Suddenly there is a clang of pedals and spokes—a shockwave bursts through the pack and riders duck for cover like they are being fired upon. A tubular explodes and the bike veers violently down the boards nearly taking out the chasing rider, but he deftly shifts up the track and passes. The old heads seize this opportunity and combine with a counter attack. The young whippets, now tired from their ambitious early move, are shelled. As the laps count down, I pick the wheel I want to follow, another rider makes an attack, another follows—a gap has formed and there is no time to consider what to do. Chase—HARD—again!
The white line approaches at 40mph but not fast enough as the counter shows eight to go. I find myself on the front again and rather than relieve myself and the followers behind me, I drive the pedals, feeling the surge of the pack on my tail like a hungry animal. I hope this bravado splinters the group. I hope they feel twice the pain I feel. I mash the pedals harder hoping to extricate all their energy and sap them for the sprint. I wish I had a smaller gear, the weight of the turning wheel is filling my legs with lead. I can smell the tail of the lead riders, the gap has been closed, and over my shoulder I can see that the final selection has been made.
Four to go.
Nervous excitement, I rub shoulders with a rider who dares come around, my pedals whip unconsciously with every grunt, other racers grimace, but they’ll need more than that to extinguish the fire in my legs.