A memory for when I’m old

Flat, windy, and narrow roads
Also windy, the kind that blows.
Follow misleading lines that take you into potholes, the gravel,
or a fence since your head is down and your eyes fixated on the wheel in front.
170 riders.
Some strong and
some weak.
The wheels begin to let go after 100 kms.
The wind is fierce for 45 seconds at a time,
just short enough to hold the wheel if you’re not weak,
just long enough for you to want to shoot yourself.
Positioning is the only thing that really matters.
I have flashes of brilliance and I sit near the front.
To win you need more than a flash,
you need a steady beam.
I miss out on the move,
which isn’t the move and comes back.
I also miss out on the actual move(s).
Fuck this race. I have no idea what’s going on anymore.
The moves only go when I’m 10-20 wheels too far back.
One wheel too far back is too far back.
Not far to go now. The pace slows. The real race is up the road.
Guys I didn’t know were still alive come forward.
They’ve been in the back for 150 kms and come to race for 30th place in the last 20 kms.
Teammate chases me down.
Fuck him.
More wheels are let go, free to blow in the cross wind with fewer hangers on.
Now there are seventeen million groups up the road.
We sprint for 50th.
Patrick hands me a tiny Coke.
I take a shower with 40 other dudes in a tiny locker room.
I eat a hot dog.
That doesn’t sound right.
I went outside and bought a hot dog from a vendor.
Bikes are packed, we drive home.
I’m happy to have raced,
telling myself to remember today for when I’m old and cannot walk.