The long days

The long days are the weirdest. You wake up and see eighty-plus (in script, in case you don’t appreciate my long-hand, 80+) miles plotted out, waiting to be ridden,  and there is a certain expectancy. It’s almost an expectancy of pain. I don’t know if this has toothily attached to me because I race, and thusly a bicycle on some level does remind me of suffering; or because I am a whiny baby and I get scared when I realize that there’s something hard to be ticked off on the day’s to-do list. Either way—I see those big numbers and quake in my grandpa slippers.

            But then you get out on the road, and it’s buttery smooth and the hills roll gently beneath your wheels, Sure, there are uphills, but you sit your butt down and climb those things! What else can you do? Sit at the bottom?  Hardly.

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            I think that the racing thing is pretty deep in my belly by now. I see a bike and I think RACERACERACERACCEEEEEEE. If I see that my speedometer reads under about seventeen miles per hour or so, I am immediately disappointed in myself. This craziness makes touring difficult, because I want to crush past all of the pretty lakes and mountain tops. I want my legs to burn with unholy lactic acid and I want to feel the sting of sweat pouring past the remnants of past crashes.

So—this trip is hard for me. Not in the physical sense, really, I suppose it’s mental—how do you slow down? How do you enjoy the world?