Revolution Race (Straight Shot)
Boston
February 11, 2006

This was pretty fun. Just 16 miles total. I got there with my friend Leif when it was supposed to start and it was about -21 with the windchill. There were about five kids in the basketball court on Kneeland by South Station, nestled in between on-ramps for the expressway to nowhere, and the Mass Pike's dead end. It's the basketball court one always sees from the window of a bus climbing the special ramp up into the station. Today was the first day for me to see it used for anything aside from basketball. A young kid shrouded in a blue windbreaker rides a high-profile track bike w/ bmx pedals and no clips, and bunny hops all over the place. And just as one might vocalize bewilderment at the sight of no clips he executes a perfectly strong skid. Eventually people begin to show up, we register (and get to pick our own number, which throws me off to the point that I declare the number directly greater from that of whom is in front of me, and a surly Beantown sneer is [duly?] elicted).

It was a weird day to begin with. I had come the night before, late in the evening on the Chinatown bus, and stayed with my friend Meghanne way out in Cambridge by the Fresh Pond. With her and her roommates I drank Schlitz until the dawn. I've figured out that racing, like any messenger day, is best with a minor (not a major) hangover. This one was minor. I left the house to a bracing though sunny New England noon, and rode downtown for some falafel from a place I used to work for. [Interesting side note: working here at Falafel King in 2002 gave me my only opportunity to be a subject on Craig's List's Missed Connections]. After the falafel and shawarma (and Israeli salad; and humus; and tabouli) I called Leif, who was still in Allston with the friends he was staying with. So I went to nearby Emerson, where I once attended. I planned to use the library to listen to some newly acquired music and write for a while. In the lobby was a uniformed security guard armed with a card scanner. There never used to be a security guard with a card scanner. I took out my old student ID and explained that I was alumni and had priveleges to the library. He snatched it away and looked at me like I'd just raped his niece and then told him about it. There was no getting it back, no matter what. He let me sign in with my driver's license, and as I climbed the stairs I said, to no one in particular, "fucking asshole". I was groggy; I was exhilarated by the brisk weather; I was reliving some security run-ins from my messenger days in New York (where apparently the guards put up with a lot more shit); I was excited about the race. Our security guard immediately went up in arms, of course, and called out repeatedly, before announcing he would be calling "public safety". I continued upstairs, and when I got into the library I took off my hat and changed sweatshirts, took out a notebook and magazine and angled myself away from foot traffic. Within five minutes the school cops showed up. I saw them out of the corner of my eye. I pretended to study. They had my ID and were holding it up to various people. I'm serious about this part. They made three or four passes, one of which lingered on me for a moment. After a while I became bored with sitting them out, realizing they were really going to wait for me. So I picked up and left. As I rounded a corner out past the front desk I passed the guard from downstairs along with one of the school cops. I nodded to the cop; both nodded back. Once out of site I bounded down the stairs, walked cooly across the lobby w/o signing out, grabbed my bike and left laughing. They're probably still looking for me, the bastards.

So after that was all over it was time to meet Leif. I worked out some aggression by riding out to Allston to meet him, and then we rode back downtown together. Proved to be a good warmup. The race was great. Dude running it had us lay the bikes down on one end of the court and stand behind a line on the other, as he went to the front and heaved into the air a can of PBR, shouting "when this can hit's the floor (he said floor)--GO!!!!". It was a mad dash, followed by a super-tight start out of downtown. There were only about 50 of us--not even--but it was a tight back all the way out up unto Comm Ave. In Boston, everything is made to be a little bit smaller. The start of this race was some of the most hectic, calculated, and close riding I've ever done. It really gave me a taste for the track.

Straight out eight miles on Comm to Brighton Ave, past the Model and some other bars I remember. Then the IHOP parking lot on Soldier's Field Rd. First and only checkpoint. They make us chug a PBR out of a bulging messenger bag, or do 30 pushups. I pick the beer, and roll out catching my breath through sticky saliva and foam. Someone in my periphery says "I can't believe how fast those kids got here on Storrow. I take the cue and hit Storrow, but I fuck it up and find myself stuck going around a massive 1/4 mile-radius rotary, seeing across the green all the other bikers dust me towards downtown. My first half was pretty respectable, but as I found myself the lone biker on Storrow Dr. at 5pm on a Saturday, inbound, I felt slow and grew bored. At Kenmore I got out and took Comm back, luckily catching up w/ a few riders. Still I came in the last ten or so. Oh fucking well--riding in Boston is the best, no matter what.

-Dave