We rode and I got dropped.
We rode and raced the sun, not wanting to get caught in its absence.
We rode up a hill and I fell off the back.
I don’t mind getting dropped so much. Getting dropped will only make you better.
I’ll get dropped every fucking day if it means I’m getting faster. Stronger.
I do mind holding people up, although the boys I rolled with seemed not to mind too much.
They noted that I was pushing knobbies, which was very kind of them.
Sure my bike is heavy. And the knobbies suck.
But it’s just me, dude.
You’re faster than me. Maybe you will be forever, maybe you won’t.
The point is that I’ll never stop trying to school your shit.
You can drop me a million times.
Portland has brought out the cyclist in me.
I’ve got a minor foot injury that is keeping me out of running shorts, resigned to chamois.
No matter – this town was literally built for two wheels.
I feel suddenly motivated to take things into my hands, stop making excuses, take risks.
My life has been safe, safe and safe over the past few years and it has made the Risk-Taker and the Daredevil in me feel slighted.
Sure it’s dangerous to commute by bike.
More dangerous still to do it at night.
But what of living isn’t dangerous?
Risking to love.
Risking to expand.
I want less “safe” and less “comfort”.
That’s what I’m coming to… have been coming to.
I’m terrified of this. And me.
I’m going through step-changes and it feels huge.
But mark my words – I’m going to pedal through it.
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