Another race report from a great writer who also happened to have taken third place in Grand Masters.
After about four miles and a hand full of hills later a process of “reverse mitosis” began where clumps of backward pressured cyclists were forced to subdivide then simultaneously discard off the back like sinuous strands of rejected DNA that de-evolved and croaked. In short, the pack shattered and no matter how hard I sat on the back nobody could bridge us back up. For the next two hours, I surfed the back and mimicked a remora fish by glomming onto younger, faster guys. Did I mention I’m 64?
How hard I sat on the back