Why I Love Cycling

We, cyclists, roadies, or whatever you choose to call yourself, come from all walks of life and a variety of former sports, but we are linked by one common denominator. Our two wheels and the freedom it provides. It is much more than exercise to us, of course that is a welcome side effect that our passion generates. This destined clan that we slog along with on the roads has not one ounce of reason or rhyme as to why we are called so strongly to this simple machine, but we are and it fuses us as brethren. We long for those rides that produce a feeling of invincibility and freedom, freedom from life’s petty and worthless hang-ups. Whether it is the 40 plus group rides, lone training in the hills spent with hours deep in thought, or working your rear off at a race with your teammates crushing any hope of the opposition for victory. This is not something easily described, however it is a taste. As we, the lucky, know to our core whatever the ride it is all linked and so are we, regardless of the ride, the capability or the desire, and this is my ride.

For me the group ride is where the all the fun is, it always starts with an early cup of piping hot coffee, then to the web to check current weather conditions and the forecast for the remainder of the day because you never know how long or where you could go. But the weather really doesn’t matter any way; I am going to ride regardless of conditions for the most part, some even think I am crazy. As I putz around in my boxers and ragged tee-shirt, coming up with a new route, I envision not just a normal, run of the mill ride. It must be epic. Something to talk about. Something to leave the rest of the group wanting more and at the same time never wanting to ride with me again.

I have cleared the day for this ride, this adventure, this death march, and this super-ride; so time is not of the essence for me at least, the others are left to their own devices. So go the wee hours of the morning as I tinker with the bike. Checking the rhythm of the gears as I shift through them all to make sure they are all firing crisply. After a quick "tuney" I grab the ensemble for the day, making sure I am prepared for whatever conditions might occur because here in Colorado no one can trust the weatherman, in fact I check three different sites just to have some idea what could come. To complete the pre-ride ritual I grab the closest thing there is to eat, it doesn’t matter what it is at this point because I need to be out the door in the next five minutes so I am not the last one to the rendezvous point; otherwise it is going to be at least five minutes of endless banter from six buddies for being late.

Out the door I fly, down the steps to the street, a quick glance around and I’m off to the coffee shop, or the bike shop, or both, or wherever the meeting point for the morning and collect the crew at each place and along the way. I’m still woofing down the breakfast that I so rapidly put together. Quick glance at the watch, I notice I’d better pick up the pace just a notch as I’m flying by the early morning joggers who are already at it and the sleeping bums are starting to awaken. I pass the recreational riders, who I will never be mistaken for - I am definitely not one of them, with the iPod rockin’ and my mind racing. This goes on for about ten minutes before I look back at the Polar to tone it down before my make-shift breakfast makes an early escape.

As I pull up to the coffee shop and see the bikes out front noting any new pieces of equipment on my teammates or friends’ bikes, light wheels or heavy, one or two water bottles, who’s there, who’s missing and who I don’t recognize. I get off my stead and mosey on in and there sits the rabble I plan to spend the next three to six hours with, all like me, sort of. The usual banter begins with the customary insults and general teasing that I am prepared for and ready to respond to as fast as it comes. Some serious conversation arises but doesn’t really live that long before it comes back to bikes, racing, or mockery. All the worst is saved for the one guy who is always late, it never changes. After sitting around or riding circles until "Johnny come late" is ready to go, the ride finally begins. This is the one thing that spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends and family do not understand; time doesn’t start running until the regiment is assembled, then and only then does the clock begin, so we can all squeeze in ten, twenty, even thirty more minutes.

Slowly we all pull out of the parking lot and head down the road to an as yet unknown destination. I look around for who I haven’t seen for a while to catch up with, an unfinished conversation from the last ride, or just someone to prod as we all ease along in the beginning. Everything shifts as the motley crew is now rumbling and curious as to where they are going, what be their fate this fine day? How much is today going to hurt? Is it going to be a long slow death march or are we hitting the hills? Someone recommends one route, then another, then I pipe in with what I conjured up this morning while sipping my cup of joe.

As soon as the decision is made on where to go, so is the decision of how long I am going to ride for. Some guys have Cipollini Disease and turn at the first sight of hills, no matter what the duration or the grade, others long for them and run from the long slow "death march", that never-ending ride that just keeps on punishing with no end in sight and then there it is, nope, still going on and on and on into the darkness of winter. As the ride lags on, the number starts to dwindle and the real troopers begin to show who is out for a little jaunt and who is up for some pain and suffering.

The competitive spirit is alive and well within the group. The pace presses harder as the sprinters race for the city limit or stop ahead sign, the cat and mouse riders love to seduce them into an early jump and sit back with a laugh, even the climbers get a chance to turn the pedals of anger rolling as soon as the road tilts up they begin to separate themselves from the rest of the pack and inflict some hurt. Everyone in the group settles into their own rhythm on the climb, unfortunately there is no gray area or place to hide in the hills for any of us - climbing is either celebrated or despised, in front or in the back. There are a few exceptions occasionally, but just a few, as those torn between keeping pace with the mountain goats or admitting defeat and retreating to the laughing group - more like the laughing stock.

Just to appease the less gifted or the heavier weighted the little "Basques" sit up on the summits and wait to descend together which provides an opportunity for the dare-devils to stretch their limit through the hairpin turns of back canyon roads. Usually what goes up and then down must go back up again somewhere along the ride and the separation happens all over again. While all of this jockeying is happening throughout the ride there tends to be an endless chatter amongst the comrades in arms. By the time the ride is winding down riders are splitting off to different routes, all heading back home to retell the story as if it is legend-worthy.

And then there are times I long for a gut wrenching soul-searching solo training suffer-fest. Yes there is something masochistic about it, about me, but it is a requirement to compete. There is a little something inside which just doesn’t stop me from punishing myself to oblivion and I like it. This sport is about who can suffer more, who can go further to the edge of a mental meltdown, who can inflict more pain upon himself/herself and push past it, welcome it, surrender to it, to commit to die on the bike, rather than pack it in and quit. Sure I can go out and test myself against friends and teammates on the group rides but it is when I ride alone when I am tested the most, this immeasurable quality. It is what I do when no one is looking where gains are made, where I choose to suffer, where the fearful demon rears its ugly head, where I call it to come out and play. These rides are not the lackadaisical spin through the neighborhood park with a few hard efforts, too simple and too easy.

I elicit guidance from another who is far more experienced and knowledgeable at releasing this demon for my training. Regardless of who is in charge of these torturous workouts, eventually it is me who must follow through and ride. Whether it is an early morning ride I try so desperately to squeeze in before heading out to the profession that pays the bills or rushing home from the office before the sun sets: it must get done. I sit and study what I am about to put my body through, get my head around it, commit to it and, sometimes begrudgingly, depending on the severity or the conditions, I mount my stead and ride.

As I settle into the prescribed ride thoughts enter and escape. Sometimes the warm-up is never enough time to be ready, and other times I just want to get it over with and begin enjoying the burn. I pass by cars, walkers, joggers, roller-bladders, or other cyclists in the midst of or recovering from an effort that leaves them cringing in agony, gasping for air, on the brink of crying or smiling. There is such a fine line between lust and fear of the next effort; sometimes I volunteer all on my own to hurt all over again. Sometimes I am so paralyzed by the disappointment and fear that I gratefully extend my recovery time and rationalize….or, rather, tell myself rational lies. It is what I do when my teammates aren’t there, when the opposition is in the shadows, where only we can see what type of rider we truly are or are not, how much pain we can take and if we get back up there and go again.

Some rides can be depressing while others can leave us in ecstasy. To carry them into the next training ride, I scuttle these feelings, and either use them to motivate me through the next 24 hours, or let them burrow in my head. The demon is there; untamed, waiting patiently, knowing it will be unleashed again. Its will versus mine; it is only when I have learned how and when to release this beast that it can be done in harmony, where I find myself dancing with it rather then fighting it. It is part of me. This is not always so easy, there are days when it takes everything I have to get back in the saddle and days when it takes every ounce of my fiber to stay off and recover. All of this is to be ready for the battle of the coming season, weekend, race.

All is not lost. The summer comes. I race, finally, and glory shall be ours - mine and my team. Racing is for the few who dare to display their talents in front of, and, infinitely more daunting, along with, others. As most riders I too have the superstitious pre-race rituals, no two are the same, all efforts focused on bringing the demon out to play. These are the days when the demon can kill you or make you. As I come together with my team, the camaraderie settles over the tight clan, nerves are set aside for the common goal, VICTORY. All teams are different, riders’ commitments different, selfish sorts and the selfless, those who know when the time is right for the demon to take control and in which way. Regardless of the course: a 90 minute critirium, a 10 lap circuit, an 80 mile road race, hill climb or 4 day stage race, every member holds a specific task to be executed. The goal, of course, to bring gifts from Nike the Goddess of victory.

Form is essential; it is the only weapon of choice. Each rider desires the particular battlefield or task that favors his strengths and exposes his opposition’s weaknesses. Lining up for the battle tensions are high, nerves run wild just as thoroughbreds at the gates. One last look around as I sit waiting impatiently for the start to see where my teammates are and a quick glance over my mount before the pack fights with one another for early positions in the first few hundred meters of the course. Every race starts the same, a few attacks early and the mob settles down to a rhythm: fast into the corners then accelerating out of them, weeding out the weak as they fall off the back for no more than a moment or to not to be seen again until the end, everyone fighting to stay with the front, weakening through each corner. There is no shelter in the back from the demon as he rears his head to take those away who cannot contain the beast this day.

As we whip around I examine the competition, communicate with my teammates about our strategy, and monitor my very own form. At a moment’s notice it could be my own personal time to take the reins and unleash the beast for the common good of the team. Whether it is racing to the front chasing a late attack to pull the group back together for our sprinter, throwing it in the gutter and winding it up to a such blistering pace that no other team or racer even dares to attempt to come around on the last few laps, or launching an attack eight miles from the finish to force the other racers to react or paralyze them with our strategy. All of it is to spread pain to each and every one who is against me and my mates, hoping I do not destroy those I go to battle with so that my team is victorious.

Weather conditions and pain are of no thought, when it is my time to dance with the demon, I become part of the beast throwing down the pedals of anger until they can turn no more or the competition gives in to their own demons. There is nothing more glorious than a fully led-out train when done correctly, it is the most difficult strategy to perform; a mid-race attack that holds off the pack most of the day while your teammates sit patiently as the other teams take up the chase wearing themselves out for the finish; repeated attacks from our team, one mate goes and as he is caught another, then repeated over and over until the numbers dwindle and the matches are burnt; or jockeying for position at the end of the race at its highest speed but staying together as one chomping at the bit to launch our missile to the finish line; whatever the strategy, whatever the race course: we are one.

We pass by one another on the bike paths, roads, side streets, trails, knowing that the other has suffered, has gone to the gates and asked to release the demon. As I see it we are eternally linked; it is part of me and you, mandatory for the bike. Others have reached higher levels and faced greater demons but regardless of the glory we are sewn tightly together. I know that the other has searched inside on those long rides, has felt the disappointment of giving in, the agony of defeat, road-rash, the rush of victory, the sting of sweat in the eyes in the never-ending heat, the numbing hands in blistering cold, all the while I keep on riding. And friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances wonder why I do this.