I had an interesting convergence of conversations today about riding, and the place it holds in the lives of riders.
Honestly, I was quite relieved to find that I’m not alone in my obsession.
In other forms of love, I’ve suffered the slings and arrows, just like we all have. The deceptions, the letdowns, the time and heart lost to devotion unreturned. But deep down, I always knew that riding was the love affair that would never end. Until it did.
I take full responsibility for that ending, but still, I feel like a jilted lover. I mope around the house, shooting dirty looks at the Maverick as if it’s the bike’s fault. Every time I see mtb videos on the internet, the pangs of jealousy make me want to turn away. But like the woman who sees her man with another girl, I helplessly succumb to the voyeuristic longing. Damn, it looks even better now that I can’t have it…
And it’s not like I can just rub one out and get on with it.
For me, the urge to stomp on the pedals ranks just as high as our other human desires. And I might as well be cloistered in an abbey right now, I’m so deprived.
So I’m relieved when I hear that other people suffer this way, too; that their stress relieving mechanism is gone, that they are frustrated and saddened, that they feel left behind by their pedaling friends.
But the beauty of this situation is captured in that deeply irritating cliche: Absence makes the heart grow fonder. While on the surface I am saying, “Oh yeah? It was pretty frickin’ fond to begin with, f*ckface,” it is certain that when I finally get back to the trails, I will fall back in love so deeply that there will be no digging out.
And I know that my other suffering friends will be right there with me.
Hang tough, Rick.