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Hello, there. Radio silence has resumed once more, but here I am with the newest installment of my weekly series from the Daily, recounting part of my experience last weekend at Johnny Cake Lane # 2. But before I give you that, here's a little something to make you jealous:


If you guessed that this is my new Independent Fabrication steed, courtesy of Team Ora presented by IF, you are right! She is hands down the best bike I have ever ridden, and I don't see myself giving her back any time in the near future, if ever. In the words of the dear Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar: "We're not worthy! We're not worthy!" I promise a full review is to come.

And now, some Daily action:
http://www.tuftsdaily.com/the-wheel-and-chain-a-cyclist-s-tale-where-do-you-think-you-re-going-1.2210037

"Editor’s Note: Evan Cooper is a sophomore, a sports editor for the Daily and an aspiring professional cyclist. He races for the Tufts cycling team and for the elite amateur squad Team Ora presented by Independent Fabrication. This series will chronicle his season as he tries to make racing into more than just a hobby.

“Pedal faster. Please pedal faster. God damn it! Just shut up, deal with it and pedal faster!” If that were all it took, winning races would be a whole lot easier. Unfortunately, things are bit more complicated than that.

It was a cold and windy day on a flat and narrow course. Eighty−five spandex−clad, over−eager men mashed their pedals in anger, fighting through gaps and edging their way forward through the peloton with one common goal in mind: Get near the front. Didn’t they know it’s only March? Didn’t they know it’s only the Johnny Cake Lane Training Series in New York, a minor training race, and that the winner would get just enough prize money to cover his entry fee and gas (if he didn’t drive too far to get here)?

But wait. Over on the right, a click of gears, a whoosh of wind, and suddenly one of those idiots went flying up the road, desperately trying to liberate himself from the clutches of the peloton and forge his way up the road to the breakaway. What a fool — he’ll never make it. Look at him. He’s so … little. Give him a hill to ride up, and then we’ll see what he can do; but here, what does he expect to accomplish? Hold on a second. I should probably go a little easier on this supposed fool. After all, that fool was me.

So just what was I thinking as I put in my feeble attempt to snap the elastic that bound me to the field and prevented me from riding in the breakaway at the front of the race? Well, I was thinking I might win. The course was undeniably not suited to my strengths. Despite mounds of pancakes and loaves (seriously, loaves) of French toast, I am still a lightweight, which means that I like to ride uphill. And when I’m done riding up one hill, I like to ride up another. That’s where I have my best chance to win. That’s where the big men with the muscles bulging from their shorts and biceps bigger than my calves will be left in the dust. But not here. Unfortunately, not every race is designed for climbers like me, and you just cannot afford to wait for those races, especially when they usually don’t come until later in the season. And besides, I’m young and eager, and I want to win.

So there I went, dashing up the road, into a headwind, tucking low over my machine and fighting the pedals to go faster. My gap to the field grew, but so did the pain in my legs.

“Ugh. Here we go.”

As the effort went on, my power dwindled. I was just not ready for this at the moment. The itch in my muscles turned into a burn. The embers in my lungs grew into flames. The cold air I sucked down felt more like acid now. But still, I’m young and eager and I want to win. So I pedaled harder. I looked over my shoulder. The field was in sight, but I had a gap. I thought to myself, “Maybe I can hold it? Click. A harder gear. Come on, suck it up. Get to that bend. If you get to that bend, you’ll be out of sight and maybe they’ll just let you go.”

I dug deeper and came to the bend. I stole another glance over my shoulder. Not what I was hoping to see: the field. A few riders rolled by me as I gasped for air. I wouldn’t have minded rolling all the way to the back of the field and spending the rest of the afternoon chatting it up with the guy who’s just happy to be there and hanging on for dear life. But you can’t win from there, so I got up and out of the saddle, gave the pedals a few kicks, and forced my way into the line of riders near the front. A friendly face appeared next to me. “Had to give it a shot,” I huffed out. A nod. He knew why I did it.

So what was I really thinking? I know what my strengths are. I know what they are not. I know what it takes to break the chains that hold each of us captive in the peloton, and I know when I have it and when I don’t. And at this point in the season, when I’m intentionally going to races with legs weary from training and treating those races as more training, I know better than to expect too much. But still, I’m young and eager, and I want to win. I feel like I have something to prove, partly to those other colorfully clad men and partly to myself. But that’s exactly what gets me into trouble.

Though they are crucial components of success in this sport, youth, eagerness and the desire to win are often intoxicating. I’m like a racehorse with my blinders on and the finish line the only thing in sight. There’s nothing wrong with intensity and focus, but there is such a thing as wanting it too much. It is when you want to win too badly that you don’t win at all; it is when you will do anything to win that you are bound to fail.

I could make the move on a course like this. I could win on a course like this. I’ve done it before and I’m going to do it again, but it won’t be because I suddenly develop the power output of someone whose right quadriceps probably weighs more than my entire torso. No, it’s going to be because I finally remember that I’m here for more than just winning. I am here for fun. Riding my bike is fun. Racing my bike is fun. And sure, wearing spandex is even fun. Next time I’ll remember that. Next time I’ll race with my head. And because of that, maybe next time I’ll win."