How can you take rest day when you’re already in the middle of a rest month?
I got off my bike in a crazed delirium of exhaustion and disgust on October 10 and swore by the holy bowels of Lord Schlagerei that I would not pedal again for thirty days.
At the moment of my blood oath I was so appalled at my bicycles that I promptly sold one of them, bringing me instantly back into harmony with the Grand Injunction of Scott Dickson, “Thou shalt have and love but one.”
This wasn’t the off season, it was the off sport.
My remaining bike leaned against the wall, not even daring to whimper, but I knew what it was thinking: “Am I next?”
I glared in return. “Watch yourself, son.”
Each day I kept waiting for the vitality to return, the desire to straddle and smash, but it was like waiting for something else that isn’t gonna come, even with pharmaceutical assistance.
Eventually I had to coast down my street about a quarter mile to meet up with two friends at Corporate Coffee. That was on Monday, and I kept waiting for my legs to surge to life, waiting for them to impel me far beyond the coffee shop, if not in fact at least in desire. Noooope. “Eff you, bike” as people who don’t like to say “fuck” say.
Exhausted from all my rest I checked the weekend calendar which, perversely, like every past weekend was packed with cycling events even though I’m no longer riding. I started to get carbonaphobia, fear of being surrounded by high-end bicycles.
Adding to my two-hour late afternoon nap, I went to bed at 8:30, and got up at 4:30.
The apartment was dark and still, and I padded into the kitchen, savoring those few moments, alone as death, when everything still seems possible and free.
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