hurt
03-23-08, 07:58 AM
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hurt
I grimly held on, propelled forward more by ego and the fear of damaged pride than anything else. Sweat poured off my brow in rivulets then streams, soaked my hands such that I was having trouble gripping the rubber of the hoods. I felt the steel getting heavier by the second, so it seemed, my calf muscles begging for mercy yet still X powered on, fueled by a simmering anger, the true cause of which I was still guessing at. Further on we pushed, two men fighting the mountain and ourselves, both now begging the road to end, but it never does, not when you want it, not when you need it, it deals the pain with its granite hand and either you take it and ride or you stop and you lose, and either way you never win, unless you measure victory by portions of pain - and even if you do there`s always more, it only ends when you do.
The last kilometer approached with its sudden vicious rise that requires a man to stand up and use his whole body to get over, the bike swaying like a buoy in a storm beneath you, veins in forearms straining like anchor ropes, blood thumps its incessant beat visibly where skin runs thin, and X too was suffering now, never had he ridden so hard, and me, well it was me now who was riding on rage, the lies and deceit and the brotherly love I felt towards my companion forgotten, angered as I was by the sheer nerve of the boy - He thinks he can beat me?
I hit the pedals hard, flinging the bike from side to side beneath me to generate the power needed to pass but X dug deep, thrusting himself up out of his saddle. Both of us now were at the absolute limits of our capacities, our lungs burning as though scorched by a noxious gas, every fibre in us ached and screamed and cried out but still we pushed on, for what else did we know? What else makes sense like it? What else guides us, proves the measurement by which we measure ourselves, our limits, our greatness? What else does the cyclist know but pain?
Nothing. It`s all we have.
The last kilometer approached with its sudden vicious rise that requires a man to stand up and use his whole body to get over, the bike swaying like a buoy in a storm beneath you, veins in forearms straining like anchor ropes, blood thumps its incessant beat visibly where skin runs thin, and X too was suffering now, never had he ridden so hard, and me, well it was me now who was riding on rage, the lies and deceit and the brotherly love I felt towards my companion forgotten, angered as I was by the sheer nerve of the boy - He thinks he can beat me?
I hit the pedals hard, flinging the bike from side to side beneath me to generate the power needed to pass but X dug deep, thrusting himself up out of his saddle. Both of us now were at the absolute limits of our capacities, our lungs burning as though scorched by a noxious gas, every fibre in us ached and screamed and cried out but still we pushed on, for what else did we know? What else makes sense like it? What else guides us, proves the measurement by which we measure ourselves, our limits, our greatness? What else does the cyclist know but pain?
Nothing. It`s all we have.
03-23-08, 11:05 AM
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Y'know, that's quite the little vignette of writing. Nice work.
To put it over-the-top funny a pic of 2 fat guys in spandex on $4k racebikes going uphill would cap it.
To put it over-the-top funny a pic of 2 fat guys in spandex on $4k racebikes going uphill would cap it.
