There is a formula for the best riders that exist and ever will exist; they do not tolerate moderation, and are worse at practicing it. All of the cyclists I know, have ridden with, or watched; we all have a fierce independent streak that you will not want to get in the way of.What drives a person to a bicycle in the first place? Escapism or being fat, or both. When I ask people what got them into cycling those are the top two answers. "I was a chubby kid," or "I wanted to get away." So it was as if we were running away but necessarily counting on being welcomed home at the same time. It's a "fuck-you" but it's also an "Ok, I'm cool now, I'll take some dinner."
I got into cycling because at 14 years old I had love handles. I wasn't fat, not by todays standards, but the critical part was that I felt fat. I got my first bike that year and a full kit that was much too tight and not suitable for my prepubescent junk.
The bike was (and still is, as it's hanging in my garage) a beautiful red wine colored piece of velo-porn by Austro-Daimler, at that point a sister company of Porsche, Skoda and Puch, making very classy, heavy steel frames, but also possibly had ties to naughty German people whose name we do not speak.
I rode that thing, the first summer, around Maine, New York, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and up into Montreal. The next summer, at 15, I rode around England, France, Belgium and Holland. It was a group ride and there were about 10 of us and one very fucking geeky 22 year old kid from Dartmouth who was our leader. He didn't really give a shit what we did at night as long as we were ready in the morning, so it was that summer I learned how to drink.
I learned fast and violently. I was so drunk in Amsterdam after a day spent at the Heineken factory with 6 others on the ride that I spent the entire night wrapped around the "toilet," which is Dutch for "toilet." That's the super part about being 15; you can rip yourself apart every night and then wake up fresh and rosy and pound out 100 miles carrying full gear.So, my theory goes like this; cyclists, and I don't really include the weekend warrior guys in on this one, because I think that is mostly about getting away from their wives and/or blowing off smoke and/or just simply having a good time, but the cyclists who are either racing at a respectable level and/or going out training 5-6 days a week, every week, regardless of weather, are troubled souls.
Because the more I ride, and the older I get, and the more complicated and frightening this world becomes, I only really feel good on my bike. I can focus, and I can push myself to my own limits or just soft-pedal with no one to judge me. I smile more on my bike than off of it. Thats not just a little thing.
Chapter Two: The Ride:
I had a hard time on my ride the other day in the mountains of North Georgia. I can't say that I really prepped for it or anything, in fact I had a pretty good time drinking some beers and staring mindlessly at my current internet infatuation called Tapiture. (Fuck you, I love you.)
I could not sleep. I slept, but I woke up maybe 10 times just waiting for the day to start. It was to be a 95 mile ride with (what I thought would be) about 12,000 feet of climbing. That was what RideWithGPS said it would be, when we mapped it. (Fuck you, I love you.)
The upside is that I was able to wheel-suck my friend, who made it clear from the very beginning that it would not make me a pussy, and that, in fact, it was quite agreeable since he had certain wattages he had to meet for the day and it was better for him to set the pace. The additional upside is that we actually like each other, and that I didn't crash the party, but was invited.
Riding with other people is a tough navigation. There are so many nuances to a successful, symbiotic ride with another human that I can't cover it here in these few words. Suffice it to say, I think it boils down to a made-up theory of mine, previously stated: riding with someone else, if they are not on your level, spiritually or physically, is like trying to find a rhythm in an at-capacity moon bounce.
It was a gorgeous day, and it was one I will remember. I admit I was nervous, but I think I hung in there pretty well.
Here she goes:
