I’ve got a confession to make: I’m having an affair.
I know it's hard to break the news to you this way, and I know you're shocked. Dave knows about 'us', too, so there's no secret to keep. It’s a recurring affair, a seasonal thing. But it’s not just a little summer crush. It’s a hot, sweaty, unholy obsession.
I’m in love with my bike.
Something happens in the springtime, when this woman’s fancy turns to thoughts of the open road, screaming descents, gear-grinding climbs. Long hot days of two-wheeled wandering. Cool evenings of shadow-to-shadow sprints.
The perfect union of the body and the Bianchi.
I got it bad, too. I try to hide my addiction from my friends and family. I decline invitations, make up excuses. My work suffers. I can’t concentrate. I replay last night’s club ride over and over again in my head. I plan my next fix.
Dave is a bit jealous. He watches us, my bike and I, riding away together, falling into our own perfect cadence. But I'm undeniably happy when I'm with my bike. Hours slip away. I get lost and don't care. I'm left breathless.
Maybe I should seek help, like Tiger Woods. Hello, my name is Pam (“Hi, Pam”). I’m a cyclophiliac. I love the smell of chain grease. I crave Gu. I think farmer’s tans are sexy…
On the other hand, maybe bike love isn’t all bad. I can think of plenty more harmful obsessions. Riding hard and often keeps me sane (endorphins, you know). I like to think that I'm much less cranky after a ride. Even Dave can't argue with that.
Joseph Campbell always said to follow your bliss. I think I'd rather ride mine.
And if these justifications still make you uncomfortable, consider this: this affair won’t last. Once summer’s gone and cold weather sends me back indoors, that bike is going up on the windtrainer, and I HATE the windtrainer.
So for now, I’ll take this relationship as far as I can.
Sorry, Dave. I guess I’ll see you in September.
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