I got dropped from the peloton Saturday, but worse still, mistimed a sprint Sunday. After the race on Sunday, Cannonball and I were both licking our wounds, telling each other we were the fastest sprinters on the day, and by rights should have won. But we didn’t. We mistimed our efforts. Cannonball, by doing too much too early. Me, by waiting too late to release my last kick. Three three guys who beat us, were fast, and they read the road better than we did. They won. We lost.
Now, I could get all philosophical with the try-try-again talk, but I would rather try to express how I feel: flat. I spent two hours this afternoon rooting around with the Velorbis, just taking the back wheel off to try to do something to stop those coat guards coming off. I’m putting off writing an important letter for work. I took Quinby for a bodysurf yesterday afternoon, and the weed was revolting. I’m not training. This evening Za Bear and I rode through a big pile of brown leaves.