The women still led me, but only by a few laps. I had no illusions that I might not catch them. Among the men, Napp and Gary dominated, with Coper and Reddle a few laps back.
I entered the pit and tossed my bike to one side, relieved the day had ended after one hundred miles. Fatigue and that constant drumming noise of wheels rolling over the track robbed me of thoughts and words. I settled in and wrote my account from a participant’s viewpoint.
The aficionados fueled our determination and kept us from letting up. They unwittingly became our tormentors. Competitors’ faces contorted in pain and concentration, as my pen put words to paper. I envisioned moments of joy, hope, and expectations, tinged with suffering. The ladies endured the agony equally, which did not escape my notice. What did they gain from competing in a bike marathon?
I understand men’s egos depending upon winning a physical competition, but what of the women? Here was a side of the “fairer” sex as mysterious as a moonless night. Maybe women were painted in too broad a brush stroke. Maybe they’re no different from men in the sports arena. Everyone wants to win. Their inherent muscular limitations cannot be overlooked, but I realized it’s far less of a factor than men might realize.
They lapped me on several occasions. These women rode like men. Or did the less athletic males ride like women? Those thoughts rattled my ego as I recorded my observations. I finished my story and gave it to a courier to deliver to the Examiner. As I handed over the manuscript, Mr. Sanger hailed me from the upper grandstand. “Mr. Huntsman, so far so good.” He waved a newspaper. I was no longer “the kid.” Progress.
Silicon Valley Cyclist 
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