There's the tiniest of rises on the Memorial Hall Criterium course. It's not even a true slope -- just a change in the camber of the surface, a dip down and back up from the storm drain in the far corner. But it's there.

We rolled up to the line at the front, Stacey's confidence stemming quite legitimately from her dominating finishes in Open Women's events so far this spring, mine from osmosis through our matching orange and blue Kissena kit. It was gorgeously sunny, just shy of 70 degrees, with a slight wind kicking up in the back stretch. "25 laps?!" we exclaimed. "I can't count that high!"

Indeed the first handful seemed interminable. I didn't even let myself look at the counter for a while, and spent the first few laps just telling myself I had to constantly move up the field. Road racing is pass/fail: the drafting advantage, at 20-30%, is so dramatic that if you're not in the group, you're out of contention. And in a criterium --a short, fast, dynamic race around a short loop -- if you're not moving up, someone else is passing you and you're moving backward. Earlier this year, I'd already entered a couple of tough races and, well, failed. I rode the last 30 miles of Battenkill solo (but still considered it a relative success, with riders dehydrating and craming and dropping out left and right). I wanted the taste of fast I'd gotten in a last-lap break at an early bird crit in 2006, when all of my friends lived 40 miles north and instead of the usual early-twenties pursuits I rode my bike all the time.

But suddenly I looked up, and the lap counter read 17 to go. The puzzle began to fit together. Either the pace slowed down or my body settled in; either way, I was no longer gasping for breath. In fact, I was finding good lines in the corners and feeling confident that I could finish with the pack -- a total tipping point. I started to focus on technique: Sprint hard out of turn 4. Actually, stand and sprint out of turn 4. Actually, take the outside line and stand and sprint hard out of turn 4. Actually, shift up two gears, try the inside line, and stand and sprint hard out of turn 4.

I heard a bell, annoucing an intermediate sprint for prizes. We turned some more, soft-pedaled again in the back stretch. I was focused on another tiny tweak to turn 4, reverting to the outside again, when I realized I was coming super strong out of it and heard a voice behind yell, "Go go go, gear up! Gear up!" I racheted up two on the rear and accelerated clear to the line by a pretty long lead.

It took a moment to process that I'd won that sprint. They say there's no pain without gain. But like Bicycling Mag blogger Selene Yeager, my best performances are usually when I'm feeling strong and happy and drowning in my own endorphins. That's what had happened.

Stacey was next to me in a couple of winks: "We can stay away." No answer from me. I was trying to process how that would work. She'd pull, I'd sit on? Long rotations? Short? I'd pull for a couple laps until she could make a definitive solo? "Do you have it?" she prompted. I didn't think so -- I desperately wanted to finish with the pack, I was breathing more than a little hard from the effort, and there were at least 10 to go.

She called it, and we drifted back. I hated to do this -- a break with Stacey would have been awesome, and who knows how much longer she'll be riding in the 4s. But I desperately wanted to pass this one, to finish with the pack. I spent the next few laps trying to plot a good course for the finish. The mind wandered a bit too far ahead, and so I fell into the latter half of the pack; here, there was a tremendous metal-on-metal sound to my back left. We rode on; the next lap was sort of neutralized until we saw two riders both sitting up. The incident was only a few laps from the finish -- it left me a bit distracted. The pack had started to string out in front, and I was looking at the couple of women just ahead of me when I should have been looking up the field. When I realized during the 3rd stretch that they'd taken off in the front, they were already halfway. I forgot to shift and just started moving my legs -- fast enough to glide past one woman, but not fast enough for any fun. I sat up after the line and saw Stacey far off the front -- sure enough, she'd crossed the line first. I counted in front of me: nine bodies, so I'd snuck into tenth.

I've been moaning a lot of late about how the cycling hasn't been fun lately -- it's a lot of hard work and awkward hours right now, but I know it'll make me faster in the end. Well, I got an appetizer. Tenth isn't super considering 24 starters, but it's definitely with the pack and enough to keep me salivating for more. In the meantime, I'm really happy with the intermediate sprint, for which I also won a shiny new Project Rudy helmet!

Extra-special thanks to my breakfast-maker (one egg, corn tortilla, hot sauce, and a square of extra-dark chocolate at the line) and tire-inflater (my valve was being finicky and I, panicky), to Wan whose months of training I didn't get to witness or celebrate because the NJ Marathon finished right around the same time as my race, the race promoters for supporting Women's 4 racing (a rarity on the east coast). I've been whining indiscriminately of late about riding as a chore; I knew I could taste fast but also knew I had a lot of work to do to get there. Now, between the mix of great teammates and shimmering spring weather and a little bit of discernable progress, I'm loving riding again. And now off to log some more hours and miles in the saddle, so I can fly in some road races as well.

From Stewart Brand's How Buildings Learn, a manifesto, of sorts, on user-centered architecture:

Home can be about architecture or a place in geography; or it can be about the sense of permanence we come to know through habit: an article of clothing repeatedly worn, a favorite turn of phrase, a melody of which we are fond, or the many visits to see a friend. Home is about the familiar, about gravity, about falling back into the self after being dispersed and overextended in the world.

The past seven days have comprised one of my favorite weeks ever. I wouldn't say work and life were balanced, per se. But yes, if we'd placed the joys derived from each one in opposite baskets of a sturdy scale, that scale would have rocked and creaked its way to equilibrium before the fulcrum collapsed from sheer overload.

Last week, my pet project at work launched! I work on Google Docs, and we've just added spreadsheet forms. Forms are designed for anyone who needs a simple way to collect information from many people, and keep that information where it's always accessible and up-to-date. Creating and sending a form is dead easy, but the best part is that now you can invite anybody with an email account to add content to your spreadsheet.

For a while now, the project and the small team behind it have embodied the Google engineering atmosphere at its best (or my favorite): creative, unique, slightly chaotic, independent, nimble. I'm pleased as punch that we can now share our work with the world.

On the flip side, exactly a week later, I turned 25! My design teammates from near and far surprised me with cupcakes. My engineering teammates went out for a launch dinner that night, and dessert came with a candle in it. Brenna of sweet smiles and blow-your-mind vascular engineering came to visit on either end of a work trip upstate. The first real snow of the year came down thick and fast that evening. And in the very nicest fashion, Mikl was there to share much of that. Worlds collided, and collided well.

I also got visited at work (thanks Allie!), text messaged, emailed, IMed, voicemailed, Facebook messaged — doubly fêted for the launch and the birthday. The swarm of small hellos from friends near and far have burrowed themselves deep in my bones. I'll be warmed from the inside out for a while yet.

Most of the hullaballoo is over now, and I'm left with what feels like a lifetime supply of very delicious red velvet cupcakes. If you're in the New York area, consider yourself invited for tea and cake. Over and out.