THE ALPENROSE THURSDAY SERIES IS DECADENT AND DEPRAVED

i took the beaverton-hillsdale highway out to the track, riding fast down the relative straightaway between capital highway and the hills on shattuck. it was warm and muggy, the humidity a rare but sufferable effect of summer's long awaited arrival to portland, and my back was soaked with sweat under my shoulder bag. my outfit was functional enough for city riding, but the chafing at my saddle reminded for the fourth time in a week not to ride anything more than five consecutive miles on the fixed gear without wearing a pair of shorts with a chamois. i'd pounded a pint before heading into the upper altitudes of southwest portland, and i'm hard pressed now to say whether the numbness between my legs was any less tolerable than the smell of the ammonia i was pissing out my face. there was a slim chance that i'd make it in time for the last half of the races.

this was the first time i'd been to the alpenrose velodrome since the opener of last year's cyclocross season, but before that, when i used to more regularly spend time in the southwest hills, i went to the track races nearly every thursday of the summer. the alpenrose thursday series draws both the cream and the dregs of the portland bicycle community, everyone united by a devotion to the trappings of an atavistic cycling culture. alpenrose is one of only twenty or so velodromes left in the united states and it draws the largest crowd of any of them during the alpenrose challenge in july. it was built for the 1967 national championships, which was also the nadir of its glory. it's still in use, but set so far from the center of "new" portland it feels more like a relic of old oregon's libertarian pioneer spirit than a symbol of progress for cyclesport. there are rumors that alpenrose might be demolished and an indoor venue erected at the site of the collosseum across the river from downtown. it was only a coincidence of timing that i was once able to ride the juan de fuca velodrome in victoria, british columbia before it was razed to make room for more soccer fields. i was so excited that i'd been able to get my bicycle over the ten foot fence that i did my laps despite the drizzle and having forgotten to fasten the chin strap of my helmet.

it's lucky that there's no restricted viewing at alpenrose, as i doubt that my appearance would have helped convince the track officials that 'looking good in pants' was a publication worthy of press privileges. plus, i didn't have any mace. at any rate, i positioned myself away from the better heeled spectators seated at the center of the track, probably family of the riders from portland's dynastic elite racing teams. neither of our camps saw fit to exchange any pleasantries, but that didn't stop the poodles from waddling over for a curious sniff.

the fir trees of forest park command the view to the distant north of the track, a refreshing reminder that you don't have to go too far from the center of the city to know you're in the pacific northwest. but as the sun set thursday, the air cooled and with the resulting breeze the musty smell of the stagnant water from the duck pond at the alpenrose dairy crept over the rise at the south edge of the track and onto the stands.

the racers stretched in the grass by the officials' booth or tended their bicycles while making what you can imagine from a distance to be a kind of locker room chat with their competitors. a track bicycle is necessarily simple and streamlined, and the modern ones that racers ride at alpenrose aren't fundamentally different from the ones that were raced at the end of the nineteenth century. a century of materials engineering later and the bicycles are lighter and their bearings run more smoothly, but the basic mechanics are unchanged. the only real and visible difference is the bling. as track racing has gone slowly out of fashion over the years, track racers have become more and more fashionable.

the racers at the thursday series tuned pretty, custom fitted bicycles with impeccably considered color palettes, fast money on two wheels made for nothing else but to turn left over and over around a closed loop for one-sixth of a mile. funny, because the purses that go to the winners at the thursday series don't cover much more than their registration fees. i'd arrived just as the final category three race was starting, which meant getting to watch the elite riders warming up around the smaller loop on the lawn. the bodies at the track are just as fine as the bicycles, and the show on the field rivals any of the races. the thursday series is a spectacle for sure, albeit sparsely attended, and track racers anywhere should be forgiven their skinsuited preening just for letting us watch them fly over the banks of the track within inches of each others' wheels. but whether it's the sport itself or the excitement of exhibitionism, the racers have to love it. the banks at the alpenrose velodrome are some of the steepest in the country, and riders have to maintain a quick minimum speed just to stay upright. their wheels visibly wobble as they jostle for position, and a crash here almost invariably means a shattered collar bone.

i don't know the rules. the category three race seemed short, but i wasn't watching the race carefully enough to guess how many laps they did. most of my beer had burned off during my ride, and i was thinking on whether to regret not having a second one that would have lasted me to the end of the last race, so i don't remember seeing a number on the lap counter at the start line.

the counter was set at 50 for the category one and two race and after a back and forth with the riders lined up on the rail on the outer edge of the track at the start line an official decided that there would be points every ten. i still didn't know how the points worked and i didn't understand most of what the announcer was saying over the old pa system. a few times he shouted something about "letting the rabbit run," and then something on how the riders were sure gonna follow it to the carrot but not exhaust themselves trying to get there first. the rabbit had something to do with why the riders would intermittently ride up the steeper banks at the narrow ends of the track to slow down. apparently getting to 50 the fastest wasn't the only goal of this particular race; but as long as the riders came past where i was sitting i was satisfied. unfortunately, there also seemed to be a sort of sacrifice strategy involved whereby a rider from one team drew out the competition before dropping off the track to let his less spent teammates attack. for points or for the rabbit i wasn't sure, but the one who stopped coming around was the real stud of the group, and it happened after about only 20 laps. slow countdown to zero.

with the elite race over i waited for signs of the madison race -- the real and main event as far as i was concerned -- to take shape out of the group of riders on the lawn. the madison is named for the velodrome at the first madison square garden and dates back to when professional track cyclists were the best paid and most physically tortured athletes in the country. the rest of the world calls it after america, the only place in the world that could have originated a cycling event so spectacular and so stubbornly defiant of the dangers inherent to the sport. madison riders race in teams of two with one rider covering distance toward the finish while his teammate rests at the top of one end of the track. when it's time to switch, the resting rider drops off the bank onto the inner part of the track, and when his teammate overtakes him, he reaches up to have his hand grabbed by the rider in front and is hurtled forward to continue the race.

i realize, full of fear and loathing, that there's hardly a single team warming up (one half of one, actually). no one seems to have registered. i check my phone for the time and see a message from the guy down my street who won't stop texting me to hang out since last weekend.

"that's what you're doing tonight? you can objectify men at my friend's party."

i'm about to scream that there are journalists in the crowd and that someone needs to come through for me on the posted schedule because besides the duck pond smell the weather is permitting. i could have made things up at my computer without coming out to the hills, goddammit.

but i was spared having to poach the spotlight from the looming tragedy when two of the gentle lovers finally decided just to do a demonstration. a short demonstration and not nearly as balletic as with six other riders in competition, but i got what i came for without having to make a scene in front of the track gentry.

a seemingly well intentioned couple approaches me on my way out, and no, i don't know if there will be races tomorrow.

*****

the blogger is riding back into the city, thinking about more beer and whether those riders ever get to let themselves drink any. i'm sure that if i have a couple i can come up with something clever and ballsy to respond to that text.