Sitting in Ardkeen yesterday as the nurse picked staples out of my elbow, [now christened Frankenstein],{The elbow, not the nurse!] it occurred to me that it's been a tough year. Waaay too much going on to get into here but its been a nightmare. And it also occurred to me that if I didn't have bike racing to look forward to, or training to do regularly, I'd be in a bad place. Once those staples were out I knew I wanted to go racing. I needed to retrieve something for myself by racing and I needed to repay a hell of a lot of people for parking their time to look after me in whatever capacity. As it turned out it was good fun and well worth the pain. I'd had my Winter break in August, reading 'til the wee hours on the balcony every night accompanied by a vineyard. Then straight to hospital upon my return for the op to unwire my elbow to return it to full motion. Bloody anaesthetic. Not my friend at all. Then tentative steps on the turbo. Not a friend of mine either. Four hasty road spins of dubious duration and there I was in Camross, league hingeing on me getting a single point but feeling like I wouldn't get that unless I was the only entrant. Tom Simpson once put a deposit on an extremely expensive car. Something to aim for. He had to race and work hard to get the car. I'm not Tommy so I just told my team mates I'd get that point. Something to aim for. I was forcing myself to go for it regardless of the fact that on the way back from hospital the devil on my left shoulder that said don't go racing was knocking ten bells of crap out of the angel on my right. I took a leaf out of Zippy Doyle's pre-race primer and filled myself with so much espresso my passport would have read Ethiopian/Kenyan blend under Nationality. I wore my skinsuit but had to put a jersey on top because Camross exists in a micro-climate labelled unpredictable. After 10 kilometres I wanted to vomit/stop/sell my bike/feign a puncture/ease myself out the back and hide in a field. But every time I looked around a friendly club mate would ask how I was. And going through the finish I had David and Sean looking at me. Two guys that had given up swathes of time to let us have a regular run-out. I'd like to say I was out to show the purple and gold to it's full lustre but really I hoped to survive and get around without catching my tongue between brake block and front rim.
And then I came round. Thought the least I could do was a long range sprint to lead out any of my team that wanted a free ride to the line. Funny then that I ended up watching Street Outlaws at midnight last night. Its about street racing and that's exactly what materialised 500 metres out last night. I was getting ready to go when my friend Hughy got the jump on me 50 metres early. Mark Cavendish or Peter Sagan will tell you every tiny detail of a sprint. I'm not them but in what felt like 20 minutes of a sprint last evening I was looking at it like it wasn't me. Hugh on the left torqueing it down, myself on the right talking it up. Both of us hitting the nitrous and waiting for the end of the world's longest quarter mile. I just hoped my club mates were on my coat tails and they were. I needed a point. I got two. First four in the bunch sprint were Wexford Wheelers. And one up the road. Sweet as! Moral of the story? Sometimes you are better off sticking at it although everything points at failure.
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