The roads are free with plenty of tickle, each time I ride trying to remember my luck. To be able, to have the time, the patience, the mind. To experience this bliss is most definitely a privilege.
A place like Madison, known for its roads, so many kickers and trees, cornfields and curves. It’s nice here. To be able to ride out of the driveway, and have hundreds, if not thousands of miles of unclaimed road. To myself, to do what I want. Pedal, rest, breath, smell the fresh spread manure.
It’s on these trips though, that we are sometimes slighted by lunacy. Fifteen thousand dollar bikes of stealthy aero dynamic advantage, manned by machos training full retard for the most superbly important huge race of all time. Who cares? At this point, I don’t.
A chuckle perhaps, if I have the lung capacity. But sometimes it sticks with me and I wonder why, why is this guy so serious about his ride? The kit, the bike, the “I’m-not-going-to-lift-my-sperm-helmet-to-nod-at-this-fat-dude-with-unshaven-legs” type of guy. The fire is stoked.
So I hop on his wheel, with whatever I have. 10 speeds, 20 speeds, sometimes only one speed and most likely aluminum because that’s the way it is. It’s nothing special, but I try to keep up anyways, because it ain’t the bike the makes the ride, it’s the ride that makes the mind.
Diminished by the reality of my absent fitness, it can’t be the lagging equipment, can it? Here comes a hill, my strong suit, I’ll surly show this dork it’s not about the giddup and more about the will. Fuck, it got hard, real hard. Maybe even 200 beats hard. I look down in shame of not being able. My brakes are rubbing. Fuck me. No fuck you. I win.