When you test the limits of your mind and body, sometimes shit happens.

With Philadelphia and much of the Eastern Seaboard blanketed with record-breaking snowfall, indoor riding has been the only option. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Indoor training forces oneself to make the most of each mind-numbing, minute-watching training session. You ride with purpose and a plan instead of just accumulating junk miles. And, since there seems to be a built in timer which regulates how long one can endure on an indoor trainer—somewhere between 1½-2 hours—recovery (whether planned or accidental) gets its well-deserved attention.

Yesterday was the first time since February 4th I was able to ride my bike outside. That’s seventeen days! Team Bicycle Therapy (minus Willem) planned to meet up and ride the Rockhill WaWa training race—a 2 lap circuit around the Radnor Hunt Club. *Note* rides are often identified from where they depart, usually little or no other significance whatsoever. Take the Bulldog Ride for example: it meets at a statue of a bulldog. Where it goes…I have no idea.

It was a beautiful warm and cloudless day (anything over 40ºF is considered warm these days). The sun was shining bright, which was accentuated by the sparkle of the lingering snow. Team Bicycle Therapy, in full livery, rode double paceline down West River Drive at a casual pace. Everyone had a chance to chat and catch-up on man gossip. It was good to be all together again.

Our team arrived at Rockhill WaWa first. Mischa used the opportunity to give us a secret pep-talk about race tactics and offered up some suggestions. He encouraged us to try something…anything. We are always thankful for his wisdom and guidance.

Riders streamed in from all directions. Though I didn’t know many of the attendees by name, it was still like a reunion, a homecoming of sorts. Pleasantries and hugs were shared by many. Once the group 40 or so was established and settled, we were on our way. The mood was excited and jubilant. Everyone was happy to be playing outside, once again amongst friends.

We made our way to the race course. The 20ish miles in between allowed everyone to stretch their legs and find a comfortable spot in the group. For others, it was a chance to test their legs with short-lived attacks. People looked strong. Everyone’s indoor training has paid off, and it showed.

We all gathered at the start line of the circuit, fully warmed. We paused momentarily for the demarcation of the finishing line. Again, we were off. People were feisty from the start, launching attacks. Most were brought back quickly, but near the end of the first lap there were two riders 100m off the front, daring someone to chase. Coming out of the last corner, Dan L. and I were on the front of the group. I figured I could open a gap while the pack braked into the more-than-90ºcorner. I let off the brakes and jumped on the pedals. I chased hard for a couple kilometers, but couldn’t manage to bridge up to the leading duo. I sat up and waited to get reeled in by the group. This was my something. It was a good go, but not good enough.

I made a tactical error as I was re-absorbed into the peloton. Instead of moving to the far left of the road where I should’ve been, I was on the right—the drive side (a.k.a. the fast lane). As the accelerating group began to pass, I was caught in the gutter with nowhere to go. I squeezed back in line about five or so wheels back, with legs still tingling from the effort. I filed in behind a rider who in the cycling world would be described as a “Clydesdale”, a 200+ pounder. The draft my Clyde provided me was amazing. I was practically sucked right along in a vacuum. Minimal effort was needed to keep pace. I was almost fully recovered.

There is, however, one downside I can think of when riding behind someone that large: Gravity. (One could argue that gravity has been a nuisance ever since that infamous apple landed on Sir Isaac Newton’s head). As the pack rolled along a flattish part of the course, gravity was the least of my concerns, it didn’t even exist. But, when the road tipped upwards, gravity let its awesome presence be known and exerted a tremendous force upon the hefty man ahead of me. To counteract the downward pull, Clyde stepped up on the pedals to supply the drivetrain with more gravity-defying power. This unintentionally caused his rear wheel to shoot back at me faster than my lactic acid addled brain could react to avoid. Before I knew it, my front wheel was overlapped with his rear wheel. Our rubber tires joined and buzzed an awful buzz, which seemed to signal the pack, like a drone to the hive, of the impending danger. 99 times out of 100 this can only result in one thing: road rash. While there is a glimmer of hope, sadly to say, I was not in the lucky percentile. I was on the ground skidding in the gutter out of control.