Njs Chain Tug To Giveaway Free!

I can't control the giggle that heaves up in one happy sob from within the pounding. I've just spun past the posh McDonalds, black with gold decals, and it hits me how far I've come from burger-guzzling lardarse to eager Tour de France entrant - the road for me has been so much longer than the one I've powered though over these last few days. Now, incredibly, the finish line is just up ahead, just past Maccy D's; the crowd's screams of "Allez! *Allez!!!" *cascade around me and with every second syllable I slice through, pounding the crank, hugging close in, my legs pumping, blurring. My 3Rensho frame feels so sure, so confident, and the very flexings of its geometery seem to speak to me in soothing, urging tones, and I get another rush of adrenaline through my chest, and I feel it surge up through my burning shoulders and triceps. "Yes, San, Yes".

I've been riding tucked well in, chin almost touching the stem, but now I lift slightly and transfer from the drops to the hoods, my favourite position and the one I have always felt reassured by. I tuck in my shoulders, shift my back momentarily and give one last surge of effort. 200 meters. The crowd is muted, ambient almost now, as the sound of my own blood roars through my chest and legs and the pain sears through my calves. I know they are so very close behind me, just waiting for one tiny mistake, one small pocket of error that will allow one of them, or all of them, to squeeze through. The helicopters are thwapp-thwapping. I can hear the contact of my tyres. I can hear each link of my chain. I can hear my mind.

And I roar and the finish line is gone, way behind me, and I lift up my hands and roll through the avenue of smiles.