On Biking: he just had to race in the Blue Hills Classic

By Jonathan Simmons, Guest Columnist

“Do you really need to race?” That's what John Peterson's wife asked him before last Sunday’s fifth annual Blue Hills Classic.

John has three children, is 43 years old, and his wife was worried. Last year, when he was competing in the Classic's Master's Division race, John hit a pothole and flew over the handlebars. “I ended up breaking my shoulder,” John said. “I needed a plate and nine screws to fix it.”

So this year, when John's wife asked him if he really needed to race, John decided that he would just organize the fifth annual Blue Hill Classic. He would stay off the course.

Me, I really needed to race.

A few weeks ago my friend Lane told me he was going to race in the Classic. So when a spot in the Cat 5 heat opened up on Thursday I did not hesitate to sign up, even though this meant arising at 5:30am to be at the starting line on time.

Racing requires lots of careful preparation and I only had a few days to get ready. Fortunately I got some expert advice from Nicole Freedman, a former Olympic cyclist and current director of Boston’s bicycle program. Her words of wisdom were: “No pacing in the pack- stay with the pack.” For the non-cyclist, this means: don’t try to take off from the group. You’ll run out of steam and they’ll just eat you up.

I wish I had listened to Nicole.

Friday night I shaved my legs. Some riders believe it will make you more aerodynamic. The truth is, if you crash it’s easier to clean out your wounds, and the bandages won’t hurt as much when you take them off. Also, it looks kind of cool. To a cyclist, that is.

Saturday night I carbo-loaded with a plate of pasta. That way I would not run out of steam and bonk (cycling’s equivalent to hitting the wall in a marathon, that moment when you can’t take another step).

On Sunday morning I got up early and headed over to my friend Lane’s house so we could ride to the race. Serious riders ride to the race and we were serious.

Once we arrived I went through the rituals of signing in and claiming my race number. I chatted with a few other racers, and then we were off.

The first lap was slower than I expected. That was good, as the group rode right next to one another and there was not much room for error. The roads were full of potholes. Fortunately John Peterson’s team had outlined them with red spay-paint. Every few minutes we’d see a flash of red, someone would shout out, “hole,” and 50 riders would swerve to avoid going down.

The second lap had a few surges, but nothing sustained. As long as I managed not to crash I was 2/3 of the way toward not embarrassing myself.

In the Tour de France riders live for the moment when they’re in front of the pack, their team jersey and their profile splashed across European television. I know Nicole had told me to just ride with the group, but by the third lap I got antsy. “When was the attack going to come?” I wondered. “And why aren’t we riding any faster?”

That was the moment that I won the race, if the race had finished after only 2.2 laps. For a few hundred yards I was in front. I passed my friend Michael who was ringing a cowbell at the side of the road and I yelled hello. I’m not sure he heard me on account of the racket he was making.

I could see the rest of the peloton in my mirror. Perhaps if I went a little faster I could drop them and hold on for another five miles and really win the race. Perhaps I could also dunk a basketball.

As soon as I turned the corner the wind hit me smack in the face. Suddenly my legs were encased in concrete and I could barely turn the pedals. Somehow I managed to hang onto my friend Lane’s wheel and not get dropped.

For the next couple of miles we rode together until we got to the last hill. That’s when the surge I’d been waiting for finally kicked in. That’s also when I realized that Nicole was right. You can’t win if you don’t have some kick in your step for the end of the race.

After we finished I chatted with some friends in the parking lot, caught my breath, and fished out the last bit of energy bar from my jersey pocket. Then Lane and I pedaled home, happy and spent.

Somewhere near Larz Anderson Park I finally bonked. Visions of a Coke and a bagel with peanut butter and honey danced through my head. Somehow I survived the last few miles on fumes and anticipation and staggered to my kitchen.

All Sunday long I wondered: should I have stayed with the pack, used a lower gear at the final sprint, or grabbed someone’s wheel at the crest of the hill?

More importantly, do I really need to race? I’m still trying to figure that one out. No matter what I decide I’ll be at next year’s Classic, either racing my bike or ringing a cowbell from the side of the road.

Jonathan Simmons is a Brookline psychologist and avid cyclist.

Readers: tell us about your bicycle racing experiences.

The Blue Hills Classic is put on by the Blue Hills Cycling Club and 545 Velo. Putting on a bike race requires good attention to detail, teamwork (it takes 70 volunteers to make this race happen) and organization. Even though it’s what John Peterson describes as a small event, the Classic manages to donate between $2,500 to $5,500 each year to the Massachusetts Conservation Trust and the Town of Milton Parks and Recreation Department.

Looking for some things to do this weekend? You might want to check out the New England Bicycle Expo in Somerville on May 7th and 8th from 9am-5pm. You could also try the National Train Day Ride on Saturday, May 7th, which leaves from North Station at 9:45am.