I woke up to the sound of hard rain falling outside my window. Rain would continue to fall until about twenty minutes after my race. It was Sunday, the race was the Brad Lewis Memorial criterium. A race re-named for an inspirational rider, known for his positive attitude, Brad Lewis, who passed away during the race two years ago. Brad was a friend to most every rider in the pro 1,2 field. The race is thus a very special one. 

This year, the race was also special for me because my girlfriend, along with her sister and another friend, made up the three hottest podium girls the northwest has ever seen.  My team was also planning on doing the first photo shoot of 2009. All in all, it was an important day but, as I mentioned, the weather was absolutely miserable.

As the racers arrived you could see the same look on all their faces. The look seemed to say “I can’t believe I am on my bike right now. This is stupid!” We all warmed up as best we could. There were a grand total of 24 riders signed up. In our pre race team meeting we agreed it would be good to stay towards the front as people would be getting gapped and dropped everywhere else. We pounded fists and lined up to start the race. 

The highlight of my day was the “Call ups,” when announcers call to the front racers to watch. Former winners of the race and a few of the northwest pro’s were called up, and finally, they called up one rider, not because he was fast, or had won any races but because he had been voted Seattle’s sexiest cyclist by “The Stranger” free weekly magazine. That cyclist was me.  I pulled up to the line feeling slightly amused, slightly embarrassed, but the podium girls all gathered around me for a picture, and I got to kiss my girlfriend on the cheek moments before starting the race.   

The official blew his whistle and the race began at a leg breaking pace. It was attack after attack and top speeds through wet corners. A couple of my stronger teammates and I were able to stay in front of the gapped-off riders getting blown out the back. We followed attacks as they launched. I think one or two of my teammates took a prime; I was focused on following the moves.

The race was fast and hard and a third of the riders dropped out. At one point, four strong riders got away off the front, myself included. But, for whatever reason, I could not hack it and I was dropped from the break. I had raced smart, I had gone with the right move but when push came to shove I crumbled.

As the race ended, my stomach knotted up, I fought the tears. I was going to grab my bag and go straight home. But I realized I needed to congratulate the winners, they rode a good race. It is one thing to lose, but far worse to be a sore looser. I also needed to watch the star performance of the fantastic podium girls. Watching the awards, a friend walked up to me and told me I had raced a good race. It would have hurt less had she sucker punched me in the gut. “No I didn’t” I wanted to say. But I held my tongue and tried my best to conceal my shame. 

The awards were given. I congratulated the winners. I rode home in the cold rain. Away from the others I was free to cry if I needed but I couldn’t. Instead, as the rain began to clear, I remembered the last time I had wanted to cry following a race. It was the state road race championships three years earlier. It was another long hard race where a third of the field dropped out and I had gotten dropped from the winning break. I remember sitting at my car after the race, fighting tears.  I remember someone asking another racer how he did. With a radiant smile, and in a good-natured but slightly self depreciating tone the racer threw up his arms victoriously and said “I finished with the pack!” The others laughed and continued packing up.             

As the wrench of self-disgust twisted my guts into knots, I saw this interaction and my brain was flipped onto its side. I just couldn’t quite comprehend it. How could he be so happy? I had been in the winning break, and I had finished ahead of this guy in the pack, but somehow none of that mattered. Because there we were, post race; one of us was filled with life while the other was wallowing in self-hatred. 

I tell this story and people remind me that he probably had different expectations going into the race, but that’s not the point. What I soon realized was that he had something I did not have: a deeply rooted love and enjoyment of the sport. With that he could finish any where in the pack and always finish filled with life. 

That racer was, none other than Brad Lewis, the rider for which the day’s race was named. It was disturbing, for an atheist like myself; the “coincidence” that the next time I found myself finishing a race in self-disgust was the Brad Lewis Memorial crit. That “coincidence” was the best cosmic reminder I could have asked for. 

There is a saying “Ask not what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you more alive. Because, what the world needs is people who are more alive.” I believe that what Brad taught me by example was how to become more alive. It seems as though he continues to remind me.

And the story finishes well because, while I may not have been on the podium, I am dating the hottest (in my opinion) of the hottest podium girls the northwest has ever seen. Who knows, maybe I can apply what I learned from Brad to my relationships and no matter the outcome, end up filled with life.