The sad sodden earth pleads with your tyres to remain, like peasants pleading for mercy in a medieval painting, arms aloft, loss and fear etched in their faces.
It saps and strains until finally you give in and stop pushing on the pedals, let bygones be bygones and come quickly to a halt.
It takes different people wildly varying amounts of time to come to the conclusion that resistance is futile, that mother earth will win and you will come to halt. Physique, past performances and form separately serve an unreliable predictor of performance in these conditions; William Hill was notable by his absence in Ipswich.
Me, I came 27th on the back of no really impressive results or performances. I got overtaken and I overtook, with no real logic to the speed of people I was passing or being passed by. Why didn't that guy ride like that at the start of the race? Is that guy ok? He's going so slow. It makes no sense, and that's why we do it: some days it comes together and you keep the standstill at bay till the right side of the finish line. Yesterday was one of those days.
No comments:
Post a Comment