The truth hurts

I always thought living in the past makes you repeat it. Not true. Recently I went back to my past, a local league race, hoping to rekindle some of the fire I once felt while racing there. It had been a couple of years and as I drove down I had a mind filling with nostalgia. Glimmers. The zenith of my Comeragh league experience was winning one by complete fluke, jumping the bunch so as not to get completely savaged in the sprint. I wasn't passed. A couple of scalps in there too. Fluke. And that was a dozen years ago. But I always got in the front selection over Church Hill in Portlaw and had a dig or hung on to the finish with Ras riders and race winners. Or watched Sam Bennett throw up at the finish line after using the race for intervals. These are the races that Ciaran Power would use for training and proceed to tow groups around, helping everyone. I think the Aborigines call it Dream-Time, before reality arrived.
And arrive it did. Meeting the usual suspects, the Power family running the show like clockwork, Ciaran there to race and a huge number of wizened faces that, like me, should have known better.
I blame the bastards with better tattoos. You see its one thing having your ass handed to you by people younger than you. That's life. Its a whole other ball game when they are supposed to be at your level. And its a whole other universe when their tattoos are really good, full sleeved and gnarly ink-jobs. That really got to me. I can forgive anything else. I was pulled around like one of those shot cowboys in a black and white movie that get their foot caught in the stirrup. For 40 minutes. The horse was three black and blue clad robots that took turns in proving their strength on the front. And every time I glanced back there were less cyclists. I wish that had been it.
Ah sure twas grand until the real men turned up. At the start of lap three a storm broke over the race. The sun still shone but our countenances changed from happy-but-deranged-at-a-league-race to oh-my-god-what-was-that and discovering we were out of our league altogether. The big guns caught and strode through the group as if we were at a café. And they motored on so hard, so quickly that in 1500 metres the race was spread over 500 of those. 53x12 on a false flat? If you were gone you were finished.
I was gone. A chequered 17 year history at the Comeragh leagues came full circle as I turned full circle in the road and returned to the car. No mercy. Will I go back again? Hell ya!! You can't get better unless you learn to suffer harder. I'll be back damn soon!