[Note: I wrote this in 2014. Recently rediscovered in my Evernote]
One day I put the Serotta
In the basement
and turned my attention
to motorcycles and photography.
In a blink, days became weeks,
became months
became seasons
became years of dust
settling on the bike
as I sought other pursuits.
And then the midlife came
bringing with it a whole slew of
existential questions
fifteen extra pounds
and the fear that the end
was closer than the beginning.
It was right around then
when an idea stirred.
A seed planted by a friend.
And then one fine day
the Serotta was dusted off
clinchers filled with air
water bottles filled
and old Lycra stretched
and prodded into position.
Those first pedal strokes
were like coming home
So instinctive so natural.
An old friend that you
haven’t seen in years
yet you don’t miss a beat.
The years melted with every mile
and there were no cycle computers
or other riders to remind me
that I was an older, fatter, and slower
version of myself.
Who cares that I barely touched the big ring
and reached my modest
VO2max and heart rate max
on the slightest inclines,
and that the creak in the bottom bracket
had not, in all those years,
automagically fixed itself.
It did not matter.
I was back in my bike zen zone.
Where all that exists is the now
and the next 20 meters of pavement.
Spinning until the lungs
ran out off puff and then
Pushing a bigger gear until the legs
threatened to cramp.
Spin. Push. Repeat.
And then my Achilles’ tendon,
whom I’ve never spoken with before
introduced itself and said,
“Hello, I’m your Achilles’ tendon.
It’s been years since you’ve used me like this.
So please take it easy and we’ll be just fine.”
It was a reasonable request.
I eased up and enjoyed
the pure and simple joy
of riding a bike.
Later that evening my legs tingled
with that feeling of a day well-pedaled.
I felt energized, revived, reborn.
I could easily fall in love with cycling
all over again.
[Post script: I have]
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