Rubber-side Down

My bike and I are one machine, discovering new roads, trails, passes, and people. On the saddle, I am the engine, pushing and pulling. We made it over mountains, peering off the ledges with bottomless drops. Bullseye and I cycled through canyons with more impatient and angry drivers than shoulders. Fingers and spokes crossed, hoping no one comes barreling around the corner, smashing the both of us like the roadkill we pass. We biked through cities with potholes the size of craters on the moon - feeling like we were on another planet or in a Nietzsche philosophy: stare into the abyss long enough and it will stare into you. We forced ourselves through the plains where the wind attacks from all directions and the corn stalks dance to the whistle it makes. The country roads were nothing but dirt and manure, but we pushed through. We trusted speed limit laws on the highway. Just once. And I tested my faith in Gravity several times through snow, ice, and pools of water, praying to Giant I keep the rubber side down. Traveling isn't about the destination, at least it shouldn't be. Bullseye has taught me that it's how you get there - the journey. Traveling 122 miles not only helped me discover more of Colorado, but of myself as well. I found out I could run over a staple and not notice until I met a hill. I learned I can change a flat tire within seven minutes, staying calm the entire time, and that I only need a starch drink, a bottle of water, Camelback, and a Quest bar to get me through ten hours of bike riding. Those last ten miles, up even the smallest of hills feel like cycling over mountains. My legs want to stop, to sit down for just a few minutes, but my mind is stronger, and I push farther. Bullseye gritting his teeth; the chain squawking with every revolution. The last five miles, skin crawling inside my jersey and the jersey drenched with enough sweat I could later bathe in. As I climbed off the saddle, the sores, feet, fingers, and back screaming, a wave of exhaustion settles over me the same time as the sun. No one was home. It was an anticlimactic ending to an epic day. No one to share the glory with but myself, which, I learned, is all I need.