This Bud's for You, 3 September: Fourth or First


It was a sprint worthy of the top step of the podium. The racers in his wake, and falling further back with every pedal stroke, could do little more than curse in resignation, mutter exclamations of surrender. Shadows from the trees pointed the way; they are long now, the sun nearly resting atop the hills to the west. 

I was riding laps along the finish straight, squeezing in one more, trying to bolster the mid-week mileage. I heard the swooshing sound of riders fast approaching. Turning my head there was nothing but sun, and the road disappearing into its mass. Peaking under my left arm, using it and my body to block most of the glare did the trick. There they were, dark shapes in rider form, figments. Here was an advantage even I could hold to the line. I could raise my hand to the sky. A pretend salute for a pretend victory. No I couldn't. Instead I had time to ease over to the median, join the spectators. The three sped by with little more sound than the rush of their wheels. No more fanfare than an easing of their pedal stroke. Were they the top three on this night? In hindsight, I believe they were. My camera only caught the next group to come through, and that group was led home by the Tru Cycling rider. The rider with a sprint good enough for first, even if fourth was the reality.

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