A six corner crit over a single kilometer. Manhole covers at the apex and track out of more turns than not. Wet. A steep pitch up to the finish from a downhill final turn. This was going to be nasty. I like dangerous, technical races. I like them more in the wet. Anything that makes other people worry puts a smile on my face. Except this one. It was dangerous in a guaranteed-to-go-to-the-hospital-if-you-do-it-with-80-guys kind of way.
So I wasn’t terribly upset when flash flooding – and I mean six or more inches of flowing water kind of flooding – cancelled the stage forty minutes prior to my start. But still. Burlington was an hour’s drive, north, no less, from the Mad River Valley. I was changed, number pinned, bike out of the car, soaked, ready to race. It was a bit of a let down in the non-event sort of sense. And so I said a quick goodbye to one of my roommates, changed in a Burger King and drove home. Like nothing had happened.
Because it didn’t.