkpoint. Another chance to snack and refill water, and then we were off again.

The route turns north into Queens, and I start to feel the fatigue of the early morning and fitfull sleep. We start going through neighborhoods I am terribly unfamiliar with, street names I've never heard, and surprisingly high-numbered avenues. At one point, I grab a leaf off a low hanging tree, turn around, and toss it at Gabe, letting the wind carry it back to him - deftly, he reaches up and grabs it, and I shake my fists in the air triumphantly.

We reach Kissena, do a lap amid jokes ("match sprints, anybody?"), and head out to the Northest, Eastest corner of Queens, where some friends are mechanicing at the checkpoint. At this point, about sixty miles in, I'm hungry and much desirous of coffee. I wolf down hummus sandwiches before we head out. I could use a nap, but opt to get back on my bike instead.

We venture West through queens, along the waterfront, past LaGuardia airport, and I gaze longingly at the Bronx across the water. I wouldn't mind napping there.

How to pick up the energy? We stop at Gabe's house and get a couple beers. It's midday, or early afternoon - no problem! While we're at the Astoria checkpoint, flirting with a mechanic, we see a guy who's wearing chammois briefs. Unreal.

The diversity of bikes is terribly wonderful. Super-blinged out modern road bikes, time trial bikes. Gorgeous classic steel racers. Clunky mountain bikes. A softride time trial bike. Several tandems (hooray!), including one with a softride rear (weird!). Horrible jerseys. What a fashion show - I loved it!

We set off over the triboro bridge - my legs felt good but I wanted to sleep. It took us back into manhattan, and once again, as I got on first avenue, I went into alleycat mode, spinning madly up the avenue, grabbing an SUV to skitch... of course my buddies could all follow, but it was fun to ride hard amid a more casual pack of cyclists. Finally, there was a loop through the Bronx. The most trying thing about this last leg of the Century was the fact that there were a lot of turns through small side streets, which was just wearing to ride. I'd rather be on some open roads, some long straightaways. But alas - it was a tough twenty miles to the checkpoint in Van Cordtland Park, where stood an older (ex-military?) man in an ugly kit barking orders to nobody in particular, "Okay, you've got eleven miles to go. Food is there, water is there, use the bathrooms, they're over there..." He had a buzz cut. Tired of his drone after just a few minutes, we resolve to hit the road quickly.

Pleasantly, the route avoids some of the monster hills of Riverdale, and brings us over the Broadway bridge. I would have preferred a straightshot down Broadway - reminiscing from the Broadway Bombin' race - despite the hills, but we've internalized the authority of the spraypainted arrows on the street, and we follow the prescribed route. Finally, it turns us back on to Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and Central Park is a half mile away. TIme to sprint again! Might as well finish strong, so I get out of the saddle and hammer, trying to stay smooth.

We enter the park, relax, stretch, give each other massages, and, before too long, agree that it is Beer O'Clock.

It's three thirty, and I'm pooped. We chill for a while before I head home. My arse is sore, my body is tired, but my legs feel good. I resolve never to ride long distances on that saddle ever again. I think back on my eating, hydrating, and electrolyte-consuming habits, and think I did a good job of fueling my body.

I start thinking about what it would take to do some other long-distance rides... like a 200K brevet... or a 300K, or a 400K... or 600, and maybe, if I like it, if I grow to like it in four years, 1200K.

As it happens, I am back at my desk at work. The morning was humid and damp, and, unfortunately, the flowers on my desk - this beautiful surprise waiting for me when I got back from vacation - are wilting. So it goes.

I'm restless and antsy. My pedal unscrewed itself from the crank on the way in this morning - why? I don't know - that's not supposed to happen.

I'm discombobulated!

I got back from vacation in Salt Lake City and feel somewhat defeated, deflated to return to a routine that is bracketed by time spent at work. Not unhappy or depressed, but rather, aware of the importance of experiencing new things and the extent to which a 9 to 5 job fetters that, binding the will, energy, and ability in manacles.

I have a sudden claustrophobia, I'm realizing - I need time and space. I need a long afternoon to myself, I need to clean up my shit in my house. I need to listen to REM on repeat. I need a day that doesn't end. I need time for liesurely bike rides - not commuting, not racing, but fun and exploration. I need, again and again, to go places I've never been. I need the clarity of a mountain top, the exciting heartbeat of thin air.

In the past - in more punk rock days - I would dogmatically spew lines about how selling one's labor is the death of the soul, that life it too short to do so, that sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul, that product is the excrement of action, that lived experience must be elevated to the status of art... slogan after slogan... and yet here I am. Quagmires - student loans, health insurance are what keep me at the desk.

I'm thinking of foregoing a race this weekend in favor of a ride to the beach. I was just thinking about how I haven't been in an ocean in a log time. Might be good for me. Shake some of the cobwebs out of my brain.

Last night was the first of a seven week, all fixed-gear race series, , Prospect Park Summer Slam! My team was generously donating a few bottles of our Special Edition Lager as prizes; after gluing labels on to bottles in a hurry we rolled up to Prospect Park as people were gathering.

It was a different crowd than I was used to. Plenty of people from alleycats, but plenty of fast people who are in the bike scene who don't come out to the usual races. Older, more experienced riders, and most people decked out in spandex. This was a Serious Race in an informal manner - very different from alleycat races. On the bike scene's internet forum, people were talking about pack riding, drafting, and treating this like riding on a huge velodrome with hills.

Obviously my city bike - fixed gear, flatbars, front brake - won't exactly suffice. So I pull off my chainring, put a larger one on, pull off my brake, and put drop bars on.

Just the opportunity to move my legs fast and gain more skills. Last night's race was a two-person, four-lap relay race. Jeremy and I teamed up, and I lined up on the line with twenty other racers for the first lap. With a "stay safe and have fun!" from the organizer, we're given the go.

People get up to speed, quickly, and the pack forms. It's not super tight but people are grabbing on wheels. I move through the pack, concentrating on being alert and keeping my spin smooth. I find Dan - we work together and move toward the outside where there's a little bit more room. He's on his fast bike and feels good, and as we're at the Southern end of the park, he moves by me. I grab his wheel.

I'm unused to riding in a pack - hoping I'm aware of riders close to my side behind me, working hard to hold my line. And meanwhile, I'm pretty sure that this frontal pack has left a solid handful of riders behind. Dan moves past the pack but I can't grab his wheel. Niki does and a line of riders forms, with me off to the side. It takes me a while to get back into good position - I let myself drop back in the pack and find plenty of room there.

I'm unfamiliar with Prospect Park. I realize that we've been going down a slight downhill when I realize that I'm spinning out, and that my ass is starting to bounce in the saddle. This means we're easily doing 30 MPH.

I settle out my spin - I want to keep it smooth. Sticking on someone's wheel, no matter what, means that I'll hurt, but a whole lot less than if I get dropped. But I'm also impatient. I want to be near the front, I want to be in good position to get a jump toward the end of the hill. But impatient and inexperienced aren't a good combination, and I'm learning that, when it comes to racing in a pack, where you are is no indication of how you're doing. It's when and how you make your move.

A handful of fast guys make their move at the bottom of the long, last hill. The hill's not very steep, but it's long enough to tire you out. As the pack picks up its pace I furrow my eyebrows, thinking that it's too soon to move on the hill. But the pack thins out, so I get out of the saddle and grab a wheel. Riders are quite spread out by the top of the hill, and as we come around the curve we're calling our numbers to our teammates, who will take the next lap.

I pull over, keep my legs moving, take a squirt of water, and in a few minutes, line up for the next lap. Heidi says that the winner of the lap crossed at 6.45 - I do some calculations in my head and figure out that that means there was an average speed of over 30mph throughout the 3.5-mile loop. Damn.

After a few more minutes of waiting on the line, we hear the riders approaching. A handful of leaders fly by - you can feel their power. I hear Jeremy a little while afterward, and just get up to speed by the time I hit the line. But as I'm riding out into the park I realize that I'm alone. The leaders have taken off, and there's nobody in sight in front of me. A quick look under my arms from in the drops confirms that there's nobody within sight behind me. I stay low in the drops and keep a good pace.

Finally, I see somebody ahead of me. I don't gain on them for a while, but then I begin to. Around the southern end of the park, I catch him, and hug his wheel. I'm sucking air from my effort to catch him and deserve the reward of drafting, even selfishly. After a bit, I pull in front; other riders catch us, Dan and Eric. Dan, who loves to move, pulls around us after a while, and we grab his wheel - he's pulling us up the hill.

In a more intimate pack, I feel more comfortable, and smarter. Halfway up the hill, I make a move, pulling around Tom and putting a lot of energy into the sprint. I'm moving pretty well, but definitely unsustainably, so I'm happy to bellow "ELEVEN! JEREMY! ELEVEN!" as I'm coming around the corner. Jeremy comes off the line, gains speed, and is moving when I cross the line.

I felt great. Tired, yes, but that part of tired when your legs are moving fast on their own accord. I am motivated to get faster, and will get up early at least once a week to do laps of Central Park at a brisk tempo.

Till next week!

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.

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.

It's springtime.

Getting sweaty during lunchtime rides in Central Park.

Having a big stupid grin on my face all the time.

It's nice.