I found myself in a group that ranged from as small as two to, at times, as large as seven. It shrank and grew and shrank again until there were just a few of us left with 10 miles to go and I started to entertain the idea of racing for a good stage placing. Bold, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. I tried my hand on a small climb with about eight miles remaining and managed to get some daylight between me and the small group I had been riding with. I felt great! Well, I didn’t really feel great but I felt great because I was racing and something was happening. It all went swimmingly until I hit the last little climb at about three miles to go. The wheels came off and they came off hard. Around every turn I was searching for a “1 km” to go sign, some sort of indicator that the end was near. Then I remembered I wasn’t racing a road bike. There would be no Flamme Rouge. There would be no countdown to the finish. My hypoxic conversions from kilometers to miles (I’m a trackie, give me a break) gave me a roughly one mile range on where the finish should be. It turns out that’s kind of a big deal at the end of a day like this. I limped across the line in second place having no idea if I needed to throw up, pass out or throw up and then pass out.
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