Which is better?

F%#k Me - Race #7

"When it rains at Floyd Bennett Field, you find out what it's made of: silt and sand, the dregs of Jamaica Bay.  It gets in your eyes, in your mouth and in your hair; it coats your legs and arms; it's even gotten into your shoes, through your socks and between your toes.  You will still be shaking it out of your jersey even after it's been laundered: the next time you wear it, a fine cloud of silicate grit flies out, like fairy dust.  And when the sun shines, which it mostly does at Floyd Bennett Field, it is like being a kid again - coming back from the beach, sun-tanned and wind-burned, with sand in everything."

CHALET MAGAZINE, Issue 001

New York - New York

Matt Seaton

Last fall hurricane Sandy battered New York City, leaving behind a path of destruction well beyond the city...destruction which many have yet to recover from.  Floyd Bennett Field took the hit on the chin, only slightly protected by Breezy Point, Roxbury, and Rockaway Park.  Debris was strewn all about the derelict airfield and the already beat up runways and taxiways bore a new mark of history.  Floyd Bennett Field served as a dumping grounds for the wreckage as well as a staging area for the recovery effort.  Heavy equipment came and went, dropping off debris and reducing it to more easily managed piles of waste.  As the memories and scars of Sandy slowly fade away and the daylight stretches ever so longer, whispers of Floyd began to emerge from those on two wheels.  Rumors that the field was covered with debris and heavy equipment fueled fears in some that an NYC tradition decades old might not happen this year.  An then a couple weeks ago an announcement was made, the Tuesday Night Race Series was on and the airfield would be "clear" and ready for racing.  

They say you either love racing at Floyd or you hate racing at Floyd.  There are very few casual entrants at Floyd as they typically come to their senses quite quickly and vow to never race Floyd again.  That leaves the regular crowd, a very tough crowd.  Strong men who take pleasure in torturing themselves and others for the sport of it.  And for those who hate it, hurricane Sandy certainly didn't do anything to improve the conditions...that's for sure.  A few warm-up laps revealed the course was grittier than ever with wood chips strewn all about between turns 1 and 2, the pot holes were a little deeper and sharper, and the cracks a little wider.  Floyd Bennett Field...you've been missed.  It's good to be back.

But wait, what happened to race numbers 3, 4, 5, and 6 you ask?  Eh, I'll get to those later.  Yes, they all have stories but they simply aren't Floyd.  

So as Tuesday afternoon wound down, I left behind a beautiful, calm, warm spring day in Manhattan only to arrive at Floyd as the winds were picking up with the cold ocean "breeze" whipping up from the south.  58 starters lined up for the 12 lap category 1/2/3 race and I was feeling optimistic coming off a strong race on Sunday.  It took all of 5 minutes to shatter my optimism as only Floyd can do.  What fresh hell have I gotten myself into now?  I forgot how hard this race is...EVERY...SINGLE...TIME.  Within the first few minutes, I stopped glancing at my power numbers because they no longer mattered.  I was flat out fighting, full gas.  The first time down the front straight resembled a scene from Paris Roubaix.  The field was strung out at well over 30 mph kicking up a cloud of Floyd's finest dust.  Between turns 1 and 2, I swore we were racing into a wood chipper.  Wood chips were flying everywhere as debris constantly snapped under the peloton's wheels, ricocheting off frames, wheels, bodies, and faces.  I never imagined Floyd could be any more challenging than it already was...yet it was.  I spent the first few laps figuring out positioning for each of the four straights and getting reacquainted with the nonstop hustle, the burning legs, and the general sensation of being in way over your head.  I counted down the laps one at a time as I chewed on my stem, doing my best to race smart to simply make it to the end.  There were moves off the front but I didn't really have the capacity to worry about that, rather I spent my race avoiding being gaped and fighting for the best position possible.

Images by Victor Chan, One Imaging Photography

I'm in there somewhere, pounding around the airfield.  As the laps ticked off, the pace remained high however the surges seemed to subside slightly and I started to come into my own and began to move up to the front 10 riders or so.  And then it happened.  What appeared to be a simple acceleration, I got out of the saddle and held the wheel in front...except it wasn't a simple acceleration, there is no such thing at Floyd.  And there I was, off the front with three other riders...all of which were undoubtedly much better suited at flat, windy, big power races.  In comparison, I was the tiny climber crashing the rouleurs party.  If I had any extra cognitive capability I would have certainly recalled Jens Voigt in Overcoming saying "why me?"  What mental acuity remained was devoted to righting this wrong and resuming a smart race.  With searing legs, I eased off the pedals and waited for the peloton which was once again strung out.  As the went ripping by, I got back up on the pedals and fought with everything I had left to rejoin the peloton.  I hid deep in the pack for a couple laps trying to recover from what could have been a very stupid move for me.  It was then that I realized I couldn't feel my pinkies or the next finger in...they felt like blocks of wood from the constant pounding of the old airfield.  At one point, I'm convinced I had a Di2 battery ricocheted off my front wheel, yet another victim of Floyd Bennett Field.  After a little recover, I found myself back at the front feeling comfortably pained with 3 laps to go.  

Image by Victor Chan, One Imaging Photography

I held position in the top four to five riders, amazingly right at the back of the rotation of strongmen.  That is what I call the sweet spot.  With one lap to go, the pace increased even more and things stretched just a little bit further.  Wheels were that much harder to hold and the peloton snaked about from left to right and back.  As we headed down the back straight and rounded turn 3, I lost position on the wheel ahead of me to a rider insistent upon inserting himself into the line.  Unfortunately for me, the riders in front swung right forcing me off the wheel and into the wind as the other guy along side me happily took up my position.  Interesting lesson learned on gaining position for the finale that I will tuck away for another day.  I fought a futile battle on the windward side to get back in line but there were simply no gaps and no opportunities even as I tried to force the issue.  And then it became readily apparent that there was very little in reserve, my legs were done.  My shot at the sprint was over plain and simple.  I eased off the pedals a little as I turned onto the finishing stretch and finished 21st toward the back of the peloton.  The original field of 58 had been reduced to 28 riders and I was one of them.  Some nights at Floyd, simply finishing with the peloton is a sweet victory in itself.

After the race, the team congregated by our cars, everyone dirty and shell shocked.  War stories were told and gashes in sidewalls were compared.  It's amazing what you can willingly do to yourself in just over an hour's time.  Fuck me, that was hell.  See you next Tuesday Floyd.