Over the years, those experiences have been replaced by sitting in front of a computer and going to meetings. The coals have been scattered but some are still glowing brightly and something inside of me craves an ersatz skirmish.

To be clear, this is not an article about killing people. This is not a piece about PTSD, being a veteran, and it will not advocate for one brand of foreign policy or ideology over another. This is a piece about how I’ve sought out — and discovered — a physically and psychologically demanding replacement for the high-intensity/high-stakes business of combat.

A few disclaimers up front:

First: nothing truly replaces combat. Not racing bikes, paintball, paying thousands of dollars to fly in a simulated dogfight, or zombie runs. In combat, the stakes are high — the stakes are terminal.

Second: my perspective of combat as an aviator is different from that of a Soldier, Marine, or Airman who’s been on the ground during an engagement. They’re eye-to-eye with the bad guys whereas most aviators are out of range of small arms fire (anti-aircraft guns and surface to air missiles are a different story). In fact, my perspective is probably different from other fellow aviators. Nevertheless, danger and uncertainty are ever-present and folks are counting on you (see above re: stakes are high).

Finally: I’m not an elite bike racer. I’m a straight-up middle-of-the-pack Clydesdale (a rider who is 200+ lbs) with a year of racing under my belt and only one time on the podium.

But damn I love to race bikes! And where the mind-body void remains from when I found my crew and me living within the harrowing moments of incursion, I can at least draw parallels between racing and combat to put some water on the fire.

Sometimes shit just happens and you have to make sense of it and deal with it.

The Elements of Risk and Chance. No matter matter how much you plan a flight or an operation, whatever plan you step to the plane with will unravel at some point. The ground scheme of maneuver will change, the weather will turn foul, other supporting assets won’t show up, or your equipment will crap out on you. That’s only part of it, though. The enemy gets a vote, too. Sometimes shit just happens and you have to make sense of it and deal with it.

Masters of War like Clausewitz described the events above as fog and friction and spoke of it often. You can see these phenomena for yourself at your local bike race. Tires blow out, one rider clips another and they crash ahead of you and you might join them if you’re close enough. Maybe you didn’t eat or sleep well enough before the race and your body gives out on you. Maybe you lose a bottle and get dehydrated. The creek crossing may be deeper than you thought and you took it too fast. Maybe the grass coming out of a high-speed turning descent is too slick to hold traction.

There are risks associated with riding a bike in almost any situation, but the risks are amplified when you stick several motivated riders into the confines of a course and they start moving quickly in the same direction. I’ve found one of the most dangerous and dynamic moments during a race to be the start where everyone is jumbled together and jockeying for position while gathering speed. Continuing down track our tires are within inches of each other as we draft. Bicycles slice in front of and behind one another as riders position themselves to pass or take a turn on a particular line.

Derived from IBIKEMPLS.com http://www.ibikempls.com/2010_11_01_archive.html

In spite of the potential for injury or damage, risk and chance are variables that make racing exciting. Nobody wants to see someone else wreck or get hurt, but our individual flirtation with danger makes the occasional accident a numbers game. We accept and try to mitigate risk in racing and we do likewise in combat.

Bike racing demands that the rider operates at the very fringes of his or her performance limits.

The Performance Requisite. Racing, not unlike combat, demands attentive and focused output.

No other sport I’ve participated in has required such coherence between my mind and my body. Bike racing demands that the rider operates at the very fringes of his or her performance limits. One’s ability to maneuver the bike (as in cyclocross and mountain biking) while preserving momentum in addition to the capacity for sustained output throughout the event is a decisive combination.

Then there’s the constellation of emotions that come to us in combat and in racing and they run the spectrum from euphoria to plain old feeling sorry for yourself. At low levels this is fine and is generally temporary. For me, it’s fear. Before every race I straddle my bike at the starting grid and wonder What the hell am I doing? Regardless of the intensity or duration, you must learn to acknowledge and work through through the emotional noise lest you lose focus.

Sloppiness due to distraction or fatigue invites peril. Lethargy runs counter to competitive riding. At the time of this writing, I’m participating in a series of races called Crystal City Wednesday Night Spins which are held in the bottom two levels of a parking garage outside of Washington, D.C. Races last for 35 minutes as riders buzz on the smooth concrete surface of the garage along rocket-fast straights and tight turns that challenge the grip of our tires. Last night I watched in suspended awe as a young man directly in front of me clipped a concrete pillar with his shoulder and nearly augured in. It was the middle of the race and I suspect he was tired and got sloppy. Had he wrecked I would’ve gone down less than half a second later.

Ride hard, don’t get injured, learn something, have fun, maybe make a friend or two.

The Sense of Mission. We use the word “mission” to encapsulate what we’re doing and why. For instance “Our mission is to fly the plane and provide precision firepower in support of friendly forces in order to ensure their safety”. That is our expressed purpose and any energy committed outside of that is likely superfluous.

My mission during a particular race is far less grave: Ride hard, don’t get injured, learn something, have fun, maybe make a friend or two. But these elements are what I devote my energy to — not looking cool or telling funny jokes (which come naturally, of course). If you’re like me, you’re not racing to finish first; you’re dueling against a handful of other riders for a position somewhere else in the pack. And if I can say that I’ve accomplished all of the aspects of my “mission” then the race was a sweeping success.

The Consequences of Failure. Fear of failure is an incredible motivator. In the plane our goals were straightforward: all the good guys make it home. That applied to our crew, other aircraft working with us, and especially the supported force on the ground. The price of failure in this regard was both obvious yet altogether difficult to fathom.

The definition of failure varies from one racer to another. My concept of failure is to simply not accomplish my above mission. I’ll add that failure would also result if I were to cause injury or damage to another rider due to my own carelessness or poor judgment.

What’s missing from all of this, of course, is hatred and enmity. I’ve yet to see anything remotely approaching fisticuffs at a race (though I did hear one guy call another guy an asshole shortly after the start of one race). Any aggression I harbor toward another rider is confined to the guy in front of me or the guy who just passed me and even then it immediately washes away when I cross the finish line. For that matter I haven’t heard a thing about politics or any other divisive social issue at a race because none of that matters there.

I have fun mixing it up with other riders. I take it seriously, but not too seriously (did I mention that I’m not concerned with finishing first?). At some point during a race, it’s all I can do to keep from shouting THIS IS AWESOOOOME! because I’m crawling out of my skin with enjoyment and I’m surrounded by others who feel the same way.

Long ago I accepted the fact that my days of flying in combat were pretty much over. But as long as there’s a race on the horizon and as long as I can join up with others who want to push themselves, take some risks, and have a good time doing it, I’m happy with this new reality.

I know there are several others out there looking to fill a similar void. It bothers you like a jagged toenail under a bed sheet. If you’ve needed excitement but couldn’t quite figure out where to find it my suggestion is to grab a bike, tack a number onto your jersey and hit the trail. Maybe we’ll cross paths afterwards — I’ll be the guy with the beer and a huge smile!