Knowing this was a smaller race, I spent all week riding and building myself up. I could win this one. I wouldn't do any work during the race. Just sit there, smile, and wait for just the right moment to dole out some pain. I was brimming with confidence. Did I mention that I was also brimming with about six beers, a bunch of chips and brownies, and a host of other food that I had gorged myself with the day before? Umph. I felt like crap. Add a stiff headwind on the back section and a big digger of a hill in turn four leading to the finishing straight and it was time to switch to plan B: just sit there, grimace, and have a nice big cup of suffer.
Neither plan really worked. The field was pretty small (about 20) and was mostly comprised of Team Dayton riders (it was afterall their race). It came as no surprise then, that their strategy was to control the front and keep sending guys on solo breaks to break the spirit of the field. With this in mind, I stayed near the front and fought off every urge to chase the next guy as Team Dayton kept blocking on the front. After a few laps, yesterday's food had begun migrating to my esophagus and the herky-jerky race pace was killing me. The field was strung out at 30 mph on the backstretch, down to 17 mph into the headwind, and jumping out of the saddle on the finishing hill. I was fighting my bike and the urge to puke the whole way.
A prime lap raised the pace and for some stupid reason I thought, "Yeah, a prime!" "Just what I wanted, a new water bottle valued at just over 2 dollars!" I had no idea what the prime might be, but it was probably something along those lines; probably something worth blowing completely up over. Throw the plans out the window kids, papa needs a brand new water bottle. Okay, so I didn't win it. Instead, I decided to assert my dominance over the field by taking a flyer on the front, much to the glee of my family. While I lead the field by all of 20 yards, I could hear the race announcer, "...and there goes a serious attack from the rider from South Cackalacky!?" That felt pretty cool, although I knew my attack was short lived and far from serious. A few seconds later, two kids (half of my age) blow my doors off and I struggle to latch on. Now this was a serious break. If I could only hang on and work with them, we may have a shot. Too bad that at this point I was gassed.
They quickly dropped me like a bad habit and now the field was coming. I had to figure out how to recover and hang on. First to worst in one lap and struggling to stay on the wheel in front of me, who was struggling to stay on the wheel in front of him! Time to make a move. Out of the saddle and sprinting to latch on, my day was about to hit a new low; I get passed by some old dude with a beer gut the size of Vesuvius. Field splintered, I become a straggler just riding it out. There were 3 or 4 of us spread out and then reintegrated as we all recovered from our beatdown.
I flash my wife the "slit-throat" sign to inform her that I'm done and for her to inform my family members to stop cheering for me; as it will only make me feel worse. The remnant pack regrouped and starting working together for the final five laps. I gather my senses and quickly assess that I'm the strongest (and youngest) of this motley crew. Now it is a game. I decide to pretend that I'm in a long breakaway, like in the Tour de France, working to stay away from the chasing peleton. I worked with my enemies until one-to-go and then I turned on them like the female Praying Mantis.
Feeling worse than bad about my performance, I try to make myself puke only to fail at that too (but I did nearly rupture all of the blood vessels in my face from dry heaving). C'est la vie.
Just be glad that one of those salmonella infested Turkey leg toting jousters from that festival did not knock you off your bike.
ReplyDeleteFor that day, it was the best you could do.
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