Today is Sunday and it has been two days since I last blogged, our Eddy Merckx I beg for pardon. This morning, I looked over an article I really wanted to blog about and normally I email these to myself so I do not forget what I was thinking, I also usually pop a note about what I was thinking because as I get older I forget a lot, needless to say now I can not remember what, where or even if the article truly existed. This is the fun of growing older, you become all the things you never thought you would, I even looked at a pair of SPD sandals and thought I could maybe get them for this summer’s jaunt to France.
As I get older I feel less like pouring myself in lycra, this should entitle me to some humanitarian award, and a lot less like pushing myself to get somewhere as fast as possible. I used to race everywhere, I may not have been super fast but I still felt like my legs may explode off my body at some point. I now look at an old Dawes tourers and get lumps in inappropriate places, as opposed to feeling a sneering derision to those who rode them.
My legs are hairy and my beard is long, possibly due to the migration from the hair on the top of my head. I feel like cycling was better in the past, although I may just be thinking about the drugs, possibly the purely recreational ones that enable you to reach the same higher conscious levels that I now get from standing up too fast.
I worry I may be turning into a hippy every time I think the journey is more important than the destination unless that destination is called Greggs. The cake stop is no longer a reward for effort but the goal that pushes me out the door and onto the bike. Any cake shop on a flat road is a friend of mine.
The funny thing is I actually enjoy cycling more now. I do not care about Rapha. I do not care about KOMs. I do not care about British Cycling, I do not care about PEDs. I may care about these things when I am off the bike but when the wind is breezing through my follically challenged scalp I care about nothing more than living in the moment. I look at the world unfolding around me and I can enjoy it, as I am no longer trying to shove bucket loads of oxygen into my lungs, my legs are not shouting at me and I am not worried about the fact that my jersey is a few Pantone’s out from bike frame.
Cycling can be fun, this seems to have eluded me for a few years. The years in which pain and misery were the driving forces on those pedals. The years where the mythical view of a cycling god pervaded my very being, the years in which cycling advertising guided me, the years of not being true to myself.
Fuck it, I am off to buy a pair of SPD Sandals.