Why I Ride

When it's 95 degrees out and sweat stings as it drips into your eyes, all you can think about is getting home before you implode. The only problem, and it's a big one, is home is 40 miles away and you are on a bike. In cycling parlance it is called suffering for the sport; in common language it is called crazy. So why am I out here? Am I "suffering for the sport" or just suffering? Perhaps I'm crazy. I'm sure the people driving past in their air-conditioned cars must think so. It's obvious the kids in the backseat, noses pressed to glass, wonder what I'm doing. Who in the Hell would be out in this heat?

My jersey is glued to my back with sweat as I continue turning the crank on my bike. Waves of heat waft across the pavement in the distance, and the road begins to pitch upward in a series of rolling hills, nothing major, but enough in number to force a frequent change in gears. The bigger hills are further up the road. Those things are going to hurt after a 75 mile ride. The water in my bottles is low and warm, not a good combination, but it's better than nothing, so I drink it anyway. There is silence except for the faint whine of bike tires on pavement and the tick, tick, tick, of the chain spinning the rear cassette. I'm hot, tired, dripping with sweat and happy. I'm on my bike; why wouldn't I be happy? The world doesn't exists when I'm out here. There's no war in Iraq, no bad news, no personal problems or broken hearts. I'm in my own universe. I'm in a rhythmic realm of gear ratios, carbon fiber, wind resistance, and pedaling cadence. I'm sheltered from the stresses of daily life as long as I continue to turn the crank on my bike. Nothing can catch me as long as I keep moving. My only companions are my bike and my suffering, but it's a good kind of suffering. It's the kind of suffering that gives one a sense of accomplishment once it ends. You battle the voices in your head telling you to quit, to rest, to go easy. You battle the burning in your lungs and the ache in your thighs. To ride is to endure your own journey into the wilderness, a contest between your inner resolve and lingering doubts playing out in your head. The distance, weather, wind, and road will also conspire against you at times. They can push you close to a breaking point. Quit, rest, go easy, the voices say. The exhilaration comes when you say no. It comes when you look inside yourself for that little something extra and you find it.

The rolling hills subside briefly as the road relaxes under my bike. I shift into a higher gear, pick up the pace, and take advantage of these next few miles. Now is the time to get whatever speed I can because the hills will soon get much bigger and speed is a luxury in the vertical. A bead of sweat escapes from under my helmet and streaks across my glasses like a rain drop on a windshield. It's annoying. I can taste a faint mixture of sunscreen and salt on my lips with every breath. The cogs on my bike tick a familiar, rhythmic, cadence with the chain like a countdown to liftoff. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The hills are coming. There's a gentile turn to the left and the road begins to crawl upward as the hill announces itself. Draining the last of the warm water from my bottles, I slide back on the saddle, grasp the top of the bars, and begin my assent. It's not Ventoux, not even close, but the 8 percent gradient is enough to crack the weak and the pretenders in any group. Tick, tick, tick, up I go.

In the European racing circuit road surfaces of major mountain stages like Mont Ventoux, col du Galibier, col de la Madeline, Alpe d'Huez, and Mont Blac are liberally decorated with the names of cycling heroes past and present. Fans write these names to show support for their favorite team or rider, cheers in the form of vandalism. There's even a race fan dressed as a tormenting red devil running along side the riders at every mountain stage. There are no heroic names flashing beneath my wheels as I climb today, but they are there in my mind. I can see "Go Lance", "Mercks the Cannibal", and "Allez, Allez, Allez" draped across the dividing line. I can see the crowds of drunken Belgians and crazy Basque lining the road. Didi the Devil runs along side me, trident in hand, urging me onward. Through a tunnel of noise in my imagination, I climb toward the top of my personal Alpe d'Huez. I'm hot, tired, dripping with sweat and happy. I'm on my bike. It's why I ride.