Today, on my way home from work as I sat on the side of the bike trail for five minutes retching and dry heaving because I inhaled a bug, I (obviously) was thinking about how much it sucked.
Then I got to thinking about all the shitty stuff that’s happened to me over the years while on a bicycle.
Inhaled bugs, dozens of bee stings, gnats in the eyes or pasted to my sweaty arms. Crashes and rashes, sores and boils, broken bones, bad sunburns, failed snot rockets that don’t make it all the way out and come back and hit you in the eye…
I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
I swear, I’ve crashed so damn many times on my mountain bike that I doubt there’s a square mile in the greater Sacramento area that doesn’t have some kind of DNA sample I’ve left behind.
Cycling, for the most part, is miserable. Sure, there are days when it’s warm and pretty out and the birds are singing, flowers are blooming, kittens are prancing and all that happy crap, but for the most part, it’s usually a suffer-fest and I often question why I do it. I like to go fast and to go fast, I have to push myself. When I push myself, my heart, lungs and legs hate me, but I do it anyway.
I’d like to say I have some cool, deep “zen” reason for why I put myself through this stupid activity that I know I complain about a hell of a lot more that I rave about, but I don’t think I do.
Why do I do it?
I do it because I can and I’m going to keep doing it until I can’t anymore.
I do it because the human body is an amazing machine and no matter how hard I push it, bend it or break it. It always comes back better than it was before and says “Thank you. Let’s do it again.”
Peace.
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