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The final chase. The last race of the night. A madison, an undetermined number of laps. The fug of the previous 40 laps of the dernies hangs in the artificially warmed air, suspended in the noise and the lights. The audible whirrs and whizzes of big, big gears, the rumble of high pressure tubs on wooden boards. Leaning over the barrier the hum of the laps vibrates through me. Tight on the inside line at the bottom of the track riders chase each other at ever increasing speed, flashing colours blurring together. Team mates float high up on the banking, at a seemingly impossible angle, close enough to hear their breathing, waiting, recovering, before dropping back down, to be flung into the action again…

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