Hey.

Hey.

Haven't seen you around in a while.

Hey.

Working Full Time.

Hey, just because this blog isn't being updated any more, doesn't mean I'm not writing at all. Check out the article I wrote for Cycling News here. Doing the story was a heap of fun, and I'm looking forward to more bits and pieces in the new year.

She Prefers Fire.

In light of some recent news, The New Timer is going on temporary hiatus. We'll notify you good folks on Facebook and Twitter when we're back.

Thanks.

And It's Time, Time, Time That You Love.

Tara Jayne and I are hanging out on Brunswick Street, strolling along in the misty rain. She's lived in Sydney a while now (remember when she left? Man, that time sucked), and tells me that coming back down to Melbourne feels stranger than it used to. "When I lived here I had so much to work on," she says, "But now, when I have a day off, I'm kind of at a loss. I just don't know what to do." I kinda know how she feels. Now that I'm not riding my bike so much I have all this time, and occasionally I have no idea how to fill it. I read books, I run errands around town, I catch up with old friends, but sometimes I find myself with an empty hour and no way to fill it. In a strange way, that's a pretty good feeling. As opposed to the hours when I was sticking to a program, or the hours when I'm at work, those empty hours feel like they wholly belong to me. It's like I can stretch out in them, unravel a little, take them or leave them. Or do both, if I choose.

Invent A Fire.

I rode my bike around Cuba once. It was pretty good. I quickly discovered two things: 1) that once I figured out all the vegan words (no carne, no leche, no huevos) I could eat just fine, and 2) that Cuba has hills. The latter was the more disturbing discovery. I was no cyclist back then, and I'd hastily thrown together a bike with a minimum of expertise. In fact, I'd bought a cyclocross bike on ebay for the purpose of touring, but the UPS fucked up the shipping somehow and the racks we had didn't fit it. So I ended up throwing the racks and panniers on an old flat bar hybrid and riding that around for two months. It didn't have a computer, didn't have fully working gears, and only barely fit me. It lasted pretty well though, only breaking a spoke in the last 2 hours of our entire journey. I loosened the brakes, limped it home and abandoned the wheel at Havana airport.

After three months of Canadian winter I was vastly unprepared for the Cuban sun, and was brutally sunburned on the first day in the saddle. On my first day in a proper town - Vinales - I hunted down an old clothing store and found a long-sleeved business shirt that kinda fit me, and that I consequently wore the entire way around the island. It was almost transparent with sweat most days, but would come good with a decent rinsing, and kept the UV rays away from my poor skin. That evening in Vinales I rode up to an old tobacco homestead and surveyed the realm. Wearing my business shirt with the collar turned up I felt like I was part of a forgotten era. And then, on the way back down the hill, when one of the locals whispered to me, "You want cigar? You want rum? You want woman?" the feeling was compounded, and no longer as fun.

I also brushed up against the Cuban music scene once. I was walking back to my room in Holguin one evening when I saw what seemed to be a band setting up. Later that night when I returned to sate my curiosity a fully-fledged metal show was in progress. Seems the kids in Cuba listen to way too much Cradle of Filth (at the risk of insulting any Cradle of Filth fans who also happen to be reading this blog – which kinda makes my head explode to consider – I’m going to suggest that any Cradle of Filth is way too much). After a couple of minutes some locals came up for a chat. I told them that I was more into punk than metal, and they gave me the names of a couple of bands I should check out. The concept of ironic detachment, however, hadn’t quite made it to Cuba when it comes to band nomenclature – one of them was ‘Porno for Preacher’, and the other I think roughly translates to ‘Y’know, someone should tell those earnest kids on the corner selling badges that communism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be’.

The shittiest part of the trip, strangely enough, was in the last few nights, when I'd booked into a fancy resort in the beach town of Varadero. I'd been pretty well looked after by the locals throughout Cuba, staying in people's houses, being fed beans and rice and eating random fried vegetables on the street. But being in the resort kinda sucked. I'm no resort snob - fuck, I love cable TV, self-service salad bars and clean bedsheets every day - but this is where the two factors peculiar to me (that I was riding a bike, and that I am vegan) became increasingly and noticeably difficult. The resort just wasn't flexible enough to deal with either, accustomed as it was to churning through identical German tourist after German tourist.

But that's just the bad bits. The good bits were far more prevalent, if slightly less funny. The beaches, as you can see above, were spectacular, and the water bathtub warm. The people were for the most part fucking awesome, especially when they found out I was from Australia. Riding my bike meant that I was occasionally stopping where few other tourists did so, and while that occasionally meant drop toilets and no hot water, it also meant I occasionally stumbled onto places like Gibara, an old port where few folks other than locals ever ventured.

However, one time in particular stands out. I was riding west from Santiago de Cuba and was supposed to be stopping at some random ranch about fifty kilometres away. On my arrival at the ranch I discovered that it had been closed due to cyclone damage. There was no other place to stay anywhere nearby, so I had no other option than to soldier on to Pilon, a further fifty clicks down the road. It was a freaking spectacular road, easily the rival of the Great Ocean Road, with the Sierra Maestra (where I believe Guevara and Castro and Haydee Santamaria hid out during the revolution) on my right and the Carribean on my left, but by the end of the day I was out of water and in no state to appreciate it. Eventually I arrived in Pilon and found a small hotel that mercifully had a pool. 100ks was easily the furthest I'd ever ridden a bicycle at that time. I figured I'd be wrecked the next day and booked in for two nights. But the next day, well watered and well fed, I was ready to go again. In fact, by midday I was kinda missing the bike, and went for a ride around the tiny town. I hadn't wanted to ride 100ks in a day, but now that I realized I could, a bigger world was opening up for me. And that was a pretty good thing indeed.

We Like To Party.

Cuz Bro was riding home from Revolver at some ungodly hour of the morning, pinging out of his mind, when he saw some flashing lights out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't wearing a helmet, didn't have any lights, and was riding a bike without one legal workable brake. So he did what anyone else would've done in that situation - you know, if their brain was sufficiently addled by a volatile mix of party drugs. He hit the gas.

Of course, the difference between Cuz Bro and most people is that Cuz was a hell of a cyclist. He even won the Metros one year. The only thing stopping him from being a more successful cyclist was his tendency to crash. This also turned out to be the only thing stopping him from being a more successful getaway artist. The cops drew up beside him and motioned for him to stop. Cuz didn't agree with their suggestion, and hit the anchors, thinking that he'd swerve behind them and duck down an adjoining street. However, as soon as the cops saw him apply whatever braking power he could muster, they too hit the middle pedal, and started skidding to a stop. The two skids combined to make the picture above, which I was somehow credited with, but which I think was actually taken by Cuz himself.

The story doesn't stop there, however. Firstly, when asked where the brakes were on his bike, Cuz informed the officers that it was a special bike that had brakes in the bottom bracket. They seemed to buy it. The officers then inquired why Cuz hadn't stopped when he had seen the flashing blue and red lights. Cuz told the obviously confused and bewildered gentlemen of the law that he had not realized that those lights had belonged to a police car, and thought it was just a continuation of the party he had just left at Revs.

And then, in case the cops were still in any doubt as to his mental state, he started dancing.

Yeah, he got all the fines. Except for no brakes. They did buy that. Somehow.

We Sing To Free Ourselves From The Room.

Before, when I was really fucking serious about riding my bike, I was all about improving my body, both in terms of what it can do and how it does it. But now all I have to do is make sure I don't get unhealthily fat. That's liberating alright. I guess what's most emancipating about it is that I don't have to constantly evaluate how I'm doing, if I'm doing things correctly, if my legs are feeling sore or tired or a bit flat. I don't have to think about breathing through my diaphragm, don't have to take my heart rate every morning, don't have to weigh myself ever. Hell, I don't even have to really think about what I'm eating, beyond considering the aforementioned requirement to not put on a shit-ton of weight. Oh man, I could go on like this all day. This whole year I didn't have to go to bed early on a Friday night in order to be ready to race on Saturday morning. I didn't have to set my alarm for 6.30 in order to fit an ergo in before work. I didn't have to stretch, ever, and I didn't even look at the foam roller. That fucking bastard shitbreath asshat foam roller stayed under my bed the whole time.

I have no idea how I managed to do it all. Sure, lately I have quite a bit of spare time, and have been known to sprawl out a little bit more than usual, to relax and unravel in all the time I suddenly have available, but as the days click over I can't help but wonder where I fit it all in. And when that question comes, you know that right behind it is another question: why? The only answer I have is this - that endorphins are a hell of a drug. Yep. A hell of a drug.

Future Crimes.

I'm supposed to be going down to Harrison Street in half an hour or so, in order to do a little motorpacing, which will hopefully in turn keep my fitness up enough to occasionally still win a race on a Tuesday night. But again, enthusiasm is lacking somewhat. I've been floating around town on my bike all day, lingering long over lunch, eating icecream on the street, dropping in on friends. Eventually I head over the river to Shifter Bikes - yeah, see that link to the right just there - in order to have a chat with Dan, and pick up a part that we have finally decided to call the Cone Lock Nut, which doesn't sound dirty at all. In the time I was talking to Dan folks came and went, mostly on bikes, but some on foot, some in their cars. They were generally in a pretty good mood, even the guy who had just had his bike stolen. The first warm, really warm day of the year will do that to people. Folks take a little time out of their daily grind and take note of the sun, the wind, the sky. And that's always a good thing.

Actually, I reckon I've been doing this all Spring Break. And I can't think of a better way to have spent it.

Can't Think At All.

Jen Jen is back from China and I'm supposed to be meeting her for lunch in an hour or so. Facebook tells me she's at the hairdresser, though, so I figure I have a little time. I continue to do what I've been doing all morning - listen to records, browse through the internet, look outside at the blue skies and occasionally read. I was also able to chat briefly to Jamesy, who arrived home sometime late last night, but who was really only able to mutter something about Anna Meares' skinsuits before jetting off to his modelling gig. Yeah, it's a strange world we're living in.

Hot damn it's a beautiful day outside though. People have been asking me how I've been spending my Spring Break, and I've developed a singular answer: the same way as I spend my time normally, just slower. I've been running the same errands I run during schooltime, but I've been riding my bike instead of driving, listening to music, taking it easy, stopping for lights, not smashing it up hills or belting it through traffic. When I stop for coffee in the city I can linger a little longer than usual, lean back on the grass, look at the sky. When I have bills to pay or letters to post or clothes to repair I can take my time getting to the bank / post office / tailor, and use the trip as an excuse to meet up with friends in the neighbourhood. When people I know are busy with work or school or study I can bring them lunch. The combination of not training on the bike and not working (at least for a couple of weeks) has meant that I have a whole heap of time to spare, so much that it feels luxurious, like I can indulge myself in it like a cat eating cream.

I got a short little span of attention, though, and lately I've rediscovered that I'm interested in things other that cycling. Currently I'm less grumpy and cynical than I've been in years. Instead of thinking things like, "Why would I want to go to that new cafe? I can get everything I want at Wide Open Road." I'm now looking up new places online and checking out their menus. Instead of thinking, "Why the hell would I want new books when I can just reread The Rider for the eleventy millionth time?" I'm stopping in bookstores and browsing, trying to remember names of interesting writers that I vaguely remember from years and years ago. Writers that don't even mention bikes! Two years ago I wouldn't have understood, would've felt like I was wasting my time, would've signed up for extra pilates classes or done my core strength exercises or stretched instead. But now, for a number of reasons, I'm enjoying the hell out of the rest of life.

And this is where you come in. It's been four years since I've been interested in anything other than cycling, and consequently I'm a bit out of the loop. Melbourne seems like a new city to me at the moment. And back when I was traveling around a lot, whenever I landed in new cities I'd make my friends draw me up a map. On the map would be the things I was interested in: vegan friendly cafes and restaurants; alternative record stores; underground bookstores and sunny parks (incidentally, when I first landed in Glasgow I bugged my friend KA so much about making me a map that she, a geography major, drew hers up all wrong - I still maintain deliberately - and I ended up in strange neighbourhoods with no Bane records or Tofutti Cuties in sight). Now, I don't think I need a map of Melbourne, because I'm pretty familiar with the streets and suburbs, but I am taking recommendations on the cafes, bookstores, record stores, parks and ways to waste time. The comments section is truly made for this.

Between Past And Present Tense.

It is still Spring Break and I continue to spend my time in an undisclosed location. Rest assured that in this location the weather is fine, people are often viewed riding their bicycles, and vegan rice paper rolls are available in abundance.  Earlier this year the brake pads on my pub bike wore out, so instead of replacing them, I took the brakes off and flipped back to riding fixed on the street. I have a long history of making things more difficult due to my laziness, I believe beginning with the day I decided to keep a waterbottle in the shower for when I got dehydrated - you know, rather than simply getting out of the shower. And, currently, I need to put some oil in the car. I have the oil. I know how to put it in the car. But really, who could be bothered? So instead I'm riding my brakeless fixie everywhere all of a sudden, as if 2007 never ended.

Riding brakeless on the street demands more caution, which in turn means that I ride slower than I did when I rocked the freewheel. That's ok by me, because I have two weeks off, and don't need to be anywhere ever. I roll around, skip skid to a stop outside shops and cafes, use backwards pressure to slow down, practice monos, rarely bust out a proper skid. It took me a while, though, to remember the little tricks that make life a little easier - like, when you're stopped at lights and can't be bothered trackstanding, lifting the rear wheel up to position the pedals better; or taking corners a little wider to avoid striking the ground; or how to roll up to the cafe and dismount like a total pro. I gotta say, it's kind of fun. Like LAM says, however, riding a brakeless fixie is like picking a scab - it's interesting, and yeah, a pretty good time, but you know that nine times out of ten it's going to end in blood. For me that'll probably happen the day school goes back and I have to make it to Reservoir by eight thirts. 

Another Winter's Come And Gone.

Yep, sun out today, and definite warmth in the air. Spring break is upon us - there's only one day left of the school term, which for you means the shopping malls and skateparks will soon be overwhelmed by pubescent teenagers looking for trouble, but for me means two weeks of laying in bed, late nights, long lunches.

At this point, the plan doesn't involve much bike riding, other than to get around town. This is markedly different from tonight, which involves a lot of bike riding. As I mentioned earlier, Northcote are running a teams race at DISC tonight, and - perhaps in an attempt to inflame old rivalries, I told them that Brunswick were going to enter a team. They seemed nonplussed and I began to like the idea. Hurley liked it too, and scheduled some time away from Shepparton. Ollie didn't really like it, but we convinced him regardless. That wasn't a terrible lineup, but we still needed a fourth.

And this is where the fun started. I called around, facebooked folks, followed leads and asked around for phone numbers. People called me with suggestions, apologies, excuses. Work was pretty relaxed and I had some time to spare. As the calls and the messages and the facebooking continued I started to think about what I doing (which, incidentally, most people do before they start doing it). It's a pretty small world, Melbourne Cycling, even at its best and/or worst. I reckon I'd called up about a tenth of it. It went from being an annoying task to feeling pretty rad - these were folks who I wouldn't have ever known with cycling, who would've never turned up to a punk rock show or a vegan potluck, and here I was, asking them for a favour. And a majority of them seemed genuinely bummed that they couldn't help out.

I don't know if I can turn the act of making phone calls into any more of a post than this. I've written enough about community on this blog already. But it's nice to be reminded, sometimes, that the community is there, and that you're a part of it.

I Believe In Desperate Acts, The Kind That Make You Look Stupid.

I don't have much to say at the moment, because it's been a slow day of teaching, ending with me watching all of Billy Elliot in a darkened room with six bored teenagers. Sometimes these slow days leave you more drained than the chaotic times, as if sitting and staring is somehow more exhausting than directing traffic. So I'll just repost a link to this, which made more sense (and was perhaps funnier) when it was sunny earlier this morning.

In Fact, I'm Pioneering New Emotions.

I've just started re-reading Jeanette Winterson's Written On The Body. Inside the cover, the exgirlfriend who gave me the book has written a note telling me she loves me. The novel begins with the sentence, "Why is the measure of love loss?", the refrain repeated throughout the book. It seems strange that she should've missed the irony there. She was so analytical, could pierce through to the heart of a novel or poem or text while I was still floundering at the edges. And yet, when I tell stories about my time with her now, I often leave her out. I tell people that I lived in Montreal, without mentioning that I was living with her for three quarters of that time. I tell people about riding around Cuba, always using the first person singular. I tell people that I had a friend who worked at Williamstown High. And I'm absolutely certain she does the same. It's not that I'm attempting to rewrite history or change the past. It's just that things that seemed significant then are insignificant now. Because the things that are happening now make everything else seem insignificant.

Fuck it's a brilliant book:

"Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid. It is no conservationist, love. It is a big game hunter and you are the game."

I may never race my bike again. That's ok. Because the things that are happening right now, the things I'm doing with the twenty hours a week I used to spend on my bike, the worlds opening up before me, make everything else seem insignificant. Or, as someone else might put it:

"This is kinda exciting. Even if you don't end up doing it, it's exciting just thinking about doing something different, knowing there's other possibilities. "

Vulnerability Is Power.

"I try to keep Heavy Metal Monday a bit lighthearted," James tells me, "because, you know, the rest of the blog can be, uhh, a bit introspective, at the moment."

I laugh awkwardly, recognizing the obvious truth. Later in the evening, looking over other entries, I also realize that it's been some time since I've really written about cycling. Instead I've been focusing on my illness, my own constantly changing existence, myself. This latter truth was a bit more difficult to come to, symbolizing, as it possibly does, a change in interest on my part. I still love cycling - I think I always will - but these days other things are more important.

What this means for the blog I'm not quite sure. It's already undergone a series of significant changes - it's certainly not about punk rock very often these days - and the byline (Melbourne Cycling At Its Best And/Or Worst) is often definitionally bent to my whimsical will. I'll keep writing, sure, but aside from the major events that I love to report on - like the Austral, the Bendigo Madison, the Tour, the Worlds - I'm certain that as I'm riding less, I'll be less interested in writing about the day-to-day experience of riding.

In the meantime, I'll keep asking notable local cyclists to do Music Wednesday for me, James will keep doing Heavy Metal Monday, and I'll keep listing interesting events (sometimes cycling related) in the Friday Roundup. But I'm making no promises about the Tuesday and Thursday posts. Who the hell knows what those are going to be about? Probably mostly about bikes still, because I do love them, but not always.

Things are changing. These are exciting times.

Every Little Thing Anticipates You.

Man, I was just about to go to sleep - yes, at 8:30 - when I remembered that I hadn't written in this blog yet. So by virtue of my tiredness this will be a short post.

Actually, fuck it. I am going to sleep. A good ten hours should nip this exhaustion nicely in the bud.

The worst thing is, I'm in a really good mood. Things are going really well - incredibly well, in fact. But I guess I haven't quite shaken this illness just yet. This news isn't quite as devastating as it once was. I've passed the point of devastation and have become philosophical about this cycle of hope and disappointment. I suppose it's easy to be philosophical, to accept the shitty things, when you feel like everything else is good, when the rest of life seems to be giving you a big ol' hug. Or, I guess, when you have stopped building your life around the one thing your body won't let you do. It's safe to say cycling doesn't mean the same to me as it did a year ago. That's probably a good thing.

Probably? Definitely.

I'm not making any sense.

I'm going to sleep now.

Night.

All Workers.

No post today. Never cross a picket line, folks.

As You Draw Near.

I've been wrestling with this post all morning, trying to sort it out in my head before I commit it to words. I like to have some kind of clarity before I start typing, but some days it just won't come.

As part of my job - working with kids who have behavioural issues -  I sometimes have to work with kids who have Asperger's Syndrome, which is sometimes also known as an Autism Spectrum Disorder. I like this latter name better, as it indicates that the severity of the disorder varies significantly from person to person. While folks on the spectrum all display similar symptoms - difficulty interpreting social cues, intense interest in a particular subject, a need to explicitly decipher situations that others intuitively understand, reliance on rules and structures, and considerable anxiety and anger when they are unable to figure out what is going on - some of them are all but incapacitated by the disorder, whereas some - like the kids we usually end up with - are quite social, can form and maintain friendships. These friendships usually occur in the computer room - Asperger's kids tend to love computer games, as those are worlds that are dependable - when they press a button, the gun will shoot, or their character will jump. If there's a bonus life behind a door today, it will be there again tomorrow. That's the kind of consistency that just doesn't occur in real life.

But I gotta say, the more I learn about Asperger's, the more I think that the spectrum isn't broad enough, that by drawing a defining line at one end of the spectrum folks are missing out on the chance to understand better the way all of our brains work. At the far end of the spectrum, with people who are social and communicate well and can get by, the distinction between those who have it and those who don't seems at best arbitrary and at worst false. Put bluntly, we all seem to have Asperger tendencies, and the diagnostic tests seem to only be a matter of measuring its severity rather than discovering its existence.

With this in mind, the techniques used to help folks manage Asperger's - mostly Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) - are probably techniques that would help most of us, in one way or another. Mostly CBT is just about taking charge of your thoughts, recognizing when you are thinking something damaging or false and working to, in a way, control those thoughts, then consequently alter the behaviour accompanying those thoughts.

And this is where I start to wonder about myself. When I first started dealing with this fatigue, and doctors started ruling things out left right and centre, it wasn't long before they started recommending I go see a sports psychologist. I resisted the idea at first, because I don't have a great history with psychologists - I have this tendency to turn my sessions into intellectual contests, chess games that I have to win, which probably isn't the point. I was also really fucking angry that they were suggesting that the problem was psychological rather than physical, that it was somehow within the nexus of my control. I kept going to different doctors, more niche specialists, kept ruling out increasingly esoteric options. Just last week, on the day that the photo above was taken, I was able to rule out any immune disorders, coeliac disease, and a whole assortment of cancers.

While this seems like a good thing, it still leaves a bunch of questions unanswered. The worst thing about this fatigue has been the uncertainty, of not knowing how or when it would crop up again. All I need is to know that if there's a bonus life behind a door today, it will be there tomorrow. Then I'd be able to put in place some training, some coping strategies, work around it. But because it comes and goes, because I'll be able to string together a few months of solid training before it recurs out of no where, this can't be the case. What I'm capable of doing changes from day to day. And occasionally that freaks me out. I can't figure out what's going on, and I get the anger and anxiety and fear.

Aww, hell, I still can't figure this out now. Last week at the track my body completely deserted me and I got rolled by a bunch of folks who usually ride B grade. I was pissed and frustrated and looking for answers. When I couldn't find any I started freaking the fuck out, thinking that the fatigue was back, that I'd need to take another six months off, that perhaps I should just give it away altogether. It didn't make any sense, and I couldn't figure it out. After pulling out of the last race I sat down and didn't move, didn't talk to anyone, didn't do anything, just sat and silently contemplated the end of everything. I was fucking ropeable. Eventually, though, folks started coming up to me. And I eventually started talking again. And they started talking to me. And somewhere, in the midst of that discussion, I started to recognize that I was thinking about things in way that was damaging or false, and in turn began to turn it around. At least a little bit. An hour after the race had finished - when the fatigue usually hits hardest - I was ok, still awake and talking. And the next day - the litmus test of this weird disorder - my body was alright. I even rode my bike over to the doctors. As the photo above shows, the sun was shining.

I still don't think this sickness is all in my head, but I also don't think that the way I think about it is separate from the way it feels. There's a false dichotomy for you. Like the Asperger's kid who freaks out when they can't figure out what is happening in the playground, I've been freaking out every time I can't figure out what's happening with my body. Perhaps it's the same thing. Perhaps I'm a little Asperger's too. And perhaps it's time for me to work on how I think about that.

Quiet.

Last night, when I had lots of energy, and was feeling expansive, I agreed to ride a Madison tonight. Dan Nelson's teammate has been injured and he needed someone to take the place. He told me he'd chase and sprint, and that sounded pretty good to me.

Right now, however, with a storm rolling in, soft music on the stereo and a weird, kind of ominous yellow light to the sky, riding a Madison is pretty much the last thing I want to do. But the Madison is a bit of an anomaly amongst the mass-start track events, in that you do it as a part of a team. Further to this, tonight's race is the last of the series, and anyone not riding forfeits all of the points they'd previously gained. Dan has ridden all of the races, and I believe just needs to finish tonight to end up doing ok.

I don't mind letting myself down. Hell, I do it all the time - I've pulled out of races, failed to finish, made more mistakes than I care to count. That's on me, and I can deal with that, rationalize it over time, put on some mopey music, lay in my bed and work it out. But there's no way in hell I'm not going to show up tonight. And, further to this, there's a good chance I'll turn myself inside out on the track, working my ass off to ensure Dan gets the points he needs. I don't mind letting myself down, but I refuse to let others down.

I don't make many promises, and I don't make promises that I'm not sure I can keep. So when I do say, "I promise", you know that it'll happen. Whatever it may be.

In This At Least, You're Just Like Me.

My coach, who I still call my coach, despite not being officially on his books for months now, was down at the track the other day. I went up to say hi and he asked me how I was feeling. He'd seen my name in the results and was wondering where my head was at. "Just mucking about at the moment," I told him, "I'm going to see how it goes for the next month or so, and if the body holds up, I'll think about getting back into it."

A month! I've been off the bike six months, battling this fatigue for more than twelve, and I'm considering stepping back up to those twenty hour weeks, those sessions in the gym, those long hours on the road, those ergos after only a month back? That's kind of crazy. But really, when I look back on my approach to cycling, I've always wanted it all, and wanted it now. When I was a D grader on a Tuesday night I was always thinking about making it up to A grade. And when I was an A grader on a Tuesday night I was always thinking about being an A grader at Opens. And riding off scratch in Handicaps. And winning road races. And racing the NRS. I didn't achieve all of those things, and probably never will now, but I certainly had the drive and desire to do so. How I thought all that'd be possible is beyond me now. Bodies simply don't work that way - you can't just throw everything at them at once. You need to build slowly, over a period not of months, but of years. Sometimes I forget this, start thinking that my body can handle anything. But then, while reading an advance copy of Molly's new book, I stumble upon this quote from cyclocrosser Mo Bruno Roy:

“There seems to be a time warp in people’s minds. For the amount of work they’ve been putting in, they seem to want results to be so much more than they are. This is my tenth year racing a bike and I feel like in the last two years, my body is finally getting it."

Talk about hitting the nail on the head. I know that time warp well. Sure, I can occasionally try to convince myself that I'm going to take it easy, just race for fun, see if I get fitter by osmosis. But as soon as I roll out onto the track I know that this is exactly what I want to be doing, and that I would do anything to do it better, that I want to be there, at that end point, right now. But if I get carried away with this kind of thinking - and I'll be the first to admit that I often do - I'll end up doing myself more harm than good. I gotta slow down, enjoy the feeling of getting fitter again, fall in love with riding bikes all over again, notice the changes happening with my body and feel the strength come back into my legs. That's not easy for an impatient guy like me. But the times that I do manage to slow myself down a little, when I can somehow stop my brain from rushing ahead, are the times that I love riding my bike the most. 

Slow down, I hear the voice saying. Enjoy this early stuff. 

It ain't easy. But when it happens, it feels pretty damn good.

We Build Al-Qaeda In Washington.

You step delicately
into the wild world
and your real prize will be
the frantic search.
Want everything. If you break
break going out not in.
- Michael Ondaatje.

FJ is off gallivanting around the city again, leaving me no other option than to write another Heavy Metal Monday myself. I was going to write about metal myself, but given that my exposure to the genre is somewhat limited - pretty much just Gunners, Metallica and a little bit of Slayer, really - I figured it'd be better leaving that to the experts (a humility that hasn't stopped me from writing about cycling, incidentally).

Whenever FJ can't think of what to write about I always tell him to just think about his last bike ride, and write about whatever he was thinking about during that. That works alright for this blog, which is by nature introspective, and ostensibly about cycling. But really, my last ride wasn't that interesting. I did a couple of laps of the Boulie with Hurley and FJ. Hurley was tired, Jamesy wasn't feeling too great, and I was too relaxed to give a shit. We'd started late and headed out on High St, before stopping for Preston Pies. A couple of pies, a bit of After Pie Thinking, then we headed back past New Timer House and hit the Boulie.

Later that night, however, I was in bed reading The English Patient. I kinda get what Elaine is saying in the clip at the top - it's an impractical novel, probably difficult to read if intimate descriptions aren't your thing. It's not even my favourite Ondaatje novel. It's In The Skin Of A Lion that keeps calling me back, that I've read over and over again. Probably partially because of the locations - it's a very Toronto novel, even though it's set in the 1930s. They talk about building the Bloor Street Viaduct and I remember catching the bus over that bridge on my way to Kingston for the start of the University year. They talk about Danforth Street and I remember my friend Caroline who used to live down that way. But also because the novel is so local, so grounded in community. It's almost as if Ondaatje is sitting outside a cafe pointing to local characters as they walk by - look, there goes Alice, she was once a nun but is now an actor; there goes Caravaggio the thief; that man is named Patrick, he is on his way to pick up his daughter Hana from school. As much as it's about the characters, it's about the city, the narrative of one symbiotically resonating in the other. I like that a lot - the idea that part of our identity is geography, that where we are is at least partially responsible for who we are.

In The English Patient, however, the protagonists - all of them - have lost their sense of place, and are trying to rebuild. Two of the main characters are continued from In The Skin Of A Lion - Patrick's daughter Hana (who, incidentally, is actually his stepdaughter, but is referred to throughout the latter novel simply as his daughter), and Caravaggio, who is Patrick's friend. It's the process of them rebuilding that sense of identity that makes the novel kind of amazing, not the romance. Well, actually, I guess the romance is kind of part of it. They find each other and build their new identities through those relationships, through the love that they find. These days we scoff at that kind of thing, because we're all supposed to be independent and not lean on anyone. But that's just bullshit. Every single person we interact with effects who we are, changes who we are, even if only a little. Like Ondaatje himself also writes in the poem that opened this post,

If I speak of death
which you fear now, greatly
it is without answers
except that each
one we know is
in our blood.

I guess, in a way, that the two books are different because one is enclosed within Toronto - or at least Ontario - and the other has the whole wide world to deal with. I guess that's how things are for me at the moment too. Before I only ever thought about the bike, about this small world that wasn't significant to anyone else. But now there's so much more to the world, and that can be a little confusing, a little overwhelming at times. When you're open to the whole world you feel things more acutely, more passionately. I will, however, say one thing. This is better.