Guilt sunk in. My stomach was still full from the previous night’s feast. Sunlight pierced the gap between the window and the blind and irritated my eyes as they worked to adapt to the contrast. On the bedside table, my watch ticked loudly. Anxious, I looked at my legs. Stubbly bits of hair poked through skin. The brown and white tan lines were beginning to fade. The once well-defined muscles under paper-thin skin marked with scars and scabs and lined with rivers of veins were now pasty, bloated and thick from nearly a month off of the bike. No longer did I feel like a racing cyclist. (Continue reading)

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