Good gravy, but that hurt.
I only managed four (or maybe three?) laps before my legs and pride completely gave out. I just couldn’t hack the pace (at least 28 mph, the highest my computer got) and dropped behind after the second turn.
But Paul, one of my teammates (and a triathlon coach), told me he crapped out on his first race, and I didn’t feel so bad. It’s a different feeling than a triathlon, where my only concern was my own time. In a crit, you’ve got to suck it up and muscle in with the peloton and hold your spot. All that jostling still scares me, but, dammit, I’m not going to let it get to me.
Plus, I had waffles Benedict for breakfast. Any activity that allows me to suck down that much food and still have room for a chocolate croissant, fish tacos and big bowl of pasta for dinner and still feel hungry is eight kinds of good. We’ll see how Friday’s ride with La Grange goes.
No dropping out. No whining. Ironmen show up.