Bike D. Eisenhower

Three weeks tomorrow (but who's counting?) marks the first day of my first major holiday of the year.  The missus and I are off to The Netherlands for a week's bike touring.  The Tour de France starts there this year, so they're going to get motivated by watching the shaven, oiled pros do their thang first.  Thereafter, it's a joyous week of pootling along well-appointed and safe cycleways from city to city, stopping only en route for excellent Dutch coffee and cinnamon biscuits.

There is nothing on Earth as enjoyable as arriving at your destination under your own steam, carrying your own luggage on the bike.  You feel tired, yes, but not jaded or disspirited.  On the contrary, you feel absolutely alive - your senses singing with information.  A quick shower the slough off the muck and it's on to the hors d'oeuvres and drinks.  And they, believe me, never tasted better.

Before I can enjoy the genteel face of bike culture, I must endure a few more weeks of racing.  I say 'endure', but the truth is I'm enjoying it more and more as the weeks go by.  It's always like this, competitive cycling.  It's miserable when you're not fit enough, and one always begins the season not fit enough.  It's nigh on impossible to recreate the intensity of racing when training.  But I'm finally starting to feel some power in the legs.  Also, the mental aspect of the game is sharpening up too.  My concentration is must better, as is evidenced by my changing perception of the length of each race.  At first they appear to last for months, but as you get more and more in the zone, the duration drops dramatically.  Last week's race was over before it began.

I'm hoping to get so fit I forget the whole thing one week.

Stuff and nonsense

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.