We slowed down as the race became a tactical battle of wits. Which rider could stay in the saddle longer? Who would avoid crashing? Gary needed to finish the day without losing ground. He struggled to hold the wheels of Napp and the Colorado Kid. I felt strong, and drafted Napp as long as possible as he lapped me.
The women, except for Rose, lost their vigor. The leaderboard showed me behind Rose in laps completed. I led the Holy Roller by a lot but trailed the General. We traded off drafting when maintaining a similar pace suited us.
“We might as well share the pulls,” I said.
The General agreed. “An army on the march needs discipline.”
Gary drafted me much of the time. Occasionally, Rose and I stayed together as we circled. We shared drafting when possible to make Gary’s ride easier. I benefited from her windbreak much more than she did mine, given the size of our bikes.
“Gary looks bad,” she said.
“He’s hurting from yesterday.”
She pulled ahead to talk to Gary, as I drafted him. “How’s the body?”
“I rank this crash my worst since I started racing three years ago. We were flying.”
“You should quit early.”
Gary waved Rose away. “No way. I’m going to suffer through the day, then sleep late.”
“Suit yourself.” I rode ahead of Gary to let him draft, after Rose fell back. “I’ll pull you around for a while.” He jumped at the offer, a sign of weakness. For the next hour, he stayed on my wheel, and our pious friend the Holy Roller accompanied me, trading pulls. He wore the same white jersey and black shorts from day one.
A small red cross stitched over his heart and a black collar gave him the desired appearance of a priest.
Silicon Valley Cyclist 
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