What you think

In a beautiful post, Joseph looks at what you think in a ride. Read it and enjoy. It is a classic.

What I think is a little different, and is something like this:

You click into your cleats and begin rolling and make sure you are in the right gear and look around and feel the first pressure of a pedal stroke and it feels good and your legs start to respond with the easy fluency of legs that have turned hundreds of thousands if not millions of times over countless miles on roads in different countries and different races and on a windtrainer. You look at your legs like old friends who have come to visit and you wonder how they will be today, because even after all these years and all these miles, you never really know. They might be strong and get stronger, or they might feel strong and fade, or they might start off weak and get strong; you never know. The legs turn, and you wonder. You pass cars and hope they don’t do anything stupid like open a door without looking or turn right without indicating, and you think of all the times you have thought this, and how rarely it has happened that you have had to swerve to avoid an opening door or brake and roll around a corner glued to the side of a car, and maybe it’s a miracle that it hasn’t happened more often or maybe it’s a curse that it’s happened at all. Who knows? Today will bring what it brings, and you will take it as it comes, because there is no other way to take it unless you want to stay home and worry that you might die out there somewhere, hit by a drunk or side-swiped by a truck, and today could be that day, or it might never happen, and the only way you know is by going out and riding. You start to feel the sweat on your face and back, and your whole body now is cycling, the way it should, Five miles, you think, 90 to go. How will I go. We’ll see. It is always different and always the same. You always wonder, and you always get home. It is what it is. Deal with it. The miles go by. Friends. Work. Cars, What would it be like to live out here? Lonely. I’ve been lonely before. Is it a good or bad thing? Are there good or bad things except that I make them so? Blank it out. Just ride. You are here to ride, not philosophize. Let the road unwind in front of you. Feel the wind, feel the sun. Time to drink. Maybe a snack; you never know. Better early than late. Legs still OK. Ten miles. Twenty miles. All in order. Why do I do this? Why the long miles? What am I looking for? What’s out here? Why do I feel good when my legs hurt? What is it about hills and character? Hope my legs feel this strong at Longhorn. God, I will never forget Canada, coming up of that son of a bitch Yellow Lake. Never feel like that again, never. I feel good now. Easy. Strong. The way I should feel. If this were an Ironman, I’d have four hours left. Relax, hotshot. This is nothing. Not even a warm-up. When your ass hurts and your feet hurt and your back hurts, tell me how you feel. Then it’s a real ride. Nancy. Fifty miles. Water, Cool. Is it cheating to stand under the air conditioner in the gas station? How did the woman get that fat? She must eat and do nothing else? Wonder what she looks like naked? That’s beyond horrible. Erase the thought completely. Back on the bike. Legs feel tired but OK. This will end OK. I’m fine. Pacing is key now. Go as hard as you can but check it, check it all the time. You can fade quickly in this heat. Pace it. Measure it out. If this were an ironman, you’d have 26 miles to run after this. How do you feel now? Feel like getting off and running 26 miles? No way. On the day I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine? What is fine? Fine is an excuse, fine is average. Fine is one inch above collapse. Last words. But I don’t have to get off and run, do I? Just as well. A hill. No need to get silly. Nice and aerobic. Nice and aerobic? How bad do you want it? Will nice and aerobic get you to where you want to be? At mile 90 of an ironman, will this nice and aerobic hill be there to help you? Nancy. Ride. Ride like you mean it. Your legs will recover. Your body will recover. Your spirit will never forgive you if you dog it now. Just you and the road. Nearly home. Then it’s done, and you get to put the bike away and eat and drink and relax. And live with yourself and whether you were honest out here, or weak. Who the hell are you? Maybe you should find out.