[Note: I wrote this in 2014. Recently rediscovered in my Evernote] One day I put the Serotta In the basement and turned my attention to motorcycles and photography. In a blink, days became weeks, became months became seasons became years of dust settling on the bike as I sought other pursuits. And then the midlife came bringing with it a whole slew of existential questions fifteen extra pounds and the fear that the end was closer than the beginning. It was right around then when an idea stirred. A seed planted by a friend. And then one fine day the Serotta was dusted off clinchers filled with air water bottles filled and old Lycra stretched and prodded into position. Those first pedal strokes were like coming home So instinctive so natural. An old friend that you haven’t seen in years yet you don’t miss a beat. The years melted with every mile and there were no cycle computers or other riders to remind me that I was an older, fatter, and slower version of myself. Who cares that I barely touched the big ring and reached my modest VO2max and heart rate max on the slightest inclines, and that the creak in the bottom bracket had not, in all those years, automagically fixed itself. It did not matter. I was back in my bike zen zone. Where all that exists is the now and the next 20 meters of pavement. Spinning until the lungs ran out off puff and then Pushing a bigger gear until the legs threatened to cramp. Spin. Push. Repeat. And then my Achilles’ tendon, whom I’ve never spoken with before introduced itself and said, “Hello, I’m your Achilles’ tendon. It’s been years since you’ve used me like this. So please take it easy and we’ll be just fine.” It was a reasonable request. I eased up and enjoyed the pure and simple joy of riding a bike. Later that evening my legs tingled with that feeling of a day well-pedaled. I felt energized, revived, reborn. I could easily fall in love with cycling all over again. [Post script: I have] #Bicycle #Serotta