Recently, I was goaded into coming out of retirement, at age 44, and racing again. All well and good, I thought. The original reasons for hanging them up had been sorted and I still wanted to race.
The local guys I train with asked me to go with them to a race a week after I climbed back on the bike. Wisely, I declined. A few more weeks of riding later and they broached the subject once more. This time it was a race I had done well at the year before. How could I say no? So, I didn't.
The thing is, this is a race that basically climbs a few thousand meters and finishes there. Even though I had done well previously at this event, it certainly wasn't a course that suited me at all. Last year was just a good day. I went balls to the wall and did well. This year is sure to be different!
Here's where pride comes in. I'm a proud guy. I feel I've paid my dues and earned whatever successes I've had. Now, I am looking at a sound thrashing, by riders I would previously shell without a thought, in a mere 10 days from now. It's going to be a tough one to take. The racing community is small and my absence has been noticed. My return will be as well. It won't be all that glorious, though.
I'm trying to keep a positive outlook and just enjoy myself. What I really hope is that I can keep a low profile and miracle myself up the mountain in a time that isn't too embarrassing. The thing is, I'm pretty sure that I'll roll across the line as they awards ceremonies are winding down and in full view of my former team mates and all those I have put the hurt to over the last few years racing here.
Maybe if I do it with a smile people will think I rolled away from the "challenge group". Or... maybe not.
Damn. Time for a big helping of humble pie.
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