Somewhere downtown, at a bar with a couple of friends. After two bottles of wine, a couple of beers and a few drinks, the realization of a rare event: I was the worst time-trialist sitting at that table.
- - -
Six days were much too short: forty-five.
A war is also fought during retreats. Many gloryless, fightless steps back, in the hopes of later strides forward.
- - -
I dragged the bike bag back down the stairs towards the subway station. It would have to wait.
On the days that followed, many a standing ride ensued, and throughout the constant fear in the back of my mind. Is it back?
- - -
Two weeks later, we made it to the check-in counter. The performance was lacklustre at best, but deep within, I celebrated joyfully
Everything - the season, and more - is not lost.
