I was struggling in today's handicap race, something I think I'll have to get used to if I stick with this road racing malarkey. Half the time I was so short of breath that eating anything was near impossible. The other half my legs were hurting so much that it took every stupid psychological game-playing strategy I could think of just to keep them ticking over. I was hanging on to my group, though, and given that Ewin had predicted the winners would eventually come from my group, this was a good thing. To help ease the pain I was sticking to the back of the bunch, letting other folks do the work. They'd do their turn at the front, work their way to the back, and then I'd signal for them to cut in front of me. It means they had to do more work, but I doubt they were struggling quite as much, so I didn't freaking care. Until I signaled this one guy in. He really wasn't too keen on the idea, but I was dropping the wheel, so he didn't really have a choice. He did, however, make his displeasure known in a way that was universally understood.
Pretty soon afterwards I got dropped.
The winner did come from my group, and my good pal and occasional training buddy Fraser came in fourth. I came home fifty places behind him.