Heeft iemand het telefoonnummer van dokter Fuentes voor mij?

De Bevrijdingsronde van Vlaardingen, mijn eerste èchte criteriumⁱ, heb ik verprutst: na tien (van de veertig) ronden kon ik afstappen. Zoals wel vaker zat het venijn 'm in de start. Ik was op de een of andere manier niet 'fully focused'; werd links en rechts gepasseerd; liet steeds ietsje teveel ruimte in de (tricky) bochten; dan weer aanzetten om in 't zog te komen; in gaten duiken die de bij bosjes lossende renners lieten vallen; voor de zoveelste keer dat teringviaduct opknallen... Pijpje leeg... Verdomme.

Bruco Bashed Big Time

Today it was my turn (again) to get punished. My first real 'town crit', the Bevrijdingsronde van Vlaardingen was not about 'liberation', Guts, Glory. Nope, it was a reality check, plain and simple: Bruco DNFⁱ...

The town of Vlaardingen not being too remote (it's near Rotterdam), I had registered myself and pedalled there without any major expectations. Due to family circumstances, I was forced to skip the scheduled rides following the last Tuesday Terrorⁱ, but with the wind in my back and the sun caressing my calves, things seemed fine.

But not for long... The race began with the traditional 'shock and awe' start. More civilised perhaps than in Hippolytushoef (Viking Tour) in terms of the 'wrestling', but still quite fast. At the word go, I found myself at about 3/4 of the +/- 100 rider queue, but within a couple of hundred metres, all but the slowest starters had overtaken me. I was simply not focused, not sharp enough, unwilling/unable to sprintⁱ my way out of trouble.

And trouble it was. The parcourse was straightforward: a rectangle with sharp corners, some speed ramps and a viaduct. On each of them, I lost valuable metres (allowing some clearance in the curves, avoiding a 'launch' on the ramps and spinning the shite out of myself uphill). That alone made me very, very tired. To aggravate things, many Oppositionaries threw the towel (as is typical for those at the rear, receiving, end of the bunch), which meant that I had to do several
intermediary sprints (and avoid those awe-inspiring crowd control barriers) just to keep in touch with the peloton.

After ten (out of forty) laps of this 'hanging on for dear life', I was waisted. So when the race commissioner signalled me off the course, I didn't object. I can't tell you how many of us DNF-ed, but there were spit-outs all over the place.

Behind the barriers, I watched a couple of more laps (eventually a grupetto of nine got away, with a diminishing peloton in unorganised, futile pursuit.

Beaten, but (morally) not broken, I returned home, this time with the wind straight into my face. But the sun still shone, and the mind still wandered...

Right now, I don't want to know when my next beating is scheduled. But I'll be back for more. As they say: 'Slow and steady wins the race.' It's just a petty that raising your level always means starting from ground zero.