My first bunch race in a long time is tomorrow. I use the word 'bunch' loosely as I don't expect to be in a bunch for long. Still, I'll be there. Cycling is struggling, our community is shrinking, it is our duty to support, or in my case, make up numbers. I've been out of the loop a long time now, enjoying what Phil Gaimon calls the "Worst Retirement Ever".
You see, I'm addicted. Always saw myself as a racing cyclist. Always liked the idea of racing or competing. Makes up the DNA of my whole family really, be it running, cycling, rowing, climbing, rugby or the race against time. We did whatever it took.
Of course, now that I'm 56 and rattled at best, it's gonna be hurt-locker territory. My lungs won't draw as much as the kids, my blood won't pump like the best of them either. But in my head is a hard drive glitching with 40 years of sepia film reels of the good and the bad of it. The crashes and dashes, the ones that got away, the few I nailed. The friends and enemies lost and found. Stick around long enough in any sport and your circle gets smaller but infinitely better.
So my memories bring me to the start line, the memories of how bad it can be hiding at the back of the film roll.
Why? Isn't it easier to Netflix and chill? Isn't it a better option? Well... no. I'll be last in a lot of bunch races this year but afterwards I'll be buzzing, high as a kite. I'll re-run each part of the race, working it over. I may not have much to give anymore but life would be a whole lot tougher sitting at home with a dose of FOMO kicking home.
So it's when the blood did flow fast with my taps open that will drive me to that start line.
It's the good moves in past races that appeared like an alcoholic's moment of clarity that will fill my head.
It'll be the shirkers and workers of bygone times I'll be rubbing shoulders with.
I honestly can't wait.
After all, living in the past makes you tend to repeat it.
