Perfection

It's a day that erases everything. Bad moods. The ups and downs of everyday life. Work worries. Problems with the kids. And above all, those painful rides , aborted training sessions, and flat tires at the end of a race just when you were about to finish so well...

The clouds drift lazily by, like the hours of this late afternoon. In a few turns of the big hand, the pink glow of the setting sun will make them look like cotton candy torn apart by the hands of sugar-hungry children. But for now, their whiteness contrasts sharply with the bright blue of a summer sky. There is barely any wind, just enough to mention. The light is white, pure, and makes the green of the leaves, fields, and lawns explode.

From the moment I start pedaling, I know it's going to be a day without chains. A Ride you move forward at breakneck speed without ever really feeling like you're pushing yourself. It's the principle of adaptation that triumphs: after several days of training and two of almost complete rest, the transformation is complete and my body is jubilant. 

It then becomes a tool that I can ignore. A perfectly tuned engine that allows me to go fast and far without worrying about fatigue. All I need to do is refuel from time to time, and I could drive forever, it seems to me. 

Between the intersection of Talbot Boulevard and Tewkesbury Chapel, I can barely feel the pedals under my feet. My breathing remains steady, except perhaps on the two steepest ramps. And even then, I stand up and my bike moves forward like never before. Once at the top, I shift up a gear. Then another. I pick up speed and lean on the handlebars, my hands on Socks Handlebar. I ride the bike into Tron.

I ride over the small bumps, along the river where fishermen and a few swimmers are lounging. I go even faster. And faster still. I pass two guys taking turns coming back from the north side. They look to be in great shape. Normally, they might catch up with me, but I zoom past them like a rocket, waving as I go. A minute later, I look back and they're gone. 

I smile to myself. Not because I've given them a cold in passing, but because I realize how exceptional this level of fitness is, and how absolutely sublime the feeling that accompanies it is. Because it's very rare.

How many days like this do I have in a season? I can count them on my fingers. Because so many elements have to align in order to achieve this physical perfection that it might never happen. Have I trained well and rested enough? Am I in a good mood and not too stressed? Then there's the mechanics, which also have to be flawless. And if possible, the weather.

Because a day like this is enjoyable in the rain, but in the sunshine of a summer that is too short, it turns into a burst of happiness. While I sometimes can't wait to get home after 80 or 90 miles, I choose to extend my route, stop for a coffee, and text home to say I'll be arriving later. 

And once in the garden behind my house, I will place my beer can on lips frozen in a smile that will surely stay with me even in my sleep, my dreams tinged with pink like the clouds at sunset.