Last night, I humped a test bike () up the Atalaya Trail, a steep, loose, rocky path that climbs 2,000 feet in just over three miles. I don't much care for this trail—actually, I secretly hate it. But lately I've been riding it because I'm convinced it will increase my power, improve my handling, and hopefully build some character. Hell, maybe it will make me a better man.
I left after dark, and the front edge of a storm system was moving in, sending temperatures plummeting (23 at the summit) and winds into a frenzy (up to 60 mph). The dark pressed in, and the gusts strafed me. In spite of thick gloves, I couldn't feel my fingers. And with ice and snow crusting the steepest bits, I almost crashed a half dozen times and I tweaked my knee on one glaciated passage.
Back home, when my wife asked how my ride was, I replied, “Good.” Then, “Great!” And I meant it. After all, “I am a cyclist.”
Thanks to for sharing this. Oh, and the dialogue isn't for children or delicate souls.