Defeat

The battle was tough but I was bested. I was bruised and tired; if I went again, I wasn't sure whether my wheel would give before me. Blisters were growing on my hands and my thumbs were locked into a crooked hook around the grip. My knee was swollen and cut, my feet felt like bloody stumps. Lap 1 & 2 went beautiful. I was on pace to be near the top of the field. Then in the middle of lap 3, I hit something on the fast straight away. I think it was a turtle -- brown round and symmetrical and light enough to go flying. I was going fast then in a cartwheel then in a tree. I laid there for a while registering what was still attached. My front wheel was toast. I started to walk, but then as I reassessed my situation and my brazen polo days, I stopped. I pulled the twisted wheel out of the fork and found a hard patch on the ground and started beating back into shape. I was rolling slowly again after ten minutes.
The rim was breaking right at the seam. There's about a 1.5mm edge twisting into the bead of the tire. Lap 4 was hell. I hurt and ground. I must've looked bad after finishing it. They asked if I needed to go to the medical station. I got back on and rolled down the hill to my stash, took stock and swallowed what I could. Then I rolled on. Number 5. I knew I was defeated. I would not make six laps and 12 hours, but I have to keep it close. I needed another to prove my worthiness in the burning. As I started down the single track, the world became numb as I blocked the pain. The trail became mechanical, no adrenaline rush, no pleasure, just the grind. I rolled through that last lap finishing 64 miles, 9 hours and 18 minutes after the start. I put up the bike and cracked open a beer. The burning took me, a thoroughly strong satisfying bloodied defeat.