Racing is hard.

Yeah, you know this. I know this. I knew this.

That doesn’t stop the thoughts and the dreams of a sprint to the line and raised arms and meaningless Cat 4 glory.

But the reality is harsh when the pulse stays at max and the bunch spins away and the wind beats you back and you realise you don’t have any of the things you thought you had.

Disappointment and hatred and loathing burn bright.

A nobody with no legs and no talent and no results. But that nobody is still a hell more of a somebody than most of the people out there.

So the burning ignites the training and the miles are covered and the hills climbed and the legs get better. Next time I won’t get dropped. Ten points are a long way off, but they’re coming. They’re coming.