A THIN LINE

I know the symptoms just as well as I know the
adjectives—burning thighs, cramping calves, aching knees,
screaming lungs, and side stitches so sharp I can’t inhale. And
all this on top of nagging back pain and that nasty stinger that
pops up between my shoulder blades on occasion the last few years.

Sometimes it doesn’t hurt too badly, like when I have to dig
just a little. Maybe I’ve got to pull through at the front of a
fast paceline, the effort’s intense, but after a few seconds the
next guy pulls through and everything’s okay. Or the hill is
steep but short. Other times, it’s the duration, not the
intensity that makes the pain so bad, like a huge headwind that
beats down every bit of morale I ever thought of and I’ve still
got 10 miles to go. 

Or I curse myself as I cannot answer another rider’s move even
though I’m drooling and blacking out from the effort. Or the
group disappears yard by yard up the road as my legs simply
refuse to work any harder.

Why do I subject myself to this kind of suffering? Why do I ride
when my legs are cement and I feel like crap? Or plan my entire
Wednesday so I’ll be at my strongest in order to suffer like a
dog trying to hang with the Hammerheads? Why did I strap on a
brace and go riding 10 days after I broke my collarbone?

There’s something completely different about pain I choose to
subject myself to. I do, after all, get to hold that internal
debate about when enough is enough. And of course, Darwin teaches
only the strong survive. I don’t quite think this theory holds up
in our coddled society, but I haven’t entirely given up on it
either. I do know that I remain enamored with growing stronger
and faster, even though I can’t figure out how all the suffering
this entails benefits me one whit otherwise. 

Except that hard rides provide frequent, powerful reminders of
one of the great lessons humanity offers—that the fine line
between pain and pleasure is very thin indeed, and one cannot
truly know one extreme without knowing the other equally well.

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Every sport has its superstitions and rituals.

In ice hockey, you never shoot the puck into the net after the
play is blown dead. In baseball, you never talk to the pitcher
about the no-hitter he’s throwing. In football, you never score a
touchdown without doing a dance that humiliates your opponent and
lands you five extra seconds of airtime on SportsCenter.

And in cycling, well, where do I start? Our little sport is
quirkier than a Michael Jackson impersonator contest.

For instance, you never talk about getting a flat tire. Because
if you do, your tube will deflate faster than you can say, “I
think I left my pump on the workbench.” It’s that
taunting-the-gods thing. Likewise, if you clean your bicycle, it
will rain on your next ride. And if you tune up your bike the
night before a big event, it’ll break down for sure.

Don’t even get me started on lucky jerseys, or socks, or
anything else you wore once on a great ride and ever since has
become the magic article of clothing that adds wings to your feet
and subtracts Twinkies from your hips.

What about the “rule” that both wheels’ quick-release levers
must be on the left side of the bike? Sure, the rear lever should
be on the left, away from the rear derailleur and its cable. But
why the front?

Some say knowing the lever’s location helps the team mechanic
make a lightning-fast wheel change when you flat during a big
race. To which I say: What team mechanic? Yet I have faithfully
mounted both QR levers on the left side of every bike I’ve owned.

Why tempt fate, right? Now excuse me while I go not clean my bike.