The woman sitting at Cafe Hollander's corner table was glancing over at me. The restaurant was packed with racers and fans coming to watch the Pros race on Downer Ave and the air was filled with noise.

I looked back down at my glass of water. Chills ran like currents through my body; my face was white and I was sure the cafe goer in the corner thought I was an addict of some kind in serious withdrawal.

Earlier in the day I felt like the luckiest guy in the race, bunny-hopping someone's carbon wheel as it slid across my path in the category 3 race. On lap two. It was a large field, more than a hundred riders, many bandaged from earlier crashes the day before in Kenosha. Our race had been delayed. First by the now regular lack of organization of the Super Week organization, which led to a full hour and a half of standing around for the first race. Then we were delayed by the bratwurst fire alarm and the firetruck responding to the neighbor's automatic fire alarm. The neighbor had left his window open, brat smoke filled his apartment and the Masters 123 race was delayed. We were delayed by the kiddie races that were moved ahead of our race in order to placate the waiting moms and dads. I don't blame them, but I do blame the race organizers for not getting their act together.

So we're standing at the start line, me in row two, feeling a bit iffy after a day of multiple trips to the bathroom. The gun goes off and we're rolling. After the first turn, the road disintegrates into a series of running cracks in the concrete running down the middle of the road and radiating out every five feet or so. The organizers hadn't thought of filling them in. My teammate skips his rear wheel over a manhole cover and promptly cracks his rim. As we round through the finish line after one lap, I'm still feeling OK and my teammate is five hundred dollars poorer. I hear my family shouting after turn one, "Go, Dad!" and the stomach bug is forgotten.

Turn two and then some guys discover there is a crack in the middle of the road by riding into it and jumping over it. We're going 32mph. I move to the outside to give myself an out but we round turn four and come down the straight to the finish line. The peloton is together when someone falls into someone else about 6 wheels from the front. Like dominoes, riders fall towards each side, sliding and creating a pile of bodies and bikes from behind. I accelerate towards the gates on the side and watch the rider and bike slide towards me. I pull up and jump onto his wheels and ride over, expecting to hit some snag and be pulled down, but I'm rolling on pavement again, free. I look back and see I'm the last one through and a pile of more than thirty riders on the deck behind me.

A delay as the race is stopped for 20 minutes to fix the bikes and clean up the riders. Most come back into the race. The ref lectures us about keeping our heads up. I look at the other riders and my stomach is not so good anymore. We're off, but I'm not into this anymore and hang at the back before dropping out. My teammate stays in, crashes (ruining his other wheel, seat and surgically repaired shoulder) and then gets 8th place.

An hour later I'm shivering and feeling ill.

No results during this Super Week for me. There are many reasons, most tied to me, my training, my limitations, my luck, my lack of wisdom. Things learned? I shouldn't race in extreme heat when I'm not ready. That, combined with my limited intensity miles earlier in the season due to first snow and then concussion, was all I needed for a complete breakdown the past two weeks.

No results, but it was worth it to meet new people who share my passion for bikes and racing, to rekindle old friendships with Super Week friends from all over the US and to spend time with my mom and dad. Got mom to a bike shop for a fitting and we'll be getting a new Trek 2.1T when she comes to Grandparents' Day in Colesburg in the fall.

It's five days later and I'm feeling pretty good now. Think I'll go the races this weekend in Elk Grove Village...