Wetwork

At the beginning of the race, the target you had identified to me was having trouble moving up in the 70+ rider field (he confided in me earlier that it was his first race all year). I took notice of this as I was able to make it to the front but knew the pace was so hard that no breaks could survive. 

Satisfied thusly, I set about my cruel task: I drifted back to where he was and noted that he was consistently taking turn 3, a hard right hander in a place with no spectators, pretty wide every time. When we were at about 10 laps to go I drifted back to just in front of him and as we approached turn 3, made sure to pin him against my left hip. At the beginning of the turn I began wide, then went steadily wider until I was barely grazing the barricades myself, with his front wheel pinned between my rear wheel and the metal. It didn't take long before I heard the familiar sounds of cracking carbon, the scrape of body parts on the road and snap of a bone or two. A couple bystanding racers were unfortunately involved, one of them running off the course and plowing into a hedge, the other a mass of road rash (sorry about that, guys).

Feigning concern, I swung back around to inspect the damage. He was down alright, whimpering and wedged as he was with what was left of his bike between pavement and barricade, other parts scattered about as if he had been dropped from five stories. A slack-jawed five-year old boy was my only witness as I shifted into the small chainring, exposing the big ring.

I got back up to speed and was careening straight at him when our eyes met. It was at that moment he realized who I was and why I was here. He yelled "Not the legs! Please not the legs! She sent you to do it, didn't she?" as I rode over him with the exposed, hungry big chainring, churning away as his screams echoed off the buildings.

Before the racers came round again I sprayed off as much blood off the bottom of my bike as I could with my water bottle, let some air out of the front wheel and rolled around to the pit, feigning a puncture. 

No one was the wiser, and thank you for promptly sending the second half payment by the usual method.