I went for a bike ride last night.
On the surface, this should not sound unusual. Riding is pretty much my whole life, especially if you don’t count eating, which I do anyway because I have to believe that all of the eating I do is in service of my riding (including the root beer float I had after work, right before I had that other root beer float).
Last night was different, however. I went out for a bike ride strictly to ride my bike. Like, just ride it around. No training plan, no kit, no waterbottle, no destination, just street clothes, a bike, and a helmet. Even the cycling computer stayed home, although that was less because I was at peace with the idea of riding data-free and more because the battery died. It was as if fate had beckoned me to go forth and pedal aimlessly.
Fate neglected to mention that aimlessly did not mean allergy-lessly and within five minutes of riding without cycling glasses, my eyes were watering and itching. Other than that, though, it was great. So peaceful! So carefree!
And it was. The novelty wore off quickly (somewhere around the second mile) and then I got impatient. Partly to go home, partly to turn the ride into a structured one-hour recovery ride, and partly to not be preoccupied with shifting uncomfortably on the hard saddle while yanking up the back of my sagging jeans. Yes, I wore jeans, cuffed rakishly (translation: ridiculously) on one side.
When I passed other cyclists wearing kits and riding with Serious Intent, they hardly gave me a second glance. The indignity! I am part of your spandex society! I may be wearing jeans, but this flimsy wind jacket is made by Rapha, which clearly proves that I am also a Serious Cyclist!* All kidding aside, it’s weird to ride by cyclists that normally smile and nod like I’m part of their world and instead have them look through me like I’m one of those people who wander into the garage, find a rusting bike tucked behind the old badminton set and the Christmas lights, and decide to don a helmet like an ill-fitting beret and go for a long 3-mile ride.
As I cruised down the street pondering the deeply meaningful question of whether I was maintaining a sub-100-watt recovery pace, a familiar face came riding towards me. It was my friend and fellow racer James, who rolled up and immediately commented, “Nice kit.” Then we chatted about Battenkill and equipment and race plans and it was nice, because instead of fretting over the ramifications of an unintended mid-ride rest, I just stood there like a normal person and talked. I realized that, while I prefer rides with a purpose, enough speed to feel invigorating, and the gentle hug of a chamois, it is enjoyable to occasionally shelve my militant, obsessive tendencies and relax on the bike.
That being said, it also felt a little like going into the office on a Saturday just to savor the joy of industrial carpeting and Microsoft Outlook. I love cycling, but not as an idle pursuit – I love it for the training, the suffering, the accomplishment, the camraderie with other people who share the same love. The next time I have the urge to just go for a ride, I’ll rent a pony.
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*Other Rapha-Related Signs That I Am A Serious Cyclist: After a few rides in the same pair of Rapha cycling gloves, I wear my gloves into the shower where I massage them gently with the magical bar of hand-cut soap that, according to Rapha, is ‘made from the aromatic plants and herbs that grow on the Giant of Provence’. While Rapha promises that the these ‘scents will be familiar to any rider that has made the pilgrimage to the great mountain’, my experience is that after washing gloves with only this soap for several months, the resulting scent is familiar to any rider who has left used athletic socks in a plastic bag in a hot car for a week. Maybe that is how the great mountain is supposed to smell, but it’s unpleasant enough that I gave up on pretension last week and threw the gloves in the washing machine. Do I still get to keep my cycling license?