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Call me arrogant. Call me cocky. Call me crazy. Call me inebriated. But I was feeling pretty darn good that night a couple of weeks ago.

I was living it up at the end-of-season gathering put on by one of the bike clubs of which I am a member (strike the very notion of belonging to merely one). The celebration was proceeding, as these events so tend to do, when I heard Phil ask, "Is anyone else planning to do The Savage?"

The Savage Century - about 9K of climbing over 100 miles - I had done it before; I could do it again. But something else was welling up within me. I dare confess that the motivation behind my ambition will not seem pretty, but the haze has been reported to make many a sight seem so. The day there is nothing left to prove will be my last.

"I’ll only do that ride on my fixed-gear bike!" the crow cried. "Uh, can I get another Oktoberfest, please?"

It was time to sit back and watch the jaws drop. A more modest person wouldn’t enjoy the moment so much, but I am hardly modest. What I am is a stronger than average cyclist. Sure, others are better, but not as many as in the myriad sports I failed at before I found the bike.

So I guess I was glad when Phil called me on my boast. I was going to get my chance to show off what I can do well.

Call me proud. Call me anxious. Call me worried. But that’s what I love about cycling.

The appendages one would normally call legs were acting like tentacles and feeling like gaping wounds by the time I got to Bald Eagle hill. The ride had started out well but now I was struggling to keep up with riders I normally trounce. The humbling nature of the experience was second only to the swelling nausea. Phil waited patiently at the top for my arrival so we could start the descent to the next wall of a climb - Fishing Creek hill.

The fixed-gear purist sets up his fixie road bike like he would a track bike - sans brakes. Were I a purist, the ravine would be my new home. Attempting to control the speed, cadence and handling on a mile long double-digit grade drop saps one’s energy more than the climbs. Phil waited patiently at the bottom for my arrival.

Fishing Creek hill almost killed me a few years back when I had a 24 cog sprocket. How was I ever going to survive with a 17? The struggle was pure torture. When I finally cleared the woods and started the steep straightaway to the cusp, I could see Phil and the gang waiting for me with baited breath.

They must have watched as the bike switchbacked up the road, teetering at every pedal stroke. They must have heard the highly audible gasps of despair for I know the vultures did. Had they not been watching, I surely would’ve thrown down the wretched machine and retched upon the street. But alas I live by the mantra of all endurance athletes: The pain, no matter how horrible, is merely fleeting, while the blight of capitulation follows you to your death bed.

Call me sick. Call me masochistic. Call me stupefied. But that’s what I love about cycling.

With only a couple of miles left to go, I ask Phil if we can take it easy. I say it’s to warm down, but by now you all know that a "macho man" like me doesn’t need a warm down. No, I just want to enjoy the ride for a change.

I take a deep breath and make small talk with Phil while I take in the splendid vista with the autumn colors at their peak. I ride along, feeling the road with every pedal stroke, like only a fixed gear rider can. It is beautiful. It is wonderful. I am truly alive.

Call me corny. Call me flippant. Call me happy. But THIS is why I love cycling.