Just The Other Night

So you’re never going to believe who I saw in Central Park on Wednesday night.

Luckily, this has been a recovery week for me according to my training schedule. That means I’m supposed to hop on the bike for no more than an hour a day and, better yet, I’m not supposed to let my heart rate climb above 125. (Dr. Rob, I know you really don’t understand what I’m trying to say when I say “recovery ride,” but it’s when you get on a bike and not go nuts at the bottom of every hill.)

So I’m in the Park Wednesday night doing exactly that. I’m spinning along with my heart rate around 108, enjoying the view for once (rather than blasting along with my eyes dropping out of my head), when some maniac goes flying by me at warp speed. Trying to get a look at the guy before he disappeared around a bend, I thought, “You know, that dude looks familiar.”

And since I hadn’t seen this dude in quite some time, I clicked up a few gears, hit the big chain ring, and went full gas in an attempt to catch him. About a minute later, I pulled up behind the guy, recognized his familiar musk, and thought, “My man.”

Pulling up alongside the maniac, I smiled and yelled, “Lester!”

Yep. It was Lester the crazy Polack. He was wearing a green team kit, riding the same yellow Trek he’s been riding since I met him (which really wasn’t all that long ago), and he had a beer in one hand. All right, I’m lying about the beer, but there he was, tearing up the road in Central Park. And now that I had his attention and as happy as I was to bump into him, I knew I was in for a rough few minutes considering I can barely understand a word the guy says (and I’m sure he feels the same way about me).

“Good to see you, buddy,” I said. “What are you doing up here in the city?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I working here. In the city.”

After a few quick pleasantries, we got onto the subject of racing.

“So I hear you’ve been racing in Brooklyn,” I said.

“Yes. Brooklyn. Prospect Park. Every Saturday. All summer. I race . . . five. You know? Group five?”

“Category five?”

“Yeah. Five. The races. I win. All. So I move. Four.”

(Granted, he doesn’t really talk like this, but what I’m translating here is all I really understand when he speaks.)

“They bumped you up to Category four?”

“Yeah. Half five. Half four.”

I took this as him moving from Category Five to Four halfway through the season.

“This Saturday. Last race this year.”

(This Saturday was also the last CRCA race but, again, after a week of recovery riding, I would have been a dead weight out there in the field, so I skipped it.)

And that was it. We shook hands and went our separate ways, Lester leaving a long trail of aftershave in his wake.