Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Brass Knuckles and a Two by Four

Sometimes when I'm riding, whether it be racing or training, I think about my dad who died last year. Strung out, gasping for breath, heart rate well into the red zone; I try and picture him laying in bed, unable to do much more than move his head.

But no matter what i do on the bike, how hard and far i push, no matter how much i vomit, i know that Dad, at the end, had it rougher. The degeneration of the body is infinitely harder to experience, I imagine, than to push it to its limits.

Dad used to see me come home from a hard ride, often I would be speechless and trembling from exertion, and would usually just look at me and say: "You're a silly bastard, dunno why you do that to yourself."

Maybe it's to confirm I'm alive.

Dad listened to Blondie. Dunno why he did that to himself, silly bastard.





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