Narrowed Focus
OK, here's the fun part.
You're clinging to the wheel in front of you. Doing everything to stay in contact, because you know in the deepest parts of your soul that if a gap opens, you will never close it, and you will be adrift. That few inches of space is your whole purpose in life.
People wait their whole lives to see the scenery on either side of you, but you're too busy focusing on meaningless points up the road. You're hoping that by acknowledging them that they will somehow help you climb this hill. They don't, because they're inanimate objects like signposts and rocks. Selfish bastards.
You match cadence with the guy in front of you, promising yourself that every time their right foot comes down, your right foot will come down. That you won't stand unless they stand. That you will be every bit as strong as they are, even if you aren't.
The steady ache in your thighs keeps building. You know all you have to do to make it stop is to stop pedaling. Let that wheel in front of you go wherever it is that wheel wants to go. Put a foot down. Take a long drink of lukewarm electrolyte goodness. Breathe normally. Get your heart rate into a range that wouldn't alarm a cardiologist.
But you don't.
Somebody decided that you would not stop here. Somebody decided that you are supposed to stop somewhere up there, past the signpost and the rock. God, how you hate them for that.
A gap appears between that wheel and yours. You close it. The ache grows. The sweatband of your helmet finally reaches flood stage and unleashes a torrent of salty fluid all over your fancy bike computer. You try to wipe it away, but it only makes the display less readable. Nothing there to read anyway that would make a difference. All that matters is holding that wheel, and no number is going to do it for you.
The signposts and rocks are running away from you. They have to be,
Another gap opens. You close it, more slowly this time. The deep, rhythmic breathing you've tried so hard to maintain has been replaced with rasping gasps. The ache blossoms until you can't tell what parts hurt. They all hurt. You finally reach the signpost and silently curse it for its lack of empathy for your self-chosen plight.
The road tips up. The rider in front stands on the pedals. A gap opens. You stand and try to close it. You don't. You throw your body against the pedals and throw the frame back and forth, but the inches slowly become feet. The feet become yards. The rider reaches the runaway rock and you're not there. You're alone.
Eventually you cross the arbitrary line sometime after the rider. Somebody says "good job", but the fact that they can speak coherently shows that they got long before you did. You're not on their level.
The ache slowly fades to an emptiness. The rasp is replaced by a hacking cough. Even that finally subsides. You're done, both literally and figuratively.
See, I told you it was fun.
You're clinging to the wheel in front of you. Doing everything to stay in contact, because you know in the deepest parts of your soul that if a gap opens, you will never close it, and you will be adrift. That few inches of space is your whole purpose in life.
People wait their whole lives to see the scenery on either side of you, but you're too busy focusing on meaningless points up the road. You're hoping that by acknowledging them that they will somehow help you climb this hill. They don't, because they're inanimate objects like signposts and rocks. Selfish bastards.
You match cadence with the guy in front of you, promising yourself that every time their right foot comes down, your right foot will come down. That you won't stand unless they stand. That you will be every bit as strong as they are, even if you aren't.
The steady ache in your thighs keeps building. You know all you have to do to make it stop is to stop pedaling. Let that wheel in front of you go wherever it is that wheel wants to go. Put a foot down. Take a long drink of lukewarm electrolyte goodness. Breathe normally. Get your heart rate into a range that wouldn't alarm a cardiologist.
But you don't.
Somebody decided that you would not stop here. Somebody decided that you are supposed to stop somewhere up there, past the signpost and the rock. God, how you hate them for that.
A gap appears between that wheel and yours. You close it. The ache grows. The sweatband of your helmet finally reaches flood stage and unleashes a torrent of salty fluid all over your fancy bike computer. You try to wipe it away, but it only makes the display less readable. Nothing there to read anyway that would make a difference. All that matters is holding that wheel, and no number is going to do it for you.
The signposts and rocks are running away from you. They have to be,
Another gap opens. You close it, more slowly this time. The deep, rhythmic breathing you've tried so hard to maintain has been replaced with rasping gasps. The ache blossoms until you can't tell what parts hurt. They all hurt. You finally reach the signpost and silently curse it for its lack of empathy for your self-chosen plight.
The road tips up. The rider in front stands on the pedals. A gap opens. You stand and try to close it. You don't. You throw your body against the pedals and throw the frame back and forth, but the inches slowly become feet. The feet become yards. The rider reaches the runaway rock and you're not there. You're alone.
Eventually you cross the arbitrary line sometime after the rider. Somebody says "good job", but the fact that they can speak coherently shows that they got long before you did. You're not on their level.
The ache slowly fades to an emptiness. The rasp is replaced by a hacking cough. Even that finally subsides. You're done, both literally and figuratively.
See, I told you it was fun.
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