Charge Pond.

Charge Pond is a body of water buried deep in the bowels of Myles Standish State State Park. It is traced by a small ribbon of tarmac. Tales are told of a Field Of Dreams-type scenario where dozens of skinny men on plastic bicycles converge, seemingly by instinct, on what has to be the most out-of-the-way-middle-of-nowhere-desolate criterium in existence.

I arrived, having taken a bit of a hurried, unwanted tour of most of the park. I quickly reg'd, dressed, and hopped on the bike with my teammate, Sean Casey. There is a funny thing that happens when you swing your leg over your bike moments before a race. Sometimes your legs say: "EFFFF YEAH BABY! LET'S DO THIS!" Other times your leg's say: "Ruh Roh..." Today, was the latter. The first few pedal strokes felt like I was riding in sand, and it didn't get any better. Usually I give myself a solid 30 minutes before I make any final decisions about how I'm actually feeling, but I didn't have that luxury today. We joked about how poorly we both felt, and how the strategy would be to sit in and play it by ear...

We lined up just after Ned Connelly stomped out a win in the B race, and were off sooner than I was able to process. Worse than that, it was IMMEDIATELY animated by a few jokers, including a traitorous brute by the name of Pete Bowring (we miss you Pete).

Lap one: Early attacks flurry off the front, and string out the field.

Lap two: More of the same. At some point the field reels in a break, and as they are coming back though the bunch, someone swerves and tensions begin to run high.

General antagonist and Metlife top dog Peter Bell, decides he's seen enough, and jumps clear of the field. Considering how fantastic my aforementioned sensations are, naturally, I chase him down.

Lap. Two. Great job Sam.

I'm not exactly sure what happened, but we suddenly had ourselves a solid little gap. We kept trading pulls, and I did my best not to look over my shoulder. My legs were already seizing, and I was wondering why the field was refusing to give me sweet relief and reel us in. We were alone for about a lap before Bowring, Pete's teammate Ben, and a Keough (of the famous Keoughs...) made the jump across. It was now five of us. I settled into the pain cave a little bit, as Bell took horrendous monster pulls, during which I would curse at him under my breath, and wish for his rear tire to go flat so that I could retreat to the field.  He was doing the lionshare of the work to be sure, and I wasn't about to change it.

The laps started to tick by. Eventually, Ben had to pull the ripcord and go back to the bunch, leaving the four of us to toil in the wind. I was going cross-eyed, but I was bolstered by the fact that we were well clear, and all I had to do was outkick these fools at the end. Yes. At the time, that was still a consideration.

Landen, yet another Metlife teammate, flatted almost immediately, but remained in high enough spirits to cheer (jeer) us on, yelling gems like: "WHY IS ROSENHOLTZ STILL IN THE BREAK?!"

Thanks Lando.

Around five to go, Mark (The Shaaahk) McCormack, bridged to our happy little group, and that's about where it all started to unravel for me. I looked at the (nerd) data from the race, and our laptimes dropped by about 15-20 seconds when he joined us. I was already pretty close to thrashed, so this increase in speed was to be my death-nail.

I have immense respect for that dude, so every time I got to the front, I drilled it a little bit harder before I pulled off. I had no intention of sitting in. Unfortunately, it turned out to be my undoing.

I started to dangle with three to go... keeping them in sight for the better part of the lap.
With two to go... they were out of sight, and I was soloing, feverishly, holding off the thundering group behind me. Dreams of solo glory danced in my brain... even if it was for 6th, I was in the break! That would have been a great day for me.

Cruelly, I was caught at the last corner.

After I had collected my accidental midway prime winnings, P. Bell, Ben, Sean and I headed out for a bit of a cool down ride.

Despite their labyrinthian qualities, the roads at Myles Standish are ones that come to mind when you recall your favorite rides. Winding, rolling, sometimes beautifully paved, with nothing but trees and the occasional puppy riddled family.

Lovely.

Yes, today could have gone better. I could have sat on for a lap and limped home in the group. I probably should have done. I can't help but think... what's gonna happen when I feel good at the start of the race? What lunacy will unfold?

The fact of the matter is, it was, yet again, a tremendous day on my bicycle, with some great friends. You can't really ask for anything better than that.

I'm feeling good sports fans. Till next time.