There is a momentary slowing and I know this is my chance. I hit out and leave nothing in reserve. There is already half a tracks length into the chasing riders, but there are two laps to go. I live for this pain. One lap to go—I hear screams from the infield like war cries. I get out of the saddle—nothing. Absolutely nothing left. I slam back down and try and roll the gear over. I can see the line but so can the wolves behind me and within a length of the line the pack swamps me at terrific speed.
I fall back into my chair, sweat courses down my face. Across from me I see hollow faces of the other riders, demolished by the efforts on the race. There is an emptiness in my stomach, like I’ve been kicked by a horse.
I love to ride inside.