Hello, my name is Jim and I am, without a doubt, a cycle-holic. I can’t help myself when I get to close to my bike – it calls to me, I can literally hear it say, “Big Daaaddy…come here and ride me big boy”! I am absolutely powerless, until I get into my saddle and clipped into my pedals – after all, how often is a guy cat-called? If that wasn’t bad enough, no matter how intricately I explain that we need to take a slow day for recovery, my steed just won’t allow it.
“Don’t be so soft”, the retort stings my fragile ego.
“Baby don’t be so MEAN”, I push back, alas the protest falls on deaf deraillieur pulleys.
“Get it in gear, big shooter”, it says, “let’s make some distance”. So hopelessly powerless am I that not only do I comply, recovery ride be damned, I do it with a smile on my face! Before the second revolution of the crank makes it to high noon I’m punishing us both, hoping that with every watt transferred to the chain, it hurts my bike just a little more than it does me.
She’s a sturdy lass though, high end carbon and aluminum with tramp stamps tattooed about every glistening component… “Ultegra”- the tattoos almost all say the same thing, as if to sneer, I’m tougher than you Big Daddy… Then there’s the capper – on the glistening ruby red metallic flake paint job… TREK, the storied tattoo taunts everyone who dares throw a leg over the top tube, it whispers, “I was good enough to hold up to Armstrong’s punishment, to win the greatest race in the world – seven times in a row”.
“Don’t wuss out on me now, Big Daddy, let’s get it on”, the big ring says.
“Indeed”, I reply, a wide shit eating grin chiseled on my face. My grip on the hoods tightens, my jaw clenches ever so slightly… My second foot snaps home with a crisp ‘click’… My calf flexes, each striation of toned muscle bulges as if trying to burst from the skin… I whisper through clenched teeth, “let’s get it on”…
My name is Jim and I’m a cycle-holic. It’s been fifteen hours since my last workout…and there’s only ten hours left until my next…