Challenge The Championship, SVK

The Championship. Samorin, Slovakia. Unshackled from the Great Southern Land, with a chance to test myself on the world stage. Hitherto, my only world class performance in post-corona era is briefly nabbing a Titan’s Grove KOM on a quiet morning. Look Mum, a jersey! The field here is strong, & young, but I’ve got the chutzpah. Hardly know any of these guys anyway! Europe. It’s all new to me again, sparing the apoplectic technical official holding a gun to the swim warmup window. Race start proceedings like I know how. Effective, precise. A Varga/Amberger swim sure to excite the triathlon pundits, & here we are. Eyeballing in the Danube. I came to make empire in the spirit of Atilla, but I draw alliance & bide my time, pulling into the slipstream. But I tire & remove myself, preferring a straighter path between buoys. All good, will catch pretty easy on the bike. Any minute now, surely. Nup. Heemeryck passes at Mach 2. Ta ta Taagholt. Turns out I forgot to practice my 200m draft zone. Irreverence. Hubris! At least I can admit it. I notice a blue bottle behind me, hoping to get my Funk on once he passes. But it’s a Brit dressed as a German. Strange times indeed. I stay with 0% for a while but the draft isn’t working here either, it’s like a real life Zwift algorithm. Scandi guy called Thor blitzes past. Blimey. Who’s next, Odin? Fuck it. Take me straight to Ragnarok. This is bollocks. Mongolian warlord dreams cancelled, running objectives now redressed to holding top 10. Sand. Grass. Horses. Stables. I actually do feel rather equine. Just without the power. And the endowment! Give me some hay & I’ll probably shit out a warm clumpy load of excuses onto in the middle of the path! 12th place for Thorsten’s form guide. Got some glue going cheap, DM for price, cash only.