The engines are firing. The speed increases. It’s not enough, I push for more fuel. I increase the power. My pistons fire and burn while acid collects and eats away at me. My chassis creaks and groans. It doesn’t want to take anymore. My legs beg for a break. I ignore them, they ask again. I tell them to shut up. I won’t listen, I’m better than this. And as fast as it started, I crest the hill. I stop pedaling for half a second and just let myself enjoy a well deserved coast. There is nothing like riding. What am I doing? I’m living, I’m doing what I need to do. I’m riding.
My ride takes a little less than an hour. I’m back in my room by supper time. I see lots of things. I discover new roads. I dig back into myself. It’s a place I haven’t been recently. I forgot about, but I never will again. I’ll tell you about it. I will open my soul and show you what I am. I’m riding.
I saw another cyclist while I was out. His bicycle was different than mine. He wore a different jersey, and he was heading the other direction. Our eyes locked for a split second before he passed. No words were exchanged, but they didn’t need to be. We read each others mind. He thought one thing, “I’m riding.”
What is riding? From a bystanders point of view I am spinning pedals, steering a little, and mostly wasting a perfectly good morning. From a physiological perspective I am burning calories, by the thousands. I am expanding and contracting muscles. I am coordinating my eyes, hands, feet, and mind. I am spinning pedals, that turn on a crank, that pull teeth through the chain which bites more teeth on my wheel. The coordinated process accelerates the wheel two, three, four, or even more revolutions on the rear wheel for every turn of the crank. I am traveling between thirty and forty feet every second. I am sitting on a contraption that only touches the ground with two patches of rubber slightly smaller than the size of a nickel hugging the ground. I’m riding.
My legs feel dead, yet I feel alive. I am sickened with lactate overload, yet I am re-energized. What am I feeling? No two rides ever feel exactly the same. Some rides I feel invincible. I can take on the world. I am a nuclear reactor that can power an entire continent. Other days, I drag and die. I push the relentless pedals and the wind growls in my ear. It teases me and won’t let me go anywhere. I feel it tugging at my cloths, my face, my skin. It’s touching me everywhere. I hate the way it feels. It’s the feeing on slothfulness. When I turn around and let it push me I laugh. It worked against me, but it didn’t win, and now it must work for me. I feel hungry. It’s not the kind of hunger in your stomach, like when you want to eat an exquisite dinner. It’s a type of hunger hat drives you on and makes you want to win. You need to win. I feel it in my blood. Sensory overload, yet things seem so clear. I try and take it all in, the road, the fields, the life around me. I can’t take it in, it’s too much. I’m riding.
What I’m thinking. It’s a question I’m often asked. How do you answer something like that? Can words explain the thought process of someone possessed with one goal, to ride? Of course, there are the basics like “where am I?” “what am I doing?” And why am I out here?” Each question has its own special answer. “Where am I” is an ever changing answer. I’m in the woods, now I’m in the open, now I’m in the city. The scenery changes, but I’m still in the same spot, deep inside of myself. I’m looking around. What kind of person am I? How tough am I? While not physical, these are very real places I go. What am I doing? I’m living. Everyday I’m digging deeper inside of myself. I’m building myself. A new thought comes to mind, why are those butterflies so colorful? Am I seeing things? When was the last time I drank water? Am I out of water? No, I just drank. I’m not dehydrated. Those are real butterflies. They flutter and fly so effortlessly. I see greens and gold, blues and reds. They are so beautiful. Those butterflies have to be real. Do I here a dog running? I look over my shoulder to check. No, it’s nothing. Dogs are great creatures. I love them very much, but when I’m riding they are the enemy. Is that a car coming? Yes, I better pull closer to the side of the road. I don’t want to get hit. I don’t want to die. I’m riding.
I finish my ride. I pull up to the curb. I unclip my shoes from my pedals. More people are standing around. More stares. We don’t care, my bicycle and I. I put my bike away. I take a shower. I clean off the crusts of sweat and dirt that caches your body after each ride. I wash my hair to make sure I get all of the bugs and other hitchhikers out of it. I put on my normal cloths. The cloths I wear when I’m not on my bike. I go down the stairs. I need to eat. I move my feet like I am walking, but I’m still in my head. I’m riding.
Why do I do it? It’s a question I ask myself everyday. Simply put, I have to. My bicycle is an inanimate object, but when it is with me, we are one. It lives in its own way, though me. There is an incredible feeling when you ride. I long for this feeling. When I don’t get to ride, I lose focus. It is my Ritalin, the drug that calms me down. I can’t get rid of it, but I do not want to. I am not addicted, I am in love. I love the sights, the smells, the feelings, and stares I get from people as I tear out of a stop light at thirty six miles and hour. If I lost my bicycle, I feel I would lose a part of myself. When you have put thousands of miles worth of blood, sweat, and tears into an object it becomes a part of you. As I write this, my bike stares me in the face, begging, pleading “please, take me out tonight.” “Tomorrow, I promise. It’s dark now and I must sleep.” I dose off, I’m not dreaming. I’m riding.
There is nothing like riding. It works its way into every fiber of your being. It’s an experience that can not be completely conveyed using words or text. It must be experienced. You must try it. You know you want to, just do it. Dive in. You can ask questions, you can try and reason with me. You can even call me names and chastise me, but I don’t care. I am not here. I’m riding.
My ride takes a little less than an hour. I’m back in my room by supper time. I see lots of things. I discover new roads. I dig back into myself. It’s a place I haven’t been recently. I forgot about, but I never will again. I’ll tell you about it. I will open my soul and show you what I am. I’m riding.
I saw another cyclist while I was out. His bicycle was different than mine. He wore a different jersey, and he was heading the other direction. Our eyes locked for a split second before he passed. No words were exchanged, but they didn’t need to be. We read each others mind. He thought one thing, “I’m riding.”
What is riding? From a bystanders point of view I am spinning pedals, steering a little, and mostly wasting a perfectly good morning. From a physiological perspective I am burning calories, by the thousands. I am expanding and contracting muscles. I am coordinating my eyes, hands, feet, and mind. I am spinning pedals, that turn on a crank, that pull teeth through the chain which bites more teeth on my wheel. The coordinated process accelerates the wheel two, three, four, or even more revolutions on the rear wheel for every turn of the crank. I am traveling between thirty and forty feet every second. I am sitting on a contraption that only touches the ground with two patches of rubber slightly smaller than the size of a nickel hugging the ground. I’m riding.
My legs feel dead, yet I feel alive. I am sickened with lactate overload, yet I am re-energized. What am I feeling? No two rides ever feel exactly the same. Some rides I feel invincible. I can take on the world. I am a nuclear reactor that can power an entire continent. Other days, I drag and die. I push the relentless pedals and the wind growls in my ear. It teases me and won’t let me go anywhere. I feel it tugging at my cloths, my face, my skin. It’s touching me everywhere. I hate the way it feels. It’s the feeing on slothfulness. When I turn around and let it push me I laugh. It worked against me, but it didn’t win, and now it must work for me. I feel hungry. It’s not the kind of hunger in your stomach, like when you want to eat an exquisite dinner. It’s a type of hunger hat drives you on and makes you want to win. You need to win. I feel it in my blood. Sensory overload, yet things seem so clear. I try and take it all in, the road, the fields, the life around me. I can’t take it in, it’s too much. I’m riding.
What I’m thinking. It’s a question I’m often asked. How do you answer something like that? Can words explain the thought process of someone possessed with one goal, to ride? Of course, there are the basics like “where am I?” “what am I doing?” And why am I out here?” Each question has its own special answer. “Where am I” is an ever changing answer. I’m in the woods, now I’m in the open, now I’m in the city. The scenery changes, but I’m still in the same spot, deep inside of myself. I’m looking around. What kind of person am I? How tough am I? While not physical, these are very real places I go. What am I doing? I’m living. Everyday I’m digging deeper inside of myself. I’m building myself. A new thought comes to mind, why are those butterflies so colorful? Am I seeing things? When was the last time I drank water? Am I out of water? No, I just drank. I’m not dehydrated. Those are real butterflies. They flutter and fly so effortlessly. I see greens and gold, blues and reds. They are so beautiful. Those butterflies have to be real. Do I here a dog running? I look over my shoulder to check. No, it’s nothing. Dogs are great creatures. I love them very much, but when I’m riding they are the enemy. Is that a car coming? Yes, I better pull closer to the side of the road. I don’t want to get hit. I don’t want to die. I’m riding.
I finish my ride. I pull up to the curb. I unclip my shoes from my pedals. More people are standing around. More stares. We don’t care, my bicycle and I. I put my bike away. I take a shower. I clean off the crusts of sweat and dirt that caches your body after each ride. I wash my hair to make sure I get all of the bugs and other hitchhikers out of it. I put on my normal cloths. The cloths I wear when I’m not on my bike. I go down the stairs. I need to eat. I move my feet like I am walking, but I’m still in my head. I’m riding.
Why do I do it? It’s a question I ask myself everyday. Simply put, I have to. My bicycle is an inanimate object, but when it is with me, we are one. It lives in its own way, though me. There is an incredible feeling when you ride. I long for this feeling. When I don’t get to ride, I lose focus. It is my Ritalin, the drug that calms me down. I can’t get rid of it, but I do not want to. I am not addicted, I am in love. I love the sights, the smells, the feelings, and stares I get from people as I tear out of a stop light at thirty six miles and hour. If I lost my bicycle, I feel I would lose a part of myself. When you have put thousands of miles worth of blood, sweat, and tears into an object it becomes a part of you. As I write this, my bike stares me in the face, begging, pleading “please, take me out tonight.” “Tomorrow, I promise. It’s dark now and I must sleep.” I dose off, I’m not dreaming. I’m riding.
There is nothing like riding. It works its way into every fiber of your being. It’s an experience that can not be completely conveyed using words or text. It must be experienced. You must try it. You know you want to, just do it. Dive in. You can ask questions, you can try and reason with me. You can even call me names and chastise me, but I don’t care. I am not here. I’m riding.