Midnight Racing

The excitement has since passed, but I’d like to recall for you what has become a meaningful event for me. I have raced only three bike races in my life. Two of them were WSBA sanctioned criterium races and I had fun, but I got whooped. At least I finished the second race, and by the way, I’ve heard that that particular course is a really hard one. The third race is the one that matters. I almost didn’t go. I’m glad I did.

The race was contested by an assembly of maybe 25 random bike fanatics, some fixed-gear riders, no doubt some messengers, and maybe even a couple competitive athletes - who knows. The race happens once a month. It’s a 3 mile sprint around Greenlake. At about a quarter to midnight, on nights following Critical Mass, cyclists start drifting in from every direction, like crows gathering at the evening roost. They swoop in silently from all directions, some with headlights on and others just barely visible flickering between the glow of the street lights and the shadows of the trees. I didn’t know anybody there, so I sat by myself on the grass, observing as the crowd swelled, and they chatted in groups and tinkered with their bikes. Within minutes a quiet, dark city sidewalk transformed before my eyes. Some thuggish-looking kids sat on a cement wall, smoking, watching. There was quite a crowd of cyclist/specators too, who didn’t appear to be racing that evevning. There were beers open and everyone seemed to be having a good time. I checked out their bikes while I waited. A few fixies. A few vintage frames. A Brook’s leather saddle. Some of them were newer bikes with carbon frames, cyclocomputers and the works. One custom-welded crazy bike with mismatched wheels and cruiser handlebars. A few riders were wearing jerseys. Most were wearing T-shirts or hoodies. Nearly all of them had helmets on. I was one of the few who didn’t. I was wearing a blue cycling hat.

Eventually we were rounded up at the start line and the rules were reviewed. There was a trophy for first place. All top three finishers would receive alcohol prizes, which were piled up in the grass next to the start line, and seemed to be worth more then the trophy. Be careful of sprinklers on at the north end of the lake. Watch out for bums sleeping on the path. Please turn off your tail lights. Go!

What? Sprinklers? Bums?

I started at a mellow pace and hung at the back to observe. Once again feeling like I didn’t really belong here, and just watching to see what everyone else was doing. Within a minute or so a breakaway group of about eight riders started to pull away from the front. There they go, I thought… Oh well. I’ll never catch them once they’re away. I could picture myself racing with the group, wondering what the guys in front were doing. No, I thought. I’m going WITH them this time. I accelerated and jostled my way through the riders that were in front of me, and crossed the gap just before it got too big. I made the breakaway!

Right as I made my move something on my bike made a clunk sound and then began a terrible racket. Everything was working fine, but it sounded like I had a chainsaw engine attached to my front wheel. What now? I reached down and nearly lost a finger to my spinning spokes. Forget it. I kept riding. I was actually embarrassed about the sound coming from my bike. It was impossible to ignore. I felt like I was ruining the quiet night for everyone. I hate that feeling. I just wanted to blend in.

Despite the noise coming from my wheel, things settled down just enough that I could take in my surroundings. Racing at night is surreal. I felt like a pilot in a squadron of spacecraft. Everyone’s headlights moved in unison. We leaned around a corner. There were illuminated pedals, hubs, and cranks floating in the darkness, moving together. Flashes of a reflector or a shoe. A gloved hand. Nothing else existed. It was all black. The trail formed only a few feet in front of us, out of the darkness. My headlight was particularly dim, so I was not really able to ride off the front. I wouldn’t have been able to see the road. I tucked in behind a guy with an especially bright one and waited to see what would happen next. I never considered making my own fate - breaking off the front of this group and trying to distance myself. I probably could have, except for my headlight. It wasn’t really an option so it never crossed my mind. Note to self: Make you’re own moves in a race, don’t just react. Next time.

Suddenly the pack parted and I was looking directly at a huge maple tree, right in the middle of the road! The path splits and goes around it on both sides. I went around to the right. The pack reformed on the other side a little looser than before. Cranks turned. Chains strained. Ahead more dark. More uncertainty. That’s when it hit me - right across the face. A heavy stream of cold water at exactly eye level, shooting from a sprinkler, directly across the path like a low-hanging branch. I eased the brakes and regained my composure just in time to realize that the road was wet, and we were entering some tight S-turns. One more sprinkler. Some luck. No crashes. At this point I was not too surprised when I passed a man standing in the road with some sort of high-output smoke bomb, shooting a thick column of white smoke straight up into the air, letting out a crazed cackle, just audible over the sound of rushing gas escaping from whatever he was holding. I dodged to the left and laughed aloud. I get it now. After that, someone laying in the road, fetal position, covering his head. Of course.

I could see the street lamps up ahead and figured there might be about two hundred more yards to the finish. A few riders still in front of me. I could pass these guys now that there was light. This was my chance, but I’d have to fight for it. And I would have to squeeze through between the guys in front of me and the edge of the path - it looked tight. I had to suppress my commuter courtesy. Of course it’s tight, jackass. You might even bump them. It’s a race. Do it! I punched it. They dropped easily. One down. Two. Three. Another guy had made his move just before I did. He was creating a gap as I was passing the last of the others. I forgot to sprint. I actually forgot that I can stand up in the pedals and go noticeably faster. Oh well. Note to self.

I finished second and coasted past the spectators that were gathered on either side of the road. It seemed like they all knew eachother. Who is that guy? I heard someone say. The winner was awarded his trophy and a bottle of booze. I was awarded my 40 ounces of Miller High Life and congratulated. I was asked my name, which was written down in a tattered little notebook. The rest of the prize booty was handed out freely to the racers and spectators.

When I opened my winnings, glorious yeasty suds sprayed everywhere, looking entirely too much like a post-Tour bottle of champaign. The guy that gave it to me shrugged - Sorry man, It was in my backpack on the way here. I hung around long enough to drink my prize and chat with some of the other riders. I heard rumors of a crash by the sprinklers, supposedly someone in a bear suit stepped out into the road and got run over. One rider identified the smoke bomb as a fire extinguisher. Some race. More like a circus. According to legend, last year a guy went off the curve one night after the sprinklers, and right into the lake. I don’t doubt it. You’d never see it coming.

In the end, I have no idea who these people were or what their qualifications are, but I got second place and I won a bottle of booze, and that is just encouraging enough to stoke my racing fire and start me training for next season. I’ll be ready for some real road races by spring. You can count on that. Maybe even win a pair of socks next year. Who knows.