Confession

Bless me, Barry, for I have sinned.  It has been a really, really long time since my last confession.  These are my sins:

Vanity – I entered your race, the Barry’s Roubaix, thinking I was really hot stuff.  I assumed my triathlon glories, last spotted over six months ago, since when I have trained precious little, would translate to instant road racing success.  I allowed my pride to be inflated by hearing the flattery of others who told me I could certainly handle Cat 3/4 Women.  I discounted the presence of hungry Canada Games contenders.  Finally, when I got my ass handed to me on a platter and dropped first by the lead group, then the chase group, the stragglers, and the incumbent lanterne rouge, I was so mortified by my DFL position that I took a DNF before the 12-year-old boys caught me, and walked off the course without completing the race.

Envy – I saw the competent road racers in my club and wanted to be like them.  I wanted to be one of the cool kids.  I wanted to be part of the banter about the tactics in the pack.  I envied the road racers with their tales from the peloton and post-race swagger.  Or maybe that’s saddle sores.

Lechery – It wouldn’t have been at all bad if I’d impressed a boy.  I hear they’re into mud-covered, stinking women who are picking gravel out of their teeth.

Avarice – I wanted a QOM. I wanted stunning numbers out of my power meter.  I wanted a kick-ass race report.

Wrath – I allowed my sense of shame for both my pitiful showing in the race and, more, for not sucking it up and riding 40 km alone, to drive me into a childish snit instead of accepting the situation gracefully.  I directed attention to myself instead of toward the real contenders of the day.  I snarled at my son who came off the course injured and at kind people who tried to console me.

Idleness – instead of training consistently and with discipline, I have been a slug this winter, denying all along how badly my fitness has slipped.  I chose to believe that I could perform the way I want to without putting in the hours of hard work it takes to excel.  And I quit the race.  Instead of toughing it out and doing what I said I’d do, I spent 20 minutes hoping an otter would run across the dyke and cause me to crash so I could stop, and then just stepped off the course when no suicidal critters appeared.

Gluttony – Girl Guide Cookies.  10 pounds of lard on the bike.  Perhaps there might be a connection there.

I am heartily sorry for having offended the cycling gods and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of hardware and the pains of the solo TT.  I firmly resolve to train properly, eat right, and treat other people’s sports with the respect they deserve.

Penance:  Went home, got out my bike, and rode four Caddy Bays, three Sinclairs, two Ring Roads, and a Mt Tolmie to round out the time I should have spent grinding along the dyke road.  In a sheeting storm.  With a gale.  Bleeding through my eyeballs.  And ironically enough, an otter went bounding across Beach Drive into the golf course and I had to apply every bit of emergency handling I know in order to only run over its tail.  Didn’t crash, so had to go do those hills.  🙂