Cross season

At this point in the cross season, I find myself asking this question frequently: why do we race these bicycle contraptions? It's really a hard question to answer - lay that question out to any serious amateur racer and you'll get a joke, a blank stare, or, rarely, an honest thought. Answers likely include "because I like to eat," "because my friends would heap endless shit on me if I didn't," and the sysiphustic "so I can upgrade." The last is probably the most telling - the mindless quest for the next level. It's like trying to reach nirvana - except we all know that we don't *actually* want to make that last upgrade and have our legs ripped clean off. I can tell you, with experience, that classy fellows like Tim Johnson and Trebon do it quickly and painlessly.

There's a disturbing change in my perception of my bikes mid-season. The enjoyment of pedaling circles down the road has been replaced with only 'workouts' and 'recovery rides'. Instead of admiring the craftsmanship, or relishing the finely-tuned position or choice of bar tape, the entire machine becomes a tool that has deals only in suffering. The more I endure on these bikes, the more they heartlessly respond with speed, one bone-shaking straightaway at a time. By November, I become unable to think about any component on a race bike separate from any other - all merge to become a double-edged sword - a heartless weapon with a singular purpose.

Maybe just once, I'll find a bike that I'll never race or train on - one that will only provide me joy and freedom. Until then, I'll commune with my steeds by smashing the pedals, and trying to keep them upright.