The goal for me was to expend as little energy as possible until the last 3 laps. Like, honestly, match no attacks, mark no riders, take zero pulls, simply figure out where the best position out of the wind was for each straight, and then get there. Oh, and then find the biggest guy to duck behind. So that was my race for the first 45 minutes. Mostly staring at the arses of Newt Cole, this big dude from South Chicago Wheelmen, and sundry other tall boys. Because this crit course is atypical, there’s not as huge of a disadvantage to being at or near the back. I could see the front of the group at all times, and accelerate early when a surge was about to happen. The accordion effect is negated by the lack of actual turns, so I didn’t have to sprint out of anything just to catch the wheel of the guy in front of me. The only disadvantage is that generally the less fit or less decent-at-bike-handling guys congregate in the rear of pelotons. So I did have to dodge some sketchy riders here and there. But by and large, for the way the race was playing out and considering the course and winds, I was perfectly content to be near the back for the majority of the race.

The peloton was a gunslinger from the Wild West, discharging bullets left and right from its dual revolvers. I stayed put in the back, paying just enough attention to make sure of the golden rule regarding a break: if Burnham, then xXx. Yep, Kinonen’s in that one, good. Reeled back in. OK, Morrissey’s going up there, we’re fine. Reeled back. Tommeke Briney, way to be. It was thus for about 40 minutes, until a two-man group stayed off the front. Looks suspiciously like a Burnham (it was Tim), and the other guy could be a xXx – wait, nope, the other guy is Ben LaForce sporting some random black Ace Hardware jersey. Hmm.

Just when I thought we were screwed and I’d need to come to the front to help reel these two back in, I notice Kyle is off the front with another guy in his own two-man break, trying to chase down the leaders farther up the road. So again, license to sit in the back and shield myself for the win. I mean, from the wind. No I don’t.

My memory’s hazy, but I just remember Kyle coming back after what seemed like 50 laps, another attack going off, and then Morrissey charging hard at the front of the peloton, leading us back to the second group. Ben and Tim were still way up the road. With 1.5 laps to go, the main group all came back together on a head-wind section, and I had moved up enough that I jumped from mid-pack along the right-side of the course. I turned the cranks a few times, actually stopped pedaling for a second or two as the entire peloton-whip snapped toward me and nearly pushed me off the course, and then saw the opening I needed and attacked full force.

They say, “Timing is everything.” In bike races, this is often true. And the timing for this was nearly perfect. The group coming back together is what dictated my attack, but I knew that from that point it was roughly a minute-and-a-half to the start/finish and then four minutes for the final lap. Truthfully, this was my self-prescribed attack-point, and it just so happened that the group was ripe for attack when I’d wanted it. Five-minute pursuit, nothing to it. It’d be a little different from a straight-effort interval, since my main goal was to bridge first, rest for 30 seconds or a minute, and then attack and (hopefully) solo to victory. I bridged quickly, on the home stretch as we came toward the sound of the bell signaling just one more lap would decide this bike race. In line going across the start/finish it was Tim, me, and then Ben. [Side note: I didn’t know Tim before this, but I definitely knew Ben, going to a camp in Georgia with him in February and traveling to Traverse City last September with him for a weekend of racing. So I was hoping to go one-two with him. Me taking first, obviously.] Bell ringing, my wits just finally starting to come back to me after a hard bridge attempt, I notice Tim pulls off the paceline and stops pedaling. Not soft-pedaling, but completely stops pedaling, and pulls off to the side of the road. My plan had been to sit in for maybe 1/4 lap, catch my breath, take a quick sip of water, and then go for broke. Tim pulling out changed everything, and I realized it was now or never. So I attacked, held it, looked back, got confused upon finally realizing Tim actually pulled out of the race, slowed down for a sec thinking Ben and I should now work together, just the two of us, and then reconsidered, turned my head back around. I stood on the pedals and hammered it. It was then just a matter of pedaling my bicycle really hard. Really, really hard for four minutes. That’s a minute less than your power test last Friday, Liam! As I went around that final lap I saw Ben going backwards toward the group, and then somewhere on the backstretch that little thing hit me. It’s an indescribable feeling that suddenly dawns and then won’t go away: “I can win this bike race.” Up until that point I hadn't been too sure. This thought actually flushed over me at the same right-hand turn where I had started my attack just a lap earlier.

This winter I told myself if I ever win another bike race, I’d force my brain to really enjoy that last lap. Enjoy it through the pain. Enjoy everything that happens, the adrenaline, the hurt, the happy floating feeling, the it’s-only-a-bike-race-I-should-just-quit-so-I-don’t-die-right-now feeling, the rush of chemicals traveling from legs to stomach to brain to head to headache. The inability to think about anything other than winning a bicycle race BEFORE the actual finish of the race.

Objects in my rearview mirror appear closer than they are, so I stand on the pedals and sprint from 400 meters out. The group, however, is too far behind me to catch. I sit down. 300 meters. I can’t hear anything. I don’t feel anything. I’m not thinking anything. 200 meters. I am a silly Cat 3 on a strange contraption that, by my legs going in circles, propels me forward at 31.2 miles per hour. 100 meters.

I put my hands up in triumph as I come across the finish line alone, in first place, and quickly cup my head in exasperation, knowing somehow I’d failed: all I could think about for those previous four minutes, for that dire final lap, was how much my legs hurt, and how I needed to pedal harder, and how I wanted it to stop.