Author: Mischa

There is no glory in suffering, it just hurts. Sure, you can look back on it with some kind of rose-tinted photo-chromatic lenses in your Rudi Projects and make it seem like a noble pursuit to make yourself hurt on a bicycle, but when your spindly jelly legs are about to collapse beneath you and your lungs feel like limp pieces of cheese in your chest, glory is well out of sight. In fact, glory is probably hanging out at the local footy oval with a bunch of sporting ‘heroes’, undoubtably enjoying a beer and a snag.

I live at the bottom of a small hill. There’s a road that goes up in, and I’ve never turned my pedals along its length, mainly because it’s really steep and seems like way too much effort. However, with my newly completed Rapha-inspired bicycle, I figured I should try do something that hurt. Apparently it makes you a better person and a better cyclist. To be honest, I felt less bettered and more battered.

I set out from my comfortable couch and promptly ran into Clint at the bottom (figuratively speaking of course. Actually running into him would have made the whole thing even worse). Clint proceeded to tell me I was a bit mad and silly and a little daft, and how he hadn’t even got around to riding the damn thing on his road bike with all its gears and light weight bits and what-not, never mind trying it on a fixed gear bike. Great, after spending the last hour talking up my glory and triumph in my head, I was now directly at the bottom of it all, and feeling like it was where I should stay.

Regardless, I soldiered on. It was about 20m later that I realised I actually had no idea what the climb looked like or what I was actually in for. I had a good feeling that I’d make it 100m up and then turn into a withered mess. I wasn’t far off. In fact, in less than 50m I was out of my seat and hauling on the pedals, trying in vain to get further over my front wheel, despite the 80mm stem and flat bars on my ‘tricked-out’ bike. I swore and cursed and tried not to veer into oncoming traffic as my head began to swell with effort and my mind splintered and finally cracked, leaving me yearning to sell my soul in exchange for some bar ends. I passed the quarry, which is pretty much at the base of the hill. I’d never even realised it was there, that was how deep I had ventured into my unknown backyard. After that I shut out anything that wasn’t the ragged piece of tarmac under my front wheel. Road markers became my only world. Every five metres clawed from the road ahead of me was almost a respite, and the fulfilling of some lofty goal that should have seen me ushered into the cycling hall of fame, complete with champagne, cocaine and beautiful women. No such luck.

Finally things levelled out. Awareness pried its way back into my brain and things got a little more human. The road mellowed and I reacquainted myself with my long-forgotten saddle. The sun emerged from behind a cloud (probably) and the day was bathed in glorious afternoon light (maybe). I felt like I was in familiar territory, and I could see oft-ridden mountain bike trails in the bush, reminding me that I’d climbed this low before, albeit on a bike with an oft-used 22-34 gear ratio. I sat up and took a swig out of my water bottle (stashed in my jersey, none of those useful cage mounts on my ridiculous frame), then took a deep breathe of fresh air into my egg-sized lungs. Surely this was it, the peak of my ambition, the crest of the proverbial wave? Once again, no such luck.

On I stumbled, weaving my way from one side of the road to the other, mentally cursing my recent past-self that had somehow managed to override that safe, comfortable well of laziness that gently rules my life at all other times. There’s always a final battle in all the movies, a courageous last stand in all the stories. Our heroes take one final stab, give on last kick, and surge on to triumph. Not me. I whimpered my way up that final stretch of lonely road. I groped my sunglasses off my face in a desperate attempt to somehow pull more oxygen through my pores. I spent what felt like an eternity unleashing hatred upon the initial thoughts towards style that left me with a cotton cap on my head and the word ‘suicidal’ emblazoned above my eyes. This wasn’t the easy exit of suicide, it was a sadistic self mutilation that I just didn’t have the balls to take on. It bloody sucked.

Finally the holy intersection that ended my suffering pulled itself into view. It teased me from afar, and slowly road markers crept their way past as I hauled myself onto the sacrosanct surface of my salvation. Sweet, sweet mediocrity. Oh holy flat. The road that signalled ‘all downhill from here’ eased its way under my tyres and I slumped into my saddle. So much for glory. I’d climbed 2.5km along a stretch of back road and ended up in the middle of the bush somewhere, with nothing to show for it but a semi-retarded expression on my face and a slightly better view than when I started. Rapha can kiss my arse.

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I think the ride to Ouse is going to hurt a lot. I’m hoping it’ll be a little more enjoyable. I dunno about epic, and I’m not sure about glory, but I do know it’ll be a damn good time with a bunch of good heads. You should come along.

Just spotted this over on Trackosaurus. It’s too funny not to pass on, but be warned! If you lack a sense of humour, are easily offended by er…sexual content, or if for some reason you’re under the mistaken impression that BnC is a wholesome family blog, don’t follow this link. If you want a chuckle, or if you’re getting on in years and want to reminisce about being 16 again, then go wild. I’m still chuckling. I wonder if Lotto were onto the whole viral marketing thing a few years ahead of the pack?