Tuesday, February 2, 2010


I know nothing of true sacrifice.  I imagine that I do, sometimes.  It's a convenient notion - that somehow my self-inflicted suffering-upon-bike actually has a greater connection to humanity and the universe, and hence a relationship to man's true burdens here on Earth. 

I conjure up all kinds of imaginary vestibules of Hell in order to somehow bring reason to my self-image:  cycling shorts and shoes, sitting on a bike in a downstairs bedroom, overhead fan whirling, iPod blaring.  I am moving at 30mph, but am completely stationary apart from the herky-jerky nature of my cadence.  The trainer rocks back and forth in rhythm, my carbon frame yields every so slightly, and the rear wheel whirs away while the front is completely still...

As tunnel-vision closes down my peripheral fields and I imagine a final hill, a vicious attack or a long paceline trucking across the countryside, it is easy to feel like a martyr, someone who has been wronged.  Revenge must follow.  Glory is promised.  Passion and anger roll together and are spat out just before realizing that one shouldn't spit while indoors.

No, plenty of people sacrifice every day in truly altruistic ways.  I just ride a bike.  And I call it fun.  Now if I could just get my left calf to stop cramping.


Northstar Bikes said...

excellent post, love your insight man!

Post a Comment