.. or “Why must I race every day, even when there is only me, and therefore I can only lose“. Standard Disclaimer absolutely appropriate here: “It’s not my fault“. My unpleasently perspiring arrival at the station this morning was entirely driven by technology and fear.
Technology being my bike computer pretending to be a GPS. One of its’ nastier features is a “virtual partner” where a slimmer, faster and less heavy legged version of yourself powers away effortlessly into the far distance. Essentially you’re racing a clone from another ride, but it’s a speedy clone saved with the fastest time ever acheived.
And that’s a bugger, because every commute Bealzibub’s LCD annointed one on earth mocks me as he stretches his lead. Until today, when – head down, legs madly spinning, lungs gulping down bucketloads, and sweat poring down my face – I beat it. By 7 seconds.* At which point alarms were going off all over my head including “Warning – legs not available for re-use”
The fear bit is wondering if enough riding has prepared me for a spring/summer/autumn of endless riding, without a lack of fitness chucking a stick in my spokes.
it won’t be the same stick which ripped out my rear mech yesterday, as that was both real and really bloody annoying. I am not entirely blameless, since our hack through stick alley was brought on by a navigational failure made worse by refusing to accept the wrong way was -in fact – the way we’d been going for some time.
Tim B fashioned an epic uber-bodge with nothing more than a chain tool and basic knowledge of chain growth, while I silently brooded over the thick end of a£100 worth of busted parts and fat dinks in a previously pristine chainstay.
We managed to finish the ride and, even with the silliness of singlespeeding, it still proved to be awesome under warm skies and atop dusty trails. If we were being honest, neither of us were really truly at the races; Tim fell off early doors and seemed to spend the rest of the ride trying not to do the same, and – even before derailer emasculation – my newly learned trail skills appear to already be half forgotten.
It mattered not. We climbed enough hills and covered enough miles to earn a large egg based reward. Aside from Tim’s claret coloured knee, both of us had received sufficient bramble action to pass off as “badger strike” when curious children questioned why I was bloodied from both thighs down.
The trails are so rock hard at the moment, a spot of rain wouldn’t do them any hard. Did I just say that out loud?
* Tonight I shall be clearing ALL the ride histories. No way I’m racing myself again at that pace. I will die.
2 thoughts on “The Return of the Sweaty Helmet..”
I recently rode up a considerable hill staring at a GPS with Bradley Wiggins inside it. Needless to say, the screen wasn’t wide enough to accommodate both our dots within, ooh, fifty yards or so.
After four days sequential riding, my far less knackered self was at the station reading the paper before I even made the town. It got so depressing I turned the bloody thing off!