The smoke and noise continued unabated, but I concentrated on the riders. I rode alone most of the evening, as Gary drafted Robert the Bike and maintained his position. More pit stops followed as the riders took their breaks. With competitors entering and leaving all the time, the only way we knew our placing was to check the leaderboard. The number of laps ridden became a jumble in my mind.
In the stands, spectators’ minds were scrambled by vendors selling cold ale. Late in the evening the rabble, emboldened by alcohol flowing through their veins, turned rowdy. We heard calls from the more vocal boosters. Some taunted us, hoping they could goad us into spurting. Mr. Napp obliged them on occasion.
Gary responded to Napp every time and held the Scotsman’s draft with ease. And then it happened. A spectator sprinted across the track in front of Rose. She swerved, missing him by inches. Mr. Caldwell waved the yellow caution flag. He rushed over to the place of the infraction, but the bystander hid in the stands. The lack of traffic control between the pit and the rest of the pavilion put us at risk. I wondered how long it would be before some drunk fan got knocked over.
As midnight approached, I considered our placement. Gary had held his own against the more experienced pros. He could ride much faster, but when he tried to pass, Napp shut him down. The Colorado Kid and the General also interfered.
I pulled ahead of the Holy Roller by a lap as he slowed down before the session ended. His inexperience took a toll. He told me later on that running for six days in an arena was nothing like bike racing. Cycling was easier on the legs and body, but the need to pay attention and stay upright wore on him.
Silicon Valley Cyclist 
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