The lot of us stared down the 200 meter stretch of tarmac before us. For whatever reason, I have decided it best to trackstand at the start, and now I was smashed between a half dozen riders, unable to put a foot down with taking someone out.

“Go!”

I’m one row back, so I bid my time, and within 100 meters I’ve joined the boys at the front. This will be short lived, however, as the tightening downhill left turn to Liberty Avenue forces me let up a bit, check my speed, and take the turn wide. Skip skip skip. The sound of a half dozen rear tyres skidding together. As a group, we fly through the intersection, and the pack separates into three groups. I hang on to the group on Liberty, fighting tailwinds and trading pulls. The leaders slip too far ahead, so I settle in behind two people until the 10th Street Bridge, where I peel off and catch the group ahead of them.

We pass the Penn Brewery and the day’s first true test is ahead — Troy Hill. It’s perhaps three-quarters of a mile (maybe more) to the first checkpoint. I stay in the saddle for as long as I can — my upper body swaying from left to right, hands only sitting on the bars. I stand up for the last 100 meters, catching the fixie in front of me, and we ride to the checkpoint together. We pick up our tag (in this case, an old freewheel cog), and head back whence we came. Troy Hill has few intersections, and a short rise at the bottom, allowing us to spin spin spin down the hill.

Our group cuts across to East Ohio Street, and we navigate the paths around Allegheny Center to reach the Aviary. The bike takes a terrible pounding as we hop curbs, slip on and off the path, and then hit a section of cobbles just before the checkpoint. But truthfully, this is the easiest part of the ride. This checkpoint requires us to draw a quick self-potrait, and I oblige, creating a stick figure on a bike with a pink pencil. We’re off again, around the circle and across the Roberto Clemente bridge and into downtown. I slip off the back of the group across the bridge, and soon I miss a green light at Liberty and 9th, and the group is gone, gone. Alone again, I suppose.

Across the Smithfield Street Bridge and I’m the South Side, fighting a headwind, alone, along Carson Street. I’m really not pleased about what’s next. 18th Street. There was much moaning and gnashing of teeth as the organizers passed out the manifest before the start because of this. While it isn’t among the Dirty Dozen, it is nothing to sneeze at, especially on a track bike. As I reached the business district along Carson, I caught a pair of riders. I hung on the back until the base of 18th, where I slipped by the slower of the two (a kid wearing a skating helmet and rec-specs, riding an old, old mountain bike), and hung on the wheel of the other. He, smartly, had a geared bike, and soon he stretched ahead of me, but I was content to simply have someone to follow.

The traffic signal at Mission Street was red, but I was having none of that. If I stopped now, I may as well walk the remainder of the hill. Traffic was light, and I didn’t even need to let up my cadence, thankfully. The hill steepened here, and my previous plan of alternating between sitting and standing with hands on the bar tops was proving to be ill-advised. At this point, I broke the cardinal rule of climbing and hunkered down into the drops of the handlebars. Lacking brake lever hoods on my bars, I didn’t have the option to use that optimal hand position, so, instead, I bent over, compressing my diaphragm, but at least able to generate some momentum with my arms. Five riders sped by on our left, having reached the checkpoint, and with bikes pointed downhill, they enjoyed the rest the hill afforded. I took two small comforts here:

1. The local messenger who was the favorite to win the race went past. I wasn’t too far behind him.
2. Only four other riders wooshed by soon afterwards. I was still in the hunt for a place in the top 10.

As we rounded another corner, I saw the mural which was the landmark for the checkpoint. I breathed (or, perhaps, gasped) a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, the joke would be on me.

As we rolled up to the house, we were handed a balloon. There were several other racers already there. The kindly ckeckpoint volunteer informed us we had to inflate the balloon. Good one. I took a deep lungful of air, put the balloon to my lips, and blew.

The balloon barely inflated, becoming slightly round, only the size of a superball.

Rinse, lather, repeat, and the balloon was only marginally larger. Several other riders had inflated theirs to proper diameter, and were preparing to leave. I changed tactics. I took lots of small breaths, never filling my diaphragm, only my mouth. This seemed to work better, as my lungs could rest, and soon, my balloon too was the proper diameter. Promptly, we were all on our way. I knew that I’d lose this group, however, as none of them were on fixed gears, thus have the dual of advantages of coasting and having brakes. And soon enough, they broke away and I was alone again. Several sharp corners forced me to keep my speed in check, and my legs were feeling the effort. Finally, I swung around the last, tight corner, and I was in the Flats again.

Three blocks later and I was on Carson Street. Traffic was thick, but only inching along, affording me plenty of room to maneuver. I turned on the Birmingham Bridge, and felt the strong crosswinds, wishing I could huddle in the shelter of a group. This stretch, which felt so hard during the last alleycat, now allowed me to rest while still spinning fairly hard. The next checkpoint was the pool at Schenley Park, and I quickly decided to take a shortcut from Forbes Avenue that would deposit me on the Boulevard of the Allies much closer to my destination.

Traffic was light again on Forbes, fortunately, as the Birmingham exit merges in the middle of three lanes of traffic. I was out of my saddle, sprinting for the next exit, the bike swaying back and forth, back and forth, under my effort. I slip off Forbes and congratulate myself on this shortcut. The road cuts left, then quickly right, and my enthusiam is short-lived — I’m confronted with a steep, short hill. Soon enough I’m back on the drops, panting, barely moving, forcing the bike up the hill. I hit the crest, and I slid back into the saddle, but I don’t let up. Four blocks later, I’m on the Boulevard, spinning madly down a hill toward Bates. Looking ahead, I see the group that dropped me on the descent from the slopes, and I hit the next rise out of the saddle, determined to reel them in.

The group is obviously unfamiliar with the park, and they take the long way to the pool entrance, while I hop a curb and nearly beat them to the punch. We pick up our tags at the gate, and quickly point our bikes toward the universities, and the next checkpoint in Highland Park. The hard part is over — the rest of the ride will be on relatively flat roads, and I’m more familiar with the ebb and flow of traffic here. Once we’re through CMU’s campus, we slip across Shadyside and hit Negley Avenue. I’m happy to be hanging on the back of this bunch as the winds are stiff again, and we alternate at the front, sharing the load. We hit the checkpoint, receive our streamers (yes, streamers) and turn around. The last checkpoint is on Penn Avenue, not far from here.

Negley is a shambles heading south. Potholes, sinkholes, you name it, it’s got it. Any advantage of the group is now neutralized — sitting on someone’s wheel gives you nanoseconds to deal with irregularities in the road surface, so I drop off the back a bit, close enough to still cover the gap with a bit of effort. We turn on Penn Avenue and attack the short rise. We’ve got less than a mile of riding to do now. The group is lost again, only armed with vague knowledge of the location of the last checkpoint. I shout directions, but they still seem confused, so I jump to the front and pull everyone down Penn Avenue. A left on 40th, and a quick right on Miltwood, and we’re there, decorating a birthday cake. The group lingers a bit, talking to the volunteers, but I’d like to get this finished, so I swing my leg over the bike and sprint up the hill, back to Penn. Allegheny Cemetery is only a few blocks away, and I continue my pace on the flats, and soon enough, I’m riding between the massive wrought-iron gates. I see a handful of racers already back, but as I stop and drop off my manifest and collection of stuff, I’m told I finished 9th.

I’m content with this, knowing that one or two green lights downtown and I would have finished with the lead group. I’m also surprised at how well the fixed gear contingent faired. We all decided before the start that the course was rather fixed gear-unfriendly, but here at the finish, five of the top of ten (including the overall winner) rode track bikes. As I feel the effort soak into my legs, the organizers point to a table of food, provided by the Zenith gallery in the South Side, and tell us to dig in. The food is excellent, and we sit on the sidewalk, comparing notes, cheering the remaining racers as they pull in.

Posted on 17 April 2005