There I was flying down a crazy-fast descent, no one near me (either they were way in front of me or somewhere behind me) patting myself on the back for having ridden that six-mile, 1,800-foot climb just about perfectly. Though my front derailleur was, for some weird reason (sand, dirt and grit?), locked in the middle chainring, I’d ridden the 45-minute hill pretty strong so that when we ducked back into the forest and down the steep, sweeping, scary-skinny trail, there was no one close to me. Here’s where I could really put some time into those behind me. 
After negotiating about five or six tight—I mean, come-to-a-standstill tight—switchbacks, I remembered the words of the race director (I presume) who’d told us that during this stretch we’d come to fork where and could go either right or left, it didn’t matter, they both met up just ahead. He advised going right because it was probably the faster, easier way. Wanting to be aggressive, wanting to be fast, when I approached what I assumed was said fork, I turned right. It was steep and I dropped down like a lead balloon, super fast. It seemed just like what the RD described. But moments later, I sickeningly realized, after I was way off course, that it wasn’t the fork he was talking about. 
I rode on, hoping like hell it would hook back up somehow—that reality would change because I oh, so wanted it to—but it didn’t. I’d taken the wrong turn. I shouted the f-word and others loudly to the forest, but it didn’t change anything. My Indie Series season was done. I’d hoped to move up in the Sport overall standings, but by not even finishing, I’m sure I dropped down a bit.
Oh well, first season of racing the Indie series went pretty well, especially the first half. Three wins and a sixth place (broken chain) in the Beginner 45+ category, a fifth place in my first Sport category race (in Roslyn’s 93-degree heat) and a missed turn DNF in this, the last race. Still, I had fun. And I look forward to racing again next year.
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