It's a Sunday in early August 1997. I'm 28 years old and I've just woken up the morning of my very first road bike race. And I'm cowering under the covers, miserable and afraid, desperately trying to will time to slow down so I don't have to pull on my cycling clothes and face the day. Why did I think this was a good idea? I could be doing something fun. In my mind's eye, all I saw was disaster. I'd suffer, get dropped, and royally suck in front of an audience. What was I thinking?
After a few minor debacles (who knew you couldn't wear a tank top in a road race? Not me. It had been fine in mountain bike races. Wearing my giant goodie-bag T-shirt under my tank top was a great look, thank you very much.), I was off. I actually end up winning...sort of...by default, because I was...
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