Monday Blues: Fifty Feet


Fifty feet. Fifty feet from the start line along this rain slick road. Fifty feet after the whistle blows. Fifty feet of racing. What is that - five full rotations of the cranks? That's all I get? Damn it! Fifty feet, bloody knees, scraped up glasses, and the honor of watching my competitors ride away. Feel the sting of spray from their rear wheels as they race through the same puddle that laid me low. It might as well be acid burning through this jersey, my skin. How's my face? How's my bike? Glances of sympathy. I'm not looking for sympathy, just redemption. Get me back in the race, let me do what I came here to do, what I paid good money to do. Fifty feet!

Post script: The day did not end staring at the pavement. The limit of the day was not measured by a mere fifty feet. The rider was able to get back in with bunch the very next lap, and was an active competitor the rest of the race.

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