i hate u dad

Bike racing is an intense sport. I should know, my relationship with my dad growing up was largely based on the many bike races he took me to. We would always go to the racetrack out on the country to watch him race along with 40 of his identical rivals. It was never not hot; the cracked asphalt and insane surrounding climate made for an almost deadly combination. The food trucks were parked out by the road so that they might capitalize on the hungry cycling fanatics by selling expensive burritos and tacos. They were absolutely loaded with spicy material; the kind designed to make you buy another one of their equally expensive sparkling waters from their shop. The food wasn't bad, but I never was able to order them myself, being a shy ten year old with no money to my name.The races took about an hour and a half, and I hated almost every second of it. Words cannot describe how much I hated going to these races. It took years before my dad actually took me seriously when I told him on how I never wanted to go back to the racetrack again. "It'll grow on you son," he always said. "I need your support when I'm out on the track." That was bullshit, most of the time I couldn't even recognize him when he zoomed past every ten or so minutes. He was never in it for me, even as a little kid I saw right through that. He did it for him. He did it for himself, and now every time he mentions that he went on bike ride that morning I can't help but feel that that selfish part of my father never truly went away.