This morning at 6:57am, nine riders and I turned left onto Sherborne Lane, left again on 315, and then to the right on Orange. Climbing Orange hill woke the legs and settled my spirit – the legs felt alive. Forty minutes in we picked up Grappy as he waited on his driveway, jersey tucked into his shorts (he’s such a grappler). We hammered it up Red Bank Hill and the hammer fest was officially on as we turned into the Sun once again. We hit a few new, white roads on the way home and there wasn’t much chatter, just lots of strained pedal strokes. It was beautiful suffering. I loved every minute of it. The young lad was in strong form as was my favorite farmer. I kept trash talking both to stir the pot and the pace. My lungs and legs paid for it.
Today, Mickanotor smiled and smacked it down. Downer did it up. Swifty rode like the wind. Littlest rode like the biggest stud in Kentucky. Jmo rode like a man half his age. The young lad and favorite farmer rode like the young guns they are. Blondie rode like he stole something and PJ rode like he was training for the Tour de France (because he is). Grappy and I rode and admired Favorite Farmer’s lack of fear. It’s a pleasure to ride with such men who enjoy the camaraderie of suffering. My legs are still burning and it is good. Who, friend, makes you do what you can? You are no better than the inner circle you get tired with. You choose. Your choices have consequences. As for me, I’m choosing a circle who wants to live hard and learn to love harder.
Live hard. Love harder (Thanks, Teeks)…