I treated myself to some new pedals and cycling shoes today. This on the basis of last night's 10 at the Olympic Velopark, which was as slow and painful as childbirth. Why did I do this? Well, I suppose it's partly a material requirement. My current shoes are showing their age, and they're really not fit for racing. But mostly it was because I wanted to nail my colours to the mast and make a public declaration of my status as a racing cyclist.
Given last night was excruciating and to date the slowest 10 mile time trial I've ever completed, this might strike the onlooker as odd, but it makes perfect sense. Racing cyclists revel in physical discomfort. It's part and parcel of the game. The argot of the sport is shot through with references to suffering and masochism. When one or two cyclists gather together, you'll quickly hear references to "seeing stars" "turning myself inside out" or "blowing up". Last night we each of us knew he was about to enter his own private Golgotha, and that drew us together as a group. "We happy few, we band of brothers." It was joyous.
All I need to do now is bring my new shoes out for a spot of training - the hard part.
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