Waiting

There’s that window of time small as it may be if you really look at the watch but it’s there anyway. The moment that seems to last a lifetime when you’re waiting, waiting for your number and name to be called so you can take a spot in the grid, and you’ve already jettisoned the overwear whether it be a jacket or long sleeve jersey or whatever protection you’ve had on during the pre-ride and waiting around for your number and name to be called so you can take a spot in the grid. You’ve removed everything but the kit and you’re ready but they’re not. That moment lasts forever. You might tie your shoelaces one more time. Or take off your helmet and reposition it again, again. Or pee again. Or undo your wheel skewers to ensure they’re really as tightly fastened as you’d like them to be, the long wait. And you’re freezing even IF it’s not that cold out. Nerves play games. Everyone is looking at everyone else’s legs and tan lines and body fat while wondering how long before they turn on the heat in this room. And then the race starts and then you live in this small world that exists only for a moment. And in that world you pray to fucking God you clipped in, and that no one’s rear wheel starts coming back at you, and that – with hope and prayer and luck – a large amount of space is gifted so you can just sprint to your heart’s desire and get the start we all fantasize about. And then a moment after the moment just described, you wonder why it’s so fucking hot and why you’re wearing so many layers.

All This By Hand
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