Perfect

The perfect ride. Blue sky as far as I can see; a nice glossy sheet of sweat covering my body; cool wind, crisp morning air filling my lungs to the gills; clean tires warming up over the asphalt on a decent, tempting me to draw that next line a tad bit faster, a tad bit sharper, a tad bit earlier on the apex; a new, clean chain quietly clicking over a new sur la plaque, seamlessly shifting over a new cluster; mechanically sound and energy efficient - nothing wasted in forward movement.

Drawing a line down the road and then back up again, around each switchback lies an extra bump on the road. I listen carefully over my breathing for on-coming traffic as I ride the spine into infinity; the quickest way up any mountain is the spine, the backbone of the road, the center line where the gradient stays more constant. Consistency is key. Constant breathing, tempo on the pedals. Minor increases in gradient not noticed by the car-people force me to accelerate. The switchbacks throw 2-3% upward over the consistency of the spine, I grimace and tighten the bolts, like wringing water out of a wet towel.

Shifting is pointless. 53x19. I know I can spin it up this climb when my legs are favorable. I stand, motioning the machine in a fine sway, a movement dialed in for efficiency and power transfer. I move through the switchback quickly, quietly, my breathing increases, the sweat pours out of my helmet as the slightly slower instance in the corner allows the tailwind behind to bleed the excess water from my head. I sit down, find my seated tempo again, looking for every last inch of leg to give me a foot of grace.

A momentary drop in the climb, a few seconds to recover. But I don't. I keep pushing the gear. I shift down into the 13, maximizing the potential energy in the run up to the next switchback. 1.76 more miles. A bridge. 10:15 to the top. Anyone can do anything for 10:15. The road pitches, the switchbacks come more often, forcing me to drop into the small ring. I stand and get on top of the gear, finding rhythm in the motion, a synergy of breath, movement and cadence.

39x20.

I sit. I look down at my legs, at my body, and push out the thoughts of what I am doing. If I'm not sick when I get to the top I won't be satisfied. I want to be sick with pleasure. Sick with pain. Sick with this addiction that I have no control over. My bike owns me.

The final push. 16%. Legs feeling the burden of my gears. It's going to be hard no matter what. Momentarily I struggle. My mind starts to get louder. I fight it with intense focus on the road. 500 meters. The gradient eases. Time to throw it into sur la plaque again. The large plate. The bigger the plate the more food I can fit on it and he sicker I can make myself. It's a gross analogy to my disease. But it's a sick disease and deserving of such a metaphor.

I can go faster. I can always give 50% more. The only thing stopping me is the top of the mountain.