I said I’d race.

Probably only to have the right to shave my legs. (Shave the guns, you look faster. Fast looks pro.)

It wasn’t a very long race. Just enough to know that I needed to dope. Or actually train. We’ll see about that. But basically,  there was a small illegal fixie street crit, near the Blue Bonnets Raceway. @thePACKteam and its organiser Bruno Labelle were nowhere to be found, perfect for my diesel engine. Warm up. Meg used that time to wonder around the abandoned building. The sunset was so magnificent a cop car pulled up just to take a picture of it. Camo Pants, gun on the right thigh, pulls up beside me, gets out of the car, pulls a pink covered iPhone out of her pocket for the perfect #SunsetSelfieOfAnOfficerOnDuty or something. I suppose my beard did not hide the weird stare I gave her. Head down Ben, pretend you are warming up. She drives away.

Meg comes back, I’m not warmed up at all.

-‘Nice hippodrome. Nice sunset.’

-‘My grand-pa used to race horses here’

Only fitting that I raced my bike for the first time.

The rest of the racers show up slowly. Phil and Alex of CT/808, Josh T and Josh G of iBike, Bruno and kids of thePack, everyone else. Finish line is taped down a little further. Race is about to start. It’s almost dark. Lights on.

There’s a crowd and stuff. Very pro. Natalia and Brett are there!

Racers are making their final preparations. Some checking their chain, their tires, doping (smoking a joint, definitely not performance enhancing, illegal race remember?). Others commenting on the qualities of aluminum frames for winter riding, drooling over Josh G’s bike and his gloves too (leather, Captain America and all). Anyways, we all gather up at the start. I’m on 52/15 probably bigger ratio than most guys here. I’m a bit stupid. Looks pro though. I’m excited. I’m stressed. That’s weird. I’m racing with friends for fun, no pressure at all, but I’m still stressed. Heart thumping in my ears stressed.

The start is given with the stupid air horn. I hate this sound. I really hate it.

I can’t clip in. I tightened the spring before the race worried that I would unclip by accident just before the hairpin and cause a crash. It had happened to me in traffic on Ste-Catherine St just before Bleury. I had to avoid a couple of cars and run a red light with one foot in. I had sworn I would never unclip by mistake, ever again.

So I’m last after 3 meters.

A good start.

The race strategy was pretty simple. Hang on as long as possible. Get dropped. Get a beer hand up from Meg. Beer provided by Brett obviously. Drink it. Get off the bike. Watch the race.

First hairpin and I realise that it is much more technical than expected. These guys lean there bike so far over. I have a 170 mm crank arm and I’m wishing for a shorter one, not that it would help at all, I’m just scared to lean over that much. So I leave a gap, and I stand up on the pedals to catch up. Not very pro.

Every turn, it’s the same thing. 0 Watts to 1000 Watts. Over and over again. I’m not going to last. I know it.

Three laps in. The group’s speed has weeded out a couple of kids. I’m the next one on the list.

Caffeine kicks in. Baristas at Olimpico are serious about their stuff. I close the gap, putting the nail in the coffin of that wheelsucker that wouldn’t work with me. Left turn at the end of the straight, then chicane, then the crowd. Accelerate out of the chicane and almost run into the riders in front of me. I’m not going to slow down. Tactically attacking a group of 12 from the 12th position is stupid, attacking right when you close the gap is stupid, attacking when you can barely hang on is stupid. But I knew I was the next one to get dropped. So I attacked. The usual screams: ‘HEY, HO, HEY, HE’S GOING, HEY.’ They don’t know me. They never rode with me. They don’t know what I know. Next lap, I quit.

Phil is leading the group. We’re unofficially teammates, plus he’s a nice guy. So as soon as I go by him, he gives me the nod.

I take the hairpin aggressively (not really) and assess the gap. Off the front by a couple meters. Maybe fifty. Max. Full gas. Commit to the breakaway. You’ll quit when they catch up.

Le fugitif.

I can see the expression on Natalia, Brett and Meg’s face.

-‘How are you off the front? You were last?’

Big smiles. I’m hooked on racing. That’s it.

It was tactically dumb, but at least I’m having fun. Having fun is very pro. (Pros don’t abide by this rule so much, they are all caught up in training, meeting shady doctors and stuff. Taking themselves seriously. Not casually deliberate.)

I scream as I pass by them.

-‘Get the beer.’

Quickly, Meg grabs the beer. Left turn. Chicane. The line. I’m caught. The group spits me out the back. The wheelsucker flies by  a couple seconds later.

Time for that beer hand up. Meg is a pro at that. Experience, I guess. It gets cheers from the small crowd. I feel like Adam Hansen.

Cool down lap. Cool down beverage.

Get off the bike. Sit with friends. Watch.

I don’t even have to explain myself. I get handed a second beer.

I’ll dope a bit more. The program: ride out to Olimpico earlier, fuel up on caffeine, go to the race and make sure that Dr. Brett brings a couple beers. Repeat. I should probably work on leaning my bike in corners too. God. I’m really hooked.

One more lap goes by.

The self obsessed, camo pants wearing, pink iPhone selfie artist/police officer turns up. The race is threatened. The crowd takes care of the distraction. The group slows down. They neutralise the race. They will to ride tranquillo until the last lap. And sprint.

Really shouldn’t have attacked. I’d still be in there. I would’ve sprinted.

I’m writing it here: I will ACTUALLY race my bike this summer. That’ll be fun.