I was vying for 35th place on day two of DCCX and I spent most of the third lap just behind the rear wheel of my appointed nemesis of the season.

He was 20 years younger. He was 20 lbs heavier.

He beat me handedly three weeks earlier on a flat fast course that favoured those with more power than finesse.

He beat me two weeks earlier when the bearings of my right pedal seized just as I closed in on him.

This day, however, was my day.

This course was my course. It snaked its way through the tree filled grounds of an historic military veterans retirement home.

The sound of my name being cheered let him know I was breathing down his neck. Less than a quarter of the final lap remained. I roared out of the last corner and turned to glance at him as I made the pass.

I was barely a mid-pack also-ran, but I felt a little bit victorious as I formally introduced myself after the finish.

I stood before him with an outstretched hand. He glanced at me and shook my hand with both disappointment and a smile to confirm a sliver of meaning to our personal rear-of-the-pack battle.

But I am not a number.