Ah, the great outdoors: where one goes to decompress,
contemplate life’s grandest mysteries and commune with nature. How baroque of a
notion. This is the 21st century, and we haven’t the time for such
banal and unquantifiable endeavors. Long gone are the days of hiking for
hiking’s sake, venturing out of wireless range without feeling hopelessly
isolated or taking a single step or peddle stroke without having the latest
Bluetooth-enabled device track it and – using the most advanced algorithms – seamlessly
compare our achievements with those of a thousand or so of our closest cyber-friends, a concept which
is tragic in its own rite.
How did it come to this? Is the jettisoning of any semblance
of individuality and introspection yet another sign of a degenerate culture, or
am I just acutely aware of it by residing in Colorado, a state which
collectively seems to have its head jammed farther up its ass than most….and
definitely more than its shit-kicking neighbor to the north, which has managed
to cling to vestiges of the real west, while Denverites, Boulderites and other
Front-Range Gomorrahites have long ago traded in their horses and pick-ups for
electric-powered tax write-offs, I mean vehicles.
I should have seen it coming. Actually, in retrospect, I
did. Nearly two decades ago, as a doe-eyed 30-something (I matured slowly) I
began to recognize that many peers had an entirely different approach toward
recreation and time spent in the wilderness than did I. Certainly, I too, had a
competitive streak and liked to test my endurance, but seldom did that take
precedent over absorbing the wonderment of the high country or snapping a few
shots with the cinder-blocked sized camera that was constantly draped across my
torso.
One event – or nonevent as it turned out – proved especially
telling. Upon learning that it was possible to rent a sailboat on a lake
buttressing the Continental Divide, I attempted to rally friends to spend a
relaxing afternoon chasing the wind. Rather than being met with the
overwhelming enthusiasm that I had expected, I was greeted with hemming, hawing
and gripes that being stuck on a boat all day would preclude them from getting
in their requisite cardio workout.
What assholes. These were the same fools who on hikes
through pristine valleys would sneer any time I began to unsheathe my camera to
capture a slice of God’s creation for posterity’s sake. “Come on, dude, not now.
I’m in my zone. I need to keep my
heart rate above 80% of max (whatever the fuck that means) for the next 20
minutes.” I’m pretty sure these self-absorbed twits would look upon rescuing a
troop of girl scouts who had fallen into a snake-filled ravine as an
inconvenience to be avoided if at all possible. Baby elk? Who has time? Soaring
golden eagle? Whatever. Double rainbow? I’ll download one later off Instagram.
Hippy girls bathing buck-naked in a mountain stream? Focus, man. Cannot get
distracted. I, for one, proudly get distracted – especially in the latter
scenario.
Fast forward 20 years and it pains to me report that I can
be counted among the legions of assholes. This realization came to me while
sitting atop a featherweight carbon-fiber bike frame that I had to auction a
kidney online to afford. Anything in the name of meeting the hallowed objective
of shaving weight. Not only – thanks to this transaction – do I possess a bike
that weighs slightly more than a first-generation Walkman, but I am also spared
the annoying extra ounces of having to cart around that superfluous organ. Yet
another benefit, along with avoiding leaving bars at closing time with
roadkill, of being a teetotaler.
Measuring every aspect of the machine’s (the bike’s) and the
organism’s (my) performance is enough telemetry to have sent an earlier version
of the space shuttle into orbit. That was, of course, when the U.S. was still
in the business of propelling vehicles beyond the surly bonds of Earth, and
well before we stooped to outsourcing the task to those thieving Russian bastards.
At least they are skilled at ballistics. After all, it takes tremendous
precision to bring down a passenger jet with a truck-mounted rocket, and last
year, the Kremlin’s Neanderthal lackies in eastern Ukraine did just that with
barely a whimper, much less recriminations, from the eunuch international
community. But I digress.
In my defense, I did not set out to become a rigid, sullen
and obsessive cyclist. But what are the alternatives in this state? Trail
running equals rattlesnakes. The rivers are jammed with Audi-driving doctors
amateurishly slinging fly line, and the most popular contemporary activity – sitting
on one’s porch getting baked with a legalized strain of weed so potent that it
could tranquilize a moose – has never been my thing. So cycling it is. But the
allure is understandable, especially for anyone who as a child was overcome
with the sense of freedom and adventure when his father first let loose of the
bike’s seat, sending him, every so wobbly, down the driveway and toward
independence, until the curb or mailbox aborted that maiden voyage. As with
many endeavors, however, there is a slippery slope between enthusiast and
militant. Safe to say that planning one’s holiday based on proximity to famed
hill climbs, steering every conversation toward favored components, watching
Tour de France stages from the 1980s on YouTube and cancelling dates when they
interfere with interval training all place one in the militant camp. Not a good place to be.
Don’t get me wrong, Wellness is important. Discipline is
admirable, as are goals. But as we should have learned as children – unless
raised by wolves – moderation is key.
Intense exercise to the exclusion of all else is no better than spending
one’s evenings nursing a crack pipe or cultivating an appreciation of the grace
and subtlety of Internet pornography. And triathletes? They’re no better that
Nazis. Talk about transforming what should be a majestic and cathartic
experience into a cold, industrialized process. Compare that to cycling in
isolation. Countering an attack on sun-bleached 11% grade high above the
Austrian timberline? That’s passion. Icily counting ones time splits, caloric
intake, watts generated and heart rate is nothing more than a Mengelesque
experiment carried out at 25 mph.
My demise started with that damn computer. When still in my
“enthusiast” stage, it seemed overkill to utilize a GPS-enabled multi-function
cycling computer. The goal was to immerse oneself in nature, not stare at data
streaming across a postage-stamp sized screen. What I didn’t need was to know
my cadence, power, rate of ascent or maximum speed….well maybe the latter. What
I did need, however, was to see the damn screen. And truth be told, when in the
market for a new computer, only the NASA-designed, dual-processor unit had font
large enough for a set of eyes well into its fifth decade to read. The unit
also included other features that I surmised would be somewhat useful. One of
which was a heart monitor, given that that organ, too, has seen the better part
of a half century. Cannot be too careful at this age. I love cycling. Just not
enough to have my ticker give out on a spirited climb. Should I meet my maker
in such a manner, I’d highly prefer to pull a Nelson Rockefeller and go out in
the fervent embrace of a deliciously attractive lass multiple decades my
junior.
It did not take long to become obsessive about monitoring my
heart rate and cadence. Other features of the computer were not as welcome. After
settling in on a recent climb, one such feature revealed itself. Glancing at the
computer, I was not greeted with the metrics I had programmed, but instead with
the notification that I had just entered a virtual race course. Since fumbling
with the touch screen is never a wise idea when zipping across the tarmac at
20-plus miles per hour, I let it be, assuming that eventually the original
screen would appear. It didn’t. Worse, after beeping rather offensively to
ensure it had my attention, the computer announced that my virtual opponent was
pulling away from me. I ignored it. After another few minutes, the entire
screen was filled with the unambiguous message: GO!! (with two exclamation points).
How do I turn this damn function off?
Is that all you got?
Don’t look at the computer, check out scenery.
Virtual opponent is
kicking your ass.
I’m ignoring you.
Don’t get your skirt
caught in the chain…..you pussy.
Fuck you, Mr. bike computer!
How much did you pay
for this bike? That shop saw you coming, didn’t it?
Listen, you glorified speedometer, I’ll gladly hurl you into
the river rushing alongside the road and you can spend the rest of eternity, or
until you corrode into indiscernible bits, being a target for trout shit! How
would you like that!!!
After having counted to ten – well, 50 – I calmed down and
imagined that this high-volume and high-speed exchange was the exact outcome
that an inert and leviathan computer programmer had hoped for when conjuring up
something so malicious as a virtual opponent.
This was not the first time I had pondered throwing an
inanimate object into a large body of water.
Many moons ago, when residing in Central Europe, I was on a training
ride on a narrow path next to what was undoubtedly a frighteningly polluted
river. The objective of the day was cadence and speed, and I would not be
denied. Then I heard it: even from a hundred meters away, the unmistakable
sound of a rusty drivetrain. This was the calling card of the nemesis of any
speed merchant burning up the pavement.
How am I going to get around this bastard? Shit, I might
slip out of my zone. Then I came around the bend and saw him – well them. It
was worse – and slower – than I had thought. A block of a man, with a
magnificently bulbous belly that had assuredly taken years of diligently
consuming lager and hog fat to shape. On his communist-era steel frame he had
engineered cages to hold not one, but two, bottles of such beverages. Next to
him, on a pink bike with training wheels – which ensured there would be no easy
passage – was his daughter. To complete the nightmare, she had a pink
kitten-shaped bell, which she happily and incessantly rung. Tethered to her
seat post was a celebratory balloon. Clearly they were out giving the new
birthday present a test ride.
Damn them, I grimaced. What occurred next seared my soul and
provided incontrovertible proof of how warped my perspective had become. Father
and daughter exchanged a glance. As she look up at him, I could tell he was
overcome with more elation than I thought humanly possible.
There, on that path, next to that toxic river, he was
reaching emotional heights that I wouldn’t even have felt had I crossed under
the flamme rouge on sweltering July
afternoon in southern France with a five-minute lead over a pack of doped-up
Spaniards. He won. I lost. Beer belly and all. I dismounted, exhaled, looked at
the flowing brown water – which was likely delivering a few mob corpses to the
depths of the Black Sea – and without thought, I lifted my feather-light bike
above my head. Then I paused. Remembering that there was a fantastically steep
climb out of the river valley not far away, I reset the computer, clicked in my
pedals and rolled on.
