Out Of Love

A throw back blog to when I used to ride my bike full time and travel the world. It wasn’t all fairytales

AW

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I’ve had a couple of injury hit seasons. The physical and mental toll these injuries have taken has prompted friends and family to ask: ‘Why do you still ride?’With an extended convalescence after my latest injury, I asked myself the same question. I have lost sight of why I love cycling.The constant travel of the last few years: racing abroad, living out of a suitcase, missed birthdays, broken promises, and broken bones have all dulled my passion for a sport I once loved.I took some time to reflect on the complex and dynamic life long relationship I have had with the bike.I remembered why I used to love cycling. I remembered my first bike and the sense of freedom it instilled. It was an escape, it brought me places that were too far to walk and not accessible by bus.I loved that first bike for its utilitarian beauty; function over style.It was a vehicle; a vehicle that enabled me to build lifelong friendships and summer-long romances. In retrospect, what I loved about this first bike was what it represented – freedom and opportunity.

Casting my mind back to my college days, the bike transformed my commuting experience. Traffic jams, bus fares, and frustration were replaced with a sense of calmness.The bike was my reprieve. It was a window between study, work, and college debauchery through which I could abscond for an hour at a time. It saved me money and instilled great mental clarity.It was liberation from the mundane.  Riding past the gym I would get a smug elitist feeling as I watched cars slalom through rush hour traffic to join a queue for a parking space to go ‘work out’.I wasn’t ‘working out’ and yet I was getting all the associated health benefits; there was nothing laborious about my task.

My cycling passion evolved and the bike morphed – it transformed from a vehicle to a tool. A burgeoning career as an aspiring cyclist loomed.I applied myself studiously to my new task – becoming a student of the sport. I learnt the history: Coppi, Merckx, Kelly.  The more I learnt the more absorbed I became.It is truly a beautiful sport with a rich, textured, and colourful past. I absorbed information by surrounding myself with good riders, and this thirst for knowledge took me to new pastures.Learning the science of the power metre and human physiology, and marrying these concepts with centuries of tradition brought a new dimension to my understanding of the sport.

I am six hours into a twelve hour journey from Toronto’s suburbs to Chicago. I am aboard Greyhound bus No 11.The smell of spilt beer and old cigarette smoke is intensified by the humidity of the Canadian sunshine – it’s over powering my senses. I sit squashed between my bike bag and a brash, overweight stranger with questionable personal hygiene. I am en route to a series of criterium’s just outside Chicago. As I sit pensively in this oppressive environment, I realise that the love I once had for the bike is all but gone. This isn’t fun anymore. This is a job.Cycling has lost its magic for me. I cast my mind back to those folk’s cars queuing to go ‘work-out’ in the gym. I can now identify with them.I feel a sense of obligation, of routine, of chore. All these are the antithesis of why I fell in love with the sport. How had the dream gone so badly awry?

I am sure when I am grey and old with time clouding my recollection I will look back fondly on these moments – a time when I travelled the world and raced my bike against some of the world’s best. Right now I can’t see past the drudgery that is the reality for an aspiring racer – travel, race, and travel some more. The love has gotten lost in a cloud of wattage, intervals, and routine. I’m counting down the days till this season is over.

A crash and subsequent down time afforded me a period of introspection. I debated walking away from cycling and getting a ‘real job’.I thought long and hard. I resolved to not rush into a decision while injured. I wasn’t ruling out a comeback.But in my heart of hearts I thought I was done. Chapter closed – move on.

Getting back into the saddle for the first time, I wasn’t expecting any great comeback story. It was a way to give me some closure – to say I didn’t quit because of an injury. I rode for hour after hour, day after day. No power meter, no performance targets, no upcoming races, I rode just to ride – for its intrinsic value.

I remembered the good times: the friendships, the laughs, the stories, my fond time at UCD and the races we won.I began to feel at one with the bike again; a feeling I hadn’t experienced in years. The temperature had dropped just enough to contrast my white breath against the black tarmacadam of Howth Hill.

I noticed my heart beat was in synch with my pedal stroke as I climbed. Glancing up from the handlebars I gazed out across Dublin Bay and watched the sun set behind the Wicklow Mountains – my favourite view in the world. With every pedal stoke I began to remember why I love cycling. Why do you love cycling?

AW