After race number six I was tired. All the racing and training leading up to the 24-hour race (and the race itself) took its toll. Added to all the other adult responsibilities, I was preparing for a huge retaining wall and cement work in the backyard. And a pool in the front yard. And another retaining wall around that. And a pool fence. And more cement work.
If a witch were to concoct a sickness potion, she would throw all those things into a caldron and say a few lines of rhyming nonsense. Poof! "You're sick!" she would cackle as she sped off on her broom.
By the time race number seven rolled around, my cold had devolved into a lung infection. I was on antibiotics and feeling pretty terrible. However, I was in first place in the standings, and as I was juggling all the things in my life, I was a little too obsessed with that racing ball that had a "#1" on it.
Today I had a sore throat and a headache, but I went out and raced anyway with predictable results. Doug ripped off another win, Jerry took second, and I limped around the course to take 8th place. Jerry leapfrogged over me and now had a solid five-point series lead after seven races.
Even though I knew I could bounce back after the infection cleared, I started questioning whether I even wanted to. This all started as a way for Doug and I to train for the Coolest 24, and we accomplished that. Now the weather had turned very hot, and circling around the rough, dusty, boring courses was quickly losing its appeal.
I decided to take a week off to fully recover. Then I simply never went back.
All things considered, I was fine with how it turned out.
Even with missing the last five races I took 6th place out of 62 on the season. A top five would have been nice, but that's what happens when you quit.
Later.
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