The
human spirit, on some level, relishes pain. Cycling thrives on this. It draws
this type of person—the sufferer. On some level, I think, we all create our own
pain and we create pain for others. It isn’t an intentional thing in all
respects but it is a human thing and it is a thing we revel in. We love it. We
just won’t admit it. Or, maybe we can’t.
When
a rider goes down, it is almost formulaic: there is that plasticky clack, the
metallic twang of spoke lattices popping. There are shouts and curses. But
above all, there is a feeling of blood and guts and flesh. You are suddenly
aware of your skin and the way it holds you together; you feel your bones
knitted beneath your muscle and maybe there is a bit of fear. Is that what this
sport is? Are we just looking for new ways to feel a thing? Are these just
little lampposts peppering the black outside our bedroom windows?
This
is what we do--this is what so many people do. But the more and more I do it,
the more I wonder why. It is not a question of love, of hate, of health or
performance; it is one of thrill. It is expectation, and the question of our own
ability to meet that expectation. It is the triumphant swoop that comes when we
dispel our own doubts.
I
don’t know. In that hour, are we all the best we are ever going to be? I am
just one character printed on the bottom of some page somewhere and all the
while there are books upon books upon books.
I
say all this mostly because the weekend gave me many prompts to weird thoughts
and you are the only ones I can tell, internet, and maybe you can understand.
Right?
Do you get it? There is never really any answer when you shout into the
internet, so maybe not.
No comments:
Post a Comment