No hard feelings

I stopped doing everything else, I trained harder and harder, my body began achieving things I’d no longer thought possible. I was touched by its loyalty. I had neglected it for so long, but there were no hard feelings, it seemed only pleased to have me call on it again. – Tim Krabbé from “The Rider”

In the mid-1980s, I bought my first road bike (a Bianchi in Celeste #227) and began a love affair with cycling. It seemed logical. I had dreamed of breaking the 3-hour mark in the marathon. I tried five times, missing the mark on my best attempt by fewer than a dozen minutes. I picked up cycling as the third discipline in a then new-fangled thing called triathlon. I recall entering local triathons with fewer than 200 racers, including top pros such as Scott Tinley, Scott Molina and Mark Allen. For me, cycling was an amazing find. It saved my feet, shins and knees from disintegration. I gravitated toward the Tour de France when American Greg LeMond won it for the first time in 1986. Cycling took me places that running or swimming couldn’t, and at speeds that thrilled my soul. High into the mountains. Out to the desert. Up and down the coast with the Pacific Ocean at my side.

In the 1990s and early part of this century, I tapered for a different kind of race. A young family and career ambitions dictated that saddle time would have to wait. I “jogged.” I golfed. I spent more time on my arse and grew older. I worked for a technology startup during the peak of the telecom and dot-com bubbles. I logged 250,000 frequent flier miles to Germany and China. I went for it — all the way — and yet failed to hit the acquisition lottery, that “liquidity event” that anyone who joins a company as employee number 10 tells himself or herself is just around the next corner. When it became obvious that I was far beyond the person I used to be, my wife decided to inspire me. She picked up a mountain bike and encouraged me to ride again. A true soul mate, she is. And humorous. My first time pedaling uphill home from the office, a kid on a BMX bike passed me like I was walking — in concrete-filled boots.

From that day on, I made a promise: I would start working my way back from fitness (and life balance) oblivion. Cycling again became an amazing find, one that propels me today through any ups and downs. I didn’t realize just how much. The words above from Tim Krabbé’s “The Rider” leaped out of the book when I read it recently. I dog-eared the page. I thought hard about it. The truisms bounced around in my head. Anyone who has ridden in their youth, only to stop the sport and ultimately take it up again at a later age understands the meaning. No translation needed. Simple. When you train harder and harder, your body can begin achieving things you no longer thought possible. When it happens, you are touched by its loyalty. Most of all, you are grateful there are no hard feelings. When your body seems pleased to have you call upon it again, well, that’s what I would call a gift.

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