I used to race a lot. Not very well, but as often as I could do it, I would be there.
Nowadays, I’m officially a “weeknight warrior,” preferring local throw-downs to the big regional series races that take place on weekends. When I leave the big city, I will probably leave forever the opportunity to race my bike during the week, and that’s not really that big of a deal to me. Sometimes I just show up at the races and don’t even race: I’m fine with that. The fight has left the dog.
Yet not completely. I probably “compete” more than ever, but only when I feel like it. I still get very competitive with myself, friends, total strangers, and Sir Isaac Newton. I still train. I think I’m faster than ever, but I’m not sure. I suppose I could find out by going out and racing some official race or something, but one tiny slip-up could befoul the results and render the experiment useless. And if the experiment is useless, I’ve just paid 30-50 bucks for a useless experiment, plus food, gas, and wear and tear on equipment. But I think I’m fast. I might be, but it is of little enduring consequence.
Nowadays, hanging more medals on the back of the closet door just isn’t that appealing. What am I going to do with those medals? Wear them around? Frame them? Swallow them? There they hang. Sometimes opening the closet door generates a congratulatory “clunk” sound that often provokes a good memory or two. There are some big efforts represented on the back of that there door. But there they hang.
One day I’ll be too old or too busy or too refined or too dead to ride hard anymore. I think the proving days are behind me, and different days are ahead.
Give the gift of bran!
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Bags of Bran 