It took a few more strides before the realisation hit my frozen brain that I was now running without a left shoe. Attempting to retrieve it involved submerging in filthy, icy water, my neck craning to avoid drowning while hands aimlessly groped in the gloop. The prospect of Wiltshire County’s coronor having to hold an inquest into some damn fool kid dying because he so badly wanted a dog-eared leather shoe back was a distinct possibility at this point. I retired from cyclo-cross racing there and then.
Nice bit of writing to be found over at the Rapha blog about the pain and perils of cyclo-cross. Only Hard men need apply. Guess that’s me then.