I was biking to an apartment party hosted in St. Paul one evening. The roads were quiet. A pair of headlights would appear in the distance every once in awhile but would veer off my course before ever getting close. I had a six pack of beers and some whiskey stowed away in a cooler strapped to my back. The ride there was 8-9 miles. Small beans. About halfway through the ride I found myself cycling beside a fellow traveler. It was only 7pm (every good partier knows that’s early on a Saturday) but the sun was gone and the wind was making it’s presence known. We cycled next to each other at the same pace for about a mile. Without saying a word, we both silently agreed to a race. I can’t remember who started pushing the pedals harder at first but soon I found myself huffing the farts of this fat-tire biker in front of me. I wanted to know if he was serious about his commitment to the race so I stayed close behind but made no attempt to pass at first.
There’s something about the Minnesota cold that turns me on. The air bites. Any exposed skin is subjected to pain. The wind seems to never make up it’s mind about which direction it wants to head in and pushes against you at every angle. Of course that is not wholly true but the mind has a funny way of convincing itself that it is. I've learned to beware of my mind playing tricks on me and when I catch it in the act I make sure to call it out for what it is, a damn trickster. Then my resolve strengthens.
Not satisfied to trail behind, I make my move. My arms are sore. My thighs burn. My breathing becomes hard but steady. I’ve got a side cramp but it doesn’t matter. I’m used to the feeling. Little waves of adrenaline pulse up my spine and infect my brain with pleasure, consistent and timely in their arrival. I push faster than I normally would to overtake the man in front of me. I don’t need to say that I’m on his left. He can hear my ungreased gears squealing beside him. He makes some space to his left to let me pass for now. If he starts to gain the edge again, he expects me to return the courtesy, as I should. The tables flipped, he tries to catch me and I speed up again. I won’t lose my lead. He slows down, searching somewhere inside of himself for the resources to gather another burst of speed and make another attempt at passing me. I wait him out. I watch for any sign that he’s trying to overtake me and as soon he starts to inch forward I pedal harder. I want to show him I can match him and that I can also go faster if I so choose.
After some jockeying, we go our separate ways. He peels off to the right while I continue straight. I keep peddling hard until he’s well out of sight before allowing myself to slow down and smile.
So who won? I could argue that I did since I kept the lead for most of our little battle. But I think my overzealous tendency for scorekeeping may be blinding me to the larger point.
Thanks for the contest stranger. May the cold winds forever blow in your favor.