My Abusive Relationship

Last night my son had soccer practice at 6pm. I tossed the road bike on the roof rack and figured I could get in a quick ride before it got dark. After I dropped him off I immediately geared up and pedalled off in the direction of some hills. My route took me out Kisker Road to Pitman Hill and then down into the Bottoms (Pitman Hill and the Bottoms were a part of the last 15k of the recent Tour of Missouri.) I had no computer on the bike and therefore, was left to focus on my pedalling (circles, not squares) and my cadence. In that respect it was nice to have nothing occupy my mind except to focus on my body. Following my recent wipeout, you think I would relish a ride where I didn't feel as though I was putting my body in harm's way. I found it to be quite the opposite.

Riding the road bike alone right now feels mechanical and unfulfilling. I feel my mind wandering and have no real challenges. Yes, I can do intervals, hill repeats, etc., but I can also do those on my mountain bike. Mountain bikes right now have my undivided attention. They make me want to focus more, ride better lines, improve my fitness, push harder gears, and sharpen my attention. Road bikes simply seem to be a way to ride fast or ride with a group for a recovery ride so we can chat. While I'm totally cool with those rides (I love the Monday night fast group rides, as well as the group rides where we talk smack and catch up with each other) I cannot ride solo on my road bike anymore.

Yes, I have a problem. I'm totally committed to my abusive relationship with my mountain bike. The bike that provides me with the opportunities to bruise my hips, cut my arms, make funny looking marks on the back side of my right calf, and turn my elbows into objects which resemble doggy chew toys. You know what, I don't want it other way. For all of those same reasons, I love riding my mountain bike. Technical trails, difficult obstactles, lung-searing and leg-busting climbs, along with the dirt, rocks, roots, and mud leave me wanting more. Wounds heal. I might walk with a temporary limp or wear gauze and coban wraps as a frequent fashion accessory, but it's who I am (at least right now.)

To roughly note a quote I've heard before, "The goal in life is not to die in a perfectly preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways with sweat on your brow, blood on your jersey, and white in your knuckles proclaiming 'WOW! What a ride!'"