No, not that kind of crash. The post race season crash. The "after all the awards are handed out, sponsors thanked, victory speeches given and you are left alone with $3 worth of plastic signifying your accomplishments that no one outside of maybe three other people on earth give a shit about" crash.
The days are shorter, moving so quickly into darkness and it's wall to wall holiday mayhem consumerism everywhere you turn with the only apparent message that if you truly love someone, you better go into debt to get them something shiny they don't need. Soon we will mark the passing of another year and those trophies and #1 plates will mean even less, because the idiots will be lining up to take them from you, and if your head isn't in it, if your heart isn't in it, you are going to get beat. Or hurt. Or dead.
So you soul search on those restlessly damp nights that make all the old injuries ache, an ever present reminder of dues paid, each scar a vivid receipt. And you wonder how much you might have left to pay, because no one gets a free ride, ever. And you wonder if it is still in you. And you pray for some sort of cattle prod in the arse to shock you out of the funk, because race season is a long way off and you sure as shit aren't getting any younger. Ho ho ho.