John pulled up to the house around a quarter past nine. I was waiting just inside the door, clad in a blue sweater & black tights with my baggage and bicycle in hands. Removing both wheels, there was barely enough space to squeeze my upside-down frame into the trunk of his Volkswagon, adding subtly to the large collection of chainring grease marks smeared on the fabric ceiling of the car. I rode shotgun while John's bike occupied the whole of the back bench for the drizzly drive towards Falmouth.

Admittedly, I was quite nervous for this, my first ever road race. I semi-confidently threw around the lingo that I'd accumulated over a few years of race enthusiasm in conversation with John during the drive, but cluelessness was surely painted all over my face. I had chosen to race in the B-group, second class between A and D. John, an experienced racer, praised my desire to enjoy an ass-kicking rather than a cake-walking.

Throughout the 45-minute drive, the weather deteriorated steadily. The scarcely heated shack of a registration centre offered little in the way of relief. The muddy parking lot had a smattering of cars, their cyclists and their bikes somewhere nearby. A mist on the brink of condensing into rain hung in the air and few riders made an effort to hide their discontentment about it. In the two hours before the race started, the parking lot steadily filled until a grand total of about 90 riders had arrived. John and I went for a quick warm-up ride out and back on the last three kilometres of the circuit. He graciously explained to me some of the behaviour I could anticipate come the home stretch - advice that would turn out to be of questionable value. Heeding the word of an authoritative man with a megaphone, the registered masses made their way down to the start line.

Behaving not unlike a herd of cats, the B-group assembled behind the A-group at the start line. Not having even a clue how a start worked, watching the A-group hit the road first instilled a modicum of confidence. Our role call began just a few minutes later. Riders chattered until the 30-second warning, when the percussive racket of clipping-in en masse took over. With the mention of ten, there was evidence of some focus amongst riders. An eery silence hovered in the absence of a second by second countdown (my illusions of NASA caliber start were dashed) and the group slowly got into gear as instructed with, "Go!"

The course was an 11.5km circuit and we the 20 B-group riders had been committed to doing it 8 times. There was one 'mentionable' climb of about 750m in length not too far from the start line, succeeded beyond its crest by a descent of about 1.5km. A hard right turn at the bottom of the hill led into a long straightaway with little worth mentioning in the way of topography. The feed zone (How did that work?, I wondered) was a motivating group of volunteers at the side of the road midway through a shallow climb of about 400m in length. Beyond that came a 200m stretch of possibly the most dreadful pavement west of Roubaix, followed by a steep descent into a sharp right turn and two kilometres of home stretch on rolling hills.

Traveling clockwise, the route starts at Eldridge Road.

Once the pack got moving, I settled in somewhere around the 6th rider, making sure (as so wisely advised by John) not to gesture that I was in any way shape or form interested in taking the lead. We moved along at a pretty comfortable pace for the first lap, taking the climb pretty easily and not getting too excited on the descent. The backside of the course was calm and quite by accident, I found myself up front. I never pushed hard at the front and yet I seldom felt any motion of overtaking from anyone behind me. I drifted to the centre line approaching the climb at the feed zone so as to allow any of the more ambitious climbers to take their wont. I quickly learned how unaccommodating a drafting cyclist can be when you want to cut in front of him into the middle of the pace line. I soon found myself looking at the backs of all 20 riders in the group.

The rough section took more than a few riders by surprise. The pace slowed dramatically and there was more than enough swerving going to make me fear for my life. I found myself more than a little thankful for the preceding day's 'race skills training camp' during the rough patch - especially the lesson about rubbing wheels. The group was a tight pack as we pulled over the crest onto the smoothly paved descent, but the last hard right turn was in sight. The lead riders ground nearly to a halt approaching the corner then put the hammer down as soon as they were through. As the 17th or so rider in the pack, I was a solid 30m behind the leader as I pulled out of the turn. I floored it just to hang on. It took full steam for thirty seconds until the group finally reassembled; no casualties yet. We crossed the lap line to the hoots, hollers and applause of the dozen standers-by. One down, seven more to go.

Coming into the climb on the second lap, I was stricken by something peculiar. I unexpectedly found I was enjoying myself. The pace on the climb was a little stiffer, but still manageable. The group (or was it just me?) seemed to be relaxing a bit - perhaps settling into a rhythm. We were all going to be here for another two hours; might as well get comfortable. I once again found myself at the front of the pack on the backside of the course, but this time I wasn't really upset about it. The pace was still more than manageable (since I was setting it) and there were a few other riders that were willing to trade breaks at the front. There was some drama - lost bottles (one of my own included), wheel rubs, and even one crash, but the train kept moving. We crossed the lap line to the same unabashed fanfare we had received the lap before. And again on the third lap.

Come the climb on the fourth lap, there was a new sensation. There was a tiny hint of protest coming from my calves. "That's interesting," I thought to myself like it were one of those blinking red lights on a car dash that I so readily ignore. And ignore I did. I even stuck it out front despite the wind that had picked up noticeably on the backside. My lost bottle had found its way to the feed zone at some point during the third lap and with my onboard bottle approaching depletion, I committed to retrieving my lost this time around. I let myself fall to the back of the pack so as to make for a smooth retrieval. I saw the bottle sitting on the ground. I pointed and shouted, trying to get one of the volunteers to pick it up and hand it to me. I foolishly touched my breaks. "Keep going!" he shouted, running along beside me. I chuckled dishearteningly, thanked him, and put the bottle in its rightful place. I looked up to see the next rider more than two bike lengths ahead of me and three more riders spread out between him and the bulk of the group more than 10m ahead. Whoops. I stepped on the gas to catch the group by the top of the hill, expending lots more energy than I should have. I hung on, but that little red light of protest was flashing a little more attention-hungrily as we slogged up the stretch of rubble.

Temporarily expended and in last place would be a pretty sad state of affairs at the best of times, but it was a particular nuisance at that last right hand turn. I was glued to a wheel approaching the turn, but a few riders wiser than I knew that the pack was wounded and it just so happened that they had a bit of salt for the rubbing. They set a fire out of the turn and by the time I was on the straightaway, it was a raging inferno - solidly 40m ahead of me. I kept a pace only a little shy of theirs, but could only watch as the gap grew. Thankfully, I was in good, albeit grumpy company, dropped from the pack with three others like dust in the tail of a comet.

The pack remained within sight and illusively within hope for about 5 minutes, but after crossing the lap line for a fourth time and arriving at the base of the climb, my ambitions of finishing with the pack seemed all but lost. I hopped off the bike momentarily, no longer to incur a cost for answering nature's call. I saw purity of wisdom in abandoning this foolhardy endeavour, but for some as yet inexplicable reason, I chose to continue. With little foreseeable reward (what's pride worth, anyway?), I dragged myself along the course for another four solitary laps. And in spite the rather pathetic, semi-capable, drooping mass of humanity that I surely appeared to be, the volunteers were ceaseless in heralding their encouragement. I even received an inspiring, "good job!" from a breakaway rider in the A-group, two minutes or so before his entire chasing peloton whipped past me at a break-neck pace. As my sole driving force took on the form of completion, I took to reminding myself that this companionless spin through the hills could just serve as another training ride, motivational fodder for the next race in which I'd surely trump all challengers to my developing reign. It's funny how quickly addiction can set in.

John and a few friends that I hadn't seen since my falling into the abyss on lap four were waiting at the finish line. Waiting, that is, for the shortly forthcoming of the A-group's finish. All but the A-group having finished, the idling mass of riders stood laughing, praising, and empathetically bemoaning of exhaustion while waiting for the finish. I took solace in learning that a mere four riders had not been left behind by the B-group's leaders. I was even thanked by one of the leaders for all the work I had done in the first two laps. Yeah. You're welcome.

A platoon of beaten down, but high-spirited cyclists attended a parking lot awards ceremony worthy of the finest Olympian just as the blackflies came out for supper. Many winners, from many walks proudly received their kudos, recharged with the right to brag of a podium finish in the Falmouth Flyer Spring Classic. And I, having replaced my struggle to pedal with a newfound struggle to remain upright, took notes. I'm definitely bringing my A-game to the B-pack in Riverport. Just you wait…

The B-pack, pre-tragedy. Thanks to Brianne for the photo.

I cannot recommend highly enough the cycling classic 'The Rider' by Tim Krabbé. Please read it for a fascinating and highly entertaining glimpse into the twisted mind of a road racer - something to be, I hereby aspire. I own a well-worn copy and will happily lend it out.