My motivation to cycle is low. I’m in the gutter, the metaphorical one, not the one drivers want you to ride in. Self-sabotage is rife, anything to avoid pushing the pedals over and over and over again.
Lycra remains unwashed in dusty corners, piles of the stuff, stinking and rotting, the ghosts of previous rides lingering, haunting me with their pungent aromas. People say chapeau to me but it doesn’t even register and I no longer wonder why they are saying ‘hat’ to me or talking with a poor French accent.
Fingers chopped off my every pair of gloves. Batteries inserted the wrong way into bike lights. Saddle removed, seatpost maintained. Brakes greased with olive oil. Pedals unscrewed and replaced with light bulbs.
It’s not that I don’t want to ride, it’s just that I can’t. Not now. In this. This wet and wild misery. Shame that. You know I would if I could, right?
Avoid puncheurs when darkness falls
My only cycle is one of idleness. I am inertia personified. Without the bike I am going nowhere fast yet I don’t seem to mind. I do not remember which gear ratios work best on my local hill climbs and I no longer see the avatars of my Strava enemies just before I sleep. Nature is something that terrifies not exhilarates. I no longer ride up grades and the only upgrades I make are in the slipper department.
A PB is a peanut butter sandwich and not the time it takes me to do a lap of Regent’s Park. Wiggle is no longer an expensive habit but something I’d attempt at a discotheque if I was so inclined. I no longer monitor my heart rate. Neither do I run up escalators foolishly pretending it’s all part of some grand training regime.
A domestique is someone you pay to fetch your slippers, rouleurs are for styling hair, and a puncheur is somebody to avoid when the pubs close. Aero bars are bubbly chocolate bars, cassettes are obsolete music storage devices, and granny gear is what I wear. A turbo trainer is still hell.
Lost not found
Free of cycling, I am imprisoned, housebound, searching for my drive, my motivation. I’ve checked beneath the bed five times and been to the back of the sock drawer more times than I care to remember, all to no avail, for I cannot find the motivation to ride. Damn you winter.
They say when you’ve lost something you should try to remember where you last left it. So where exactly did I lose my love of cycling? Ah yes, I remember now, it was that wonderful place, the one with the great yellow ball in the big blue thing, summer, I believe it’s called.
Let’s call this hibernation. Without the metabolic suppression.
More uninspiring cycle memes can be found at #CyclingTruths
Human Cyclist 