I suffer an addiction, and I don't feel obligated to hide or regret it. I relish it. For it's in me and it is me at the same time. They say the first step in facing addiction is to admit it. I'll admit mine openly, but mine doesn't need "fixing", it needs enhancement.
After a week of small errand running bike rides, plus 3 days of library and hotel room studying in Toronto for the partner, director and officer exam that's a condition of my recent promotion, my physical energy levels are peaking. After last weekend's super stress of La Ruta de los Conquistadores, a 20+ hour endeavour which is as tough as they come, plus a week of decent rest, my body is ready for anything. Last time I felt like this was the weekend after TransRockies at the provincial road race. I was cramming all weekend for the PDO exam, and only managed two "sanity" rides that totaled 90 minutes over Saturday and Sunday. I crammed right up to the 2pm exam sitting, and upon completion finally felt able to decompress. On the way back to my corporate sponsored posh hotel, 5 blocks away from the exam, I pictured myself bursting out the front doors on my bike. I don't care that my room is probably big enough to ride in, I'd stay in a basement closet in exchange for the ability to ride more. I am teeming with energy.
How do I know I'm experiencing addiction? Without my fix I become irritable and short tempered. My social life and my work suffer. My heart rate and blood pressure increase. I think about it, my next fix, all the time. When can I get it next, what type of riding, and how much, how long? I become thoroughly preoccupied and fixate on one subject. Yet I relish the feeling.
I quickly change out of my study attire; it felt like my prison uniform for the last few days. I assemble my bike kit and head out of the hotel. Proceeding eastward a few blocks I begin to warm up, although my focus is on navigation toward the lakefront path and warming up to interaction with traffic. Toronto traffic is bad. I've ridden in many places, but I've rarely felt my safety to be endangered as frequently as here. Fingers always need to be on brakes, all intersections are crossed only with careful analysis. There's no such thing as cruising along "cause the light was green". Onus is on the rider. The drivers are not particularly rude or unconscientious, they are simply oblivious. They don't mean harm, its just incidental.
Upon finding the route to the lakeshore path, I quickly reach the eastern end. A quick u-turn and off to the west it is. The path winds along the lakefront distillery district, hotels and the like for several kilometers before exiting the downtown core and become dual lane bike freeway. The sun is setting, and it's cool enough that not many other cyclists or others are out. I'm dressed light (and fast) - knickers, a windproof jersey and long fingered gloves. Commuters are out looking excessively utilitarian and over burdened with layers.
My new custom frame is about to get the trial ride I've been eagerly anticipating. None of this heavy studded tires with snow and fenders BS, but rather a real bike ride. It feels as though I sent in a DNA sample, but instead of having a lab clone me, the sample was used as an input to Carl Strong's titanium art process. The bike isn't a machine beneath me; it is an extension of me. It feels like it's always been there, that it's grown to my form, and that it will always be there. It feels strong and trustworthy as a 'cross frame should, yet sleek as a thoroughbred road race bike. My heaven has two wheels, and for tonight, this is as close as it gets.
The path is flat, with only mild grades. There is a light wind. The capital T torque my body developed last week suffering up the Volcan's of Costa Rica doesn't blink at either challenge. I start to spin up one of the easier gears in my big ring (compact cranks, 50 tooth ring). I spin it up a bit excessively to check if my pedal stroke is smooth; when I'm well-rested high rpm's come effortlessly. I drop a gear in the rear and spin it up, the additional power is not a problem. I stand on small inclines to savour not shifting down. I pop another gear and spin it up. I hear the frequency of the hum of my 'cross tires building on the pavement. The speed limit on the path is 20kph, and I'm nowhere near that guideline. Coming around a corner, I swing to the outside lane to pass a slower commuter, and notice an equestrian police officer. I don't try to brake at all in shame of my speed, I carry along at speed. Fortunately, I don't register on his scale of importance.
Reaching a straightaway, I drop another gear. First I lose stress. My mind is serene, the scenery and my breathing replace my responsibilities. I drop my final gear. With stress and responsibility behind me, I'm racing. I'm outrunning my inner demons; I'm chasing pure joy. No matter how hard I push, I can’t seem to induce anything more than superficial burning in my legs and lungs. The burning I do achieve is food for my soul. I'm now in 50x11, topped out in terms of gears, yet still spinning nicely. I feel no leg fatigue, and my heart and lungs are calm and tranquil. Deep breaths suffice, no hyper-ventilating. The path is flat, with no hills to work my weight up. This is my riding forte, and I can feel how governed up my body has been for the last week. My body is embracing the opportunity to run free. I feel like a muscle car: I'm an over geared V8, but gearing doesn't matter cause I'm easily dishing out the torque. The hills and wind on the scale they're presenting themselves are irrelevant. My new ride is stable and it's loving the speed. Looking down I see the "Strong" label on the down tube and contemplate the appropriateness of it.
The word defines the moment. I'm unleashing the accumulated fitness of La Ruta and subsequent rest on the lakeside bike path in a two hour blaze of glory. I'm passing 20kph commuters at 40kph. For these two hours I'm a thoroughbred. I am the Shelby Cobra from the race track earlier this year, half the weight of a Miata but twice the power, doing 100mph in second gear. There is no fatigue in my body, anywhere, period. Even 90 minutes into the ride, I'm doing sprintervals on every straightaway, yet not over exerting. I repeatedly am on the verge of spinning out the 50x11 gearing.
I know I'm an addict because I'm in tears with the pleasure of this ride. The wind plays a part with the sunglasses off at night, but it's more than that. My head is clear and my body is whole, but only temporarily. The transformation from life dictating my activities, whereabouts and attention to me being the director takes less than a half an hour. I'm grinning excessively for no apparent reason, to the observer it probably looks maniacal.
Biking is my addiction. It takes me from the depths of pain to the highs of pleasure, yet I can't consciously withdraw myself from it at either extreme. My satiation is short lived, leaving the cycle to begin again. I'm powerless to stop it.
After a week of small errand running bike rides, plus 3 days of library and hotel room studying in Toronto for the partner, director and officer exam that's a condition of my recent promotion, my physical energy levels are peaking. After last weekend's super stress of La Ruta de los Conquistadores, a 20+ hour endeavour which is as tough as they come, plus a week of decent rest, my body is ready for anything. Last time I felt like this was the weekend after TransRockies at the provincial road race. I was cramming all weekend for the PDO exam, and only managed two "sanity" rides that totaled 90 minutes over Saturday and Sunday. I crammed right up to the 2pm exam sitting, and upon completion finally felt able to decompress. On the way back to my corporate sponsored posh hotel, 5 blocks away from the exam, I pictured myself bursting out the front doors on my bike. I don't care that my room is probably big enough to ride in, I'd stay in a basement closet in exchange for the ability to ride more. I am teeming with energy.
How do I know I'm experiencing addiction? Without my fix I become irritable and short tempered. My social life and my work suffer. My heart rate and blood pressure increase. I think about it, my next fix, all the time. When can I get it next, what type of riding, and how much, how long? I become thoroughly preoccupied and fixate on one subject. Yet I relish the feeling.
I quickly change out of my study attire; it felt like my prison uniform for the last few days. I assemble my bike kit and head out of the hotel. Proceeding eastward a few blocks I begin to warm up, although my focus is on navigation toward the lakefront path and warming up to interaction with traffic. Toronto traffic is bad. I've ridden in many places, but I've rarely felt my safety to be endangered as frequently as here. Fingers always need to be on brakes, all intersections are crossed only with careful analysis. There's no such thing as cruising along "cause the light was green". Onus is on the rider. The drivers are not particularly rude or unconscientious, they are simply oblivious. They don't mean harm, its just incidental.
Upon finding the route to the lakeshore path, I quickly reach the eastern end. A quick u-turn and off to the west it is. The path winds along the lakefront distillery district, hotels and the like for several kilometers before exiting the downtown core and become dual lane bike freeway. The sun is setting, and it's cool enough that not many other cyclists or others are out. I'm dressed light (and fast) - knickers, a windproof jersey and long fingered gloves. Commuters are out looking excessively utilitarian and over burdened with layers.
My new custom frame is about to get the trial ride I've been eagerly anticipating. None of this heavy studded tires with snow and fenders BS, but rather a real bike ride. It feels as though I sent in a DNA sample, but instead of having a lab clone me, the sample was used as an input to Carl Strong's titanium art process. The bike isn't a machine beneath me; it is an extension of me. It feels like it's always been there, that it's grown to my form, and that it will always be there. It feels strong and trustworthy as a 'cross frame should, yet sleek as a thoroughbred road race bike. My heaven has two wheels, and for tonight, this is as close as it gets.
The path is flat, with only mild grades. There is a light wind. The capital T torque my body developed last week suffering up the Volcan's of Costa Rica doesn't blink at either challenge. I start to spin up one of the easier gears in my big ring (compact cranks, 50 tooth ring). I spin it up a bit excessively to check if my pedal stroke is smooth; when I'm well-rested high rpm's come effortlessly. I drop a gear in the rear and spin it up, the additional power is not a problem. I stand on small inclines to savour not shifting down. I pop another gear and spin it up. I hear the frequency of the hum of my 'cross tires building on the pavement. The speed limit on the path is 20kph, and I'm nowhere near that guideline. Coming around a corner, I swing to the outside lane to pass a slower commuter, and notice an equestrian police officer. I don't try to brake at all in shame of my speed, I carry along at speed. Fortunately, I don't register on his scale of importance.
Reaching a straightaway, I drop another gear. First I lose stress. My mind is serene, the scenery and my breathing replace my responsibilities. I drop my final gear. With stress and responsibility behind me, I'm racing. I'm outrunning my inner demons; I'm chasing pure joy. No matter how hard I push, I can’t seem to induce anything more than superficial burning in my legs and lungs. The burning I do achieve is food for my soul. I'm now in 50x11, topped out in terms of gears, yet still spinning nicely. I feel no leg fatigue, and my heart and lungs are calm and tranquil. Deep breaths suffice, no hyper-ventilating. The path is flat, with no hills to work my weight up. This is my riding forte, and I can feel how governed up my body has been for the last week. My body is embracing the opportunity to run free. I feel like a muscle car: I'm an over geared V8, but gearing doesn't matter cause I'm easily dishing out the torque. The hills and wind on the scale they're presenting themselves are irrelevant. My new ride is stable and it's loving the speed. Looking down I see the "Strong" label on the down tube and contemplate the appropriateness of it.
The word defines the moment. I'm unleashing the accumulated fitness of La Ruta and subsequent rest on the lakeside bike path in a two hour blaze of glory. I'm passing 20kph commuters at 40kph. For these two hours I'm a thoroughbred. I am the Shelby Cobra from the race track earlier this year, half the weight of a Miata but twice the power, doing 100mph in second gear. There is no fatigue in my body, anywhere, period. Even 90 minutes into the ride, I'm doing sprintervals on every straightaway, yet not over exerting. I repeatedly am on the verge of spinning out the 50x11 gearing.
I know I'm an addict because I'm in tears with the pleasure of this ride. The wind plays a part with the sunglasses off at night, but it's more than that. My head is clear and my body is whole, but only temporarily. The transformation from life dictating my activities, whereabouts and attention to me being the director takes less than a half an hour. I'm grinning excessively for no apparent reason, to the observer it probably looks maniacal.
Biking is my addiction. It takes me from the depths of pain to the highs of pleasure, yet I can't consciously withdraw myself from it at either extreme. My satiation is short lived, leaving the cycle to begin again. I'm powerless to stop it.
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