In my previous blog I moaned about the frustration of finishing in 11th. I should have kept quiet because it certainly isn't as frustrating as having a DNF next to you name in the results.
Last Saturday began with the aim of making the top ten. Half way through the race things weren't going quite to plan, but my hopes of a strong finish were about to derail completely. In the congestion at the start of the race there had been a minor hold up just ahead of me when a rider had gone done in the dirt. I'd had a wobble myself taking avoiding action, but it hadn't been much and everything seemed fine; except my saddle felt a little bit wobbly.
90 minutes later I had settled into the race. My motivation had recovered from taking a hit after loosing places and slipping back in the field early on. I was feeling strong now and ready to go on the offensive and get those positions back. I had a rider close behind who I had just passed and on a short steep uphill I was trying to make a break for it, when I suddenly collapsed in a heap on the ground. I hit the tree on my left, but I believe this was the result of the saddle suddenly slipping as I was pushing hard on the pedals.
I scrambled back to my feet and went to leap on the bike when I noticed my saddle wasn't on the seatpost anymore. I picked it up and stood there for a while in an adrenaline fuelled daze, clutching the saddle in my hand, my mind refusing to accept that my days racing might be over. There was no bodge or fix that was going to work and hope to survive for the remaining 90 minutes of brutal racing. The only option was the long walk back to car. I'd rather have been 11th.
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