At the Track

About eight months ago, I decided that there wasn't nearly enough pain and suffering in my social bike riding.   So, one Saturday morning I put on my spandex, drove out to the velodrome and became a racer.  It's easy to become a bike racer.  All you have to do is give somebody money and own a helmet (they'll rent you the bike).  There is a brief orientation, in which they teach you such invaluable lessons as, "only turn left",  "these bikes don't have brakes" and "please pay with cash or check".  They also teach you appropriate, if uncreative, things to yell at people when they are about to cut you off.

Included in the price of the orientation class are your entrance fees for two nights of beginner racing (licensing fee and rental fee not included).  Here is actual documentary evidence that I am, indeed, a bike racer.

A strange thing happened in that first race.  By some unexplained, metaphysical anomaly, it appeared that some of the other racers were faster than me.  This oddity was something I was entirely unprepared for and truthfully, I still don't quite understand it.  I wasn't able to ponder it much just then, however, because as soon as I tried to get off my bike, the second strange thing happened.  I learned that my legs could no longer support the weight of my body and was overcome with the strong impression that I was about to die. 

After I didn't die, I was officially addicted and spent the next few months piecing together a track bike. Today was only the second time I've had a chance to take it out the the velodrome and since it was such a nice day, I couldn't resist taking a few pictures.

I think it's kinda pretty.  This is where I should talk about how I spent the entire winter in intense training for the upcoming season, but, um... yeah.  In any case, I do have a for-real racing license for this year, so I'm sure I'll get plenty of that pain and suffering I was looking for.  Wish me luck.