I started my [cycling] sporting career on a Trek mountain bike equipped with bull horns and a flipped upside down 30 degree stem. It was the most badass mountain rig I'd ever seen. At road group rides I'd kick it with the old guns and try not to get dropped. That bike kicked my butt in a good way, I trained on it for 3 months. Avoiding pain was never the goal. I enjoyed riding bikes, I always have; but when I saw what some guys were doing on the road I wanted a piece of that action. From the sidewalk at races I would see badass looking racers, who seemed to ooze confidence and prowess on the bike, tearing around criterium courses. The goal was always how to get from "intramural-softball-jersey-wearing-puke-who-didn't-even-own-a-pair-of-clipless-pedals" to that image of a road racer. I didn't have the slightest clue what I was doing on the bike. Most training sessions involved riding as hard and as far as I could (sometimes riding out of town and finding that I could barely make it back). On a more than a few occassions my breakfast, lunch, or dinner would litter the roadside.
It was love at first sight over and over again, building my Kona. The frame and fork, lifting it out of the box the first time, I marveled at its feather-weight. For weeks that f&f sat alone in my room waiting its wheels, gruppo, and components. I would come home and sit, staring at it, day-dreaming of when I would race on a real road bike. After months it came together, piece by piece. The chain was the last part to be assembled. Leaving my girlfriend behind I rode into the night, not caring about anything but the bliss I experienced riding my Kona for the first time. She was the product of months of dreaming, searching, and waiting. Unwilling to wait for every last bit of equipment I rode her without clipless shoes (to match her clipless pedals) and a lockring. Riding on rough surfaces my 12 tooth cog would jingle, as it bounced loosely on the cassette. Sooner or later it all came together and we were inseperable.
How many hours did I spend in her saddle? Hundreds. How many miles did we share on the road? Thousands. We came to know each other as I came to understand what made my life worth living, the joy that I felt in the pavement beneath her. Sometimes I hated the pain we suffered together, but when the day was done I always felt victorious. I didn't always know where we were going, rather only that we were going somewhere. The victory was about pushing my limit, about going to the edge and stepping off. Truly, I'd fall, but at the bottom I'd pick myself up, climb the cliff, and step off again. I got pretty good at it, taking the abuse; after a while it didn't hurt so bad. Then I'd find a bigger cliff, climb it, and repeat. That's how you sweat.
Most racers know what it is to bleed, on the inside or out. The former always accompanies the latter when the latter is experienced. On the surface, the casual spectator fails to see the riveting nature of cycling's mental game, but it's there. At a certain point in every racer's career it comes to the forefront of their racing, and is pivotal. There is a point where the mind can bring ruin to every second of training and bring vanity to every ounce of energy given to the pedals. You can bleed without falling.
How do you stop the bleeding? Keep riding your bike. Put yourself in a situation where you will bleed, forget your fear, and come out on the other side; unscathed or not.
1 comment:
Losing my bike is something I can't think about without getting sick. Maybe it'll show up at a race underneath a soon-to-be dead rider.
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