The deal I’ve made with my copy editor (who also happens to be me) is that I will write something about every race I take part in. I don’t always write something immediately—as I am a bit lazy and sometimes I need to let the race’s events soak in so I can process them and create an insightful recap of the proceedings—but so far I have written at least something about ever race I’ve found myself in for about four or five years now.
This following will serve to fulfill my commitment to write something about each race I get tangled up in. We raced. There were a lot of us. People tried to get away. There was a field sprint. Gavin Robertson won.
Those proceeding five sentences can be copied and pasted for later use this year, as this scenario will surely happen again. The exact details will vary, but those basic circumstances will occur again—unless Gavin’s alarm clock starts to malfunction.
Sometimes this cycling cycle can wear on me, as it offers few opportunities for one such as myself (timid sprinter, inability to escape alone) to achieve any glory. Sure I can help teammates—and I am glad to do so—but racing all year without ever being in a position to win is a dismal prospect. How am I to inflate my self esteem if I can’t place in a pre-dawn bicycle race? I need some success to justify the hours of training and body shaving, otherwise I’m just a hairless (from the thighs down) middle-aged guy puttering around my neighborhood in a needlessly revealing costume.
Perhaps it’s the weather that has me down, maybe like Milli and Vanilli, I need to blame it on the rain.
The head song for the day was "Tick Tock" by Kesha (I steadfastly refuse to put a "$" in that person’s name, mostly because I don’t want to go back and downgrade the character to a "¢" in a fews years), a song planted there by Mitch Jacaruso. I’m not sure why Mitch hates me, but evidently he does.