Contemplating you.

Because you've tortured me. Tormented my very soul and shook my principles to the core. Cut through my psyche like an acetylene torch through a Aleoca frame. And yet you appear innocuous, seemingly oblivious to how you've disassembled my mental world like a wheel being de-spoked. Slowly, surely, becoming an empty shell. This post is for you. Just to inform. That you've succeeded beyond your wildest dreams or hopes. That my mind lies in tatters; my very existence an empty shell. I coast bewilderedly along the unpaved dirt road of life, cranking only when my plummeting velocity threatens to destroy my equilibrium entirely. Knowing that my cleats are fouled, that I can't unclip till I find a support to lean against. Yet, what little havens there were, you destroyed. You tailed me down the treacherous drops, before nudging me into the filthiest ditch you could seek. Only sheer skill and mucle memory has brought me this far. I'm on autopilot. My wheelset creaks; my spokes are a forlorn mess, sagging and twisted, torquing the wheel to nearly unrideable dimensions. My seatpost sways and buckles. My frame shudders and shimmies, and I don't even know why. The worst thing is that I don't even understand what you gain from this. Maybe only you alone know the truth.

But, if you plumb deep within your soul, if you conclude that your depraved actions were but an act of untold folly, of delusion and madness, if you decide to actually care, then know this. Know that in these days the path I ride runs along the borders of the humane mind. Know that I teeter on the fault line of reality. Know that somewhere in the wilderness of my mind, there's a figure, his jersey ripped, his helmet fissured, his gloves bearing the scars of numerous suicide skids; his spokes, corroded, snapping off one by one, wheels buckling slowly but surely; you realize from that weary grip on the bars that only raw skill and experience has guided him through the long miles behind. Yet the whitening of the knuckles forewarns that skill is not forever; that without a place of respite, a haven where he may recuperate, lick wounds both mechanical and organic, and rebuild his consciousness for the arduous journey to come, he won't make it. Fatigue triumphs in the end; the torso slumps, the chain slackens, and the clatter of the cranks echoes the wrenching death knell of the creased frame alloy. But for now, the figure rides on, clinging to the last vestiges of hope. Intervention on your part is still possible. But the end isn't far away.

~Ride fast, Ride Safe.~

Overhaul and maintenance.

Recently, Iwas doing prelim maintenance on my ride. Meaning that I clean the chain, wipe off fouling from the cassette, and lube the whole thing. Polishing the frame and derailleurs. Lubing the gear mechs. Checking for spoke fatigue. All the greasy but neccessary crap. It just made me think...what's my bike to me? I've come pretty far from being that snot-nosed kid who thought that singlespeeds were cool 'cos you could pedal like a maniac on them. Back then, my mech was nothing more than a more dangerous toy, an alternative form of entertainment. Lately, I've realized this isn't the case. My buddies tell me that on the pedals, I'm a whole different person. I prefer to think that the bike infuses its personality into me. Being on it just opens up my world; introduces new dimensions. All the crazy skids, switchblades, jumps I pull off...it's just not who I usually am. Yet I've been there, done that. Sure, there's been a wipeout or two here and there 'cos I didn't pay attention to what I was doing. Yet I'm not haunted by these failings. I consistently bite off more than I can chew, yet I routinely survive those sticky situations. I've never been forced to endure the humiliation of doing a flip over my own handlebars and being run over by my bike, something touted as a coming-of-age ritual for most mountain bikers. Why? I realize my bike is no longer a metal mech. It's become, in many ways, a part of me; in fact, it's a neccessary extension of myself. I'm told not many cyclists have the chance to feel this way. I guess I'm rather lucky. Or, to be narcissistic, I could say it's natural talent. It means the same thing to me.

~Ride fast, ride safe.~