Hello again.
I've got a whole backlog of posts building up now, as the long weeks and short weekends move dauntingly towards the start of "the season". Posts about real things, like how my new race bike has made me question everything I thought about compromise in bike design. Posts about concepts, like power and weight and what actually matters when you stretch your legs up Tak-ma-doon. But, for now, I'm tired, so it's time to go more abstract.
I'm convinced that there are no bike racers in Glasgow.
It's not that I don't know that there are people who race bikes in Glasgow. I am merely saying that my brain has constructed, deep within itself, a sense that there are no racers in Glasgow. It is certainly inaccurate, and may even be dangerous, but it appears to exist purely for motivational reasons. By believing you have something special, you can create extenuating circumstances for every success or failure. If there's never a fair competition, there's no competition at all. If everything you do is harder or faster than everyone else, then you're never playing catch-up. You're not looking at a pedestal that you could never hope to reach. You're looking down at the ants and laughing.
It starts in the gym.
The gym is a place of punishment and redemption. It is a place where the scales judge the weekend of excess, and sentence you to perdition. Where the mathematics of shame tell you that a gain of 1.3kg points you to a threshold session on the trainer until you drop, sweat turning your eyes red, whole body right on the limit, not even the power to prevent the cry of anger as the poorly-maintained seatpost drops a notch for the third time in an hour.
But you're the only one there.
The only one suffering, at any rate. Look to your left, your right. They might be moving, but they're not suffering. Half of them are playing on their iPhones. What is this, a recovery day? They don't know the meaning of work, of trying to absolutely transcend yourself.
There's that guy, of course. But he's running. He's a runner. Not a cyclist. And that guy. But he's no cyclist - he's twice your weight. He could crush you like a fly, but, by God, you would thrash him up the Crow.
No, there's no cyclists here.
On the roads, then. That's where the real cyclists are. Like you. But they're not. They're all different from you. Generally slower. And you're not like that guy, because you don't jump red lights. And you're still faster than him. And you're definitely not like that guy - you still look like a human being on a bike, not some sort of fondant Christmas tree. No. There's no-one here like you. No-one who knows what it is to earn speed, real speed with nothing but strength and poise. You're the cyclist. These people just ride bikes.
Away from the city. These guys enjoy it. They know the love of the bike. But they don't know the speed. Apart from these guys. But they probably haven't already done fifty miles. You shouldn't chase, because it's a rest day. Maybe you will anyway. Just to show them. Show them how effortless you can make it look. Make them wonder how you got that fast.
You know how you got that fast.
Because you know how to suffer. You want to race bikes, so you've learned how to suffer. You've studied it. Bicycle racers don't just train. They take classes in how to train. They read articles, pay instructors to bark at them, bully themselves with computers and endless numbers. All you need to do to go faster is suffer.
And no-one else can suffer like you.
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