Like the changing of the actual seasons, I’m entering into the portion of my racing season where I don’t really give a crap anymore. In March, I burn out on training and the racing season arrives to save me from hours of unrelenting, seemingly directionless pedaling. Then July or August arrive and I need a break from racing. This year we have a family vacation planned (we’re driving to Iowa—jealous?), and in my mind (to inaccurately paraphrase James Taylor) I’ve already gone to Iowa.

This does not make for spirited racing or race reporter-ing. In fact, I neglected to report about Sunday’s CRCA Club Race. The race for me went as follows. I started the race on Saturday night at a neighbor’s house—and since I’m already in Iowa—I enjoyed the fruits of his kegerator until midnight. I woke at 4 AM and inexplicably went to the race in a zombie-like state. There was a split in the race which I was initially involved in, but my zombie legs brought me back to the pack.

Teammate Pascal was in the break, but it was brought back because the break wasn’t up to Adler standards. Some surging occurred, followed by a field sprint. I participated in said field sprint, but it was like riding a barge of bodies to the finish line, and I finished 10th-ish.

At FBF last night, we had a good BH turn out. Phil said he would like to go early, and he got into the move that began after about 40 yards of racing. This ended up being the break of the night, but unfortunately others bridged up to the move, and none of us went with them. This was not good, as eventually 4 Mengonis made their way into the break with Phil, and eventually had their way with him. We were bad BHes, nothing else to say.

That’s all I have to say really about racing. I will now retreat to the land where svelte goes to die, and lose myself in sausage. And I am currently so apathetic I don’t even realize how dirty that sounds.