After years of stagnation, the bicycle touched the road again.
I must admit, I don’t remember exactly how my first ride after that long pause went. I would give anything to have a precise memory of that day. I imagine it was the summer of 1994.
I do remember, however, that I was working with a colleague who had also raced, in the same categories, perhaps a couple of years older than me. Like me, he was just getting back on the bike after a long break. One evening, after work, we decided to ride together: a short loop, a climb, just enough time to say goodbye.
He pulled ahead immediately. I struggled insanely. It wasn’t more than three kilometres, with gentle inclines, yet for me it felt like the Stelvio. I remember perfectly the taste of blood in my throat, my legs burning, the pain, my breath a distant memory. Each pedal stroke was a small compromise between will and survival.
That day, the coals that had been dormant for years flared up again. From that moment on, I started riding regularly, maybe only once during the week, but always at least one fixed day on the weekend.
By the end of 1995, I left my 26-hour-a-day job and moved to a more humane workplace. There, I finished at five.
Suddenly, I had time.
And there was a road outside.
1996 began with a well-lubricated chain, pedals gliding smoothly underfoot and wheels spinning without resistance. And I went with them.
That year, I lost about a dozen kilograms. I became lean and athletic again. At first, it was a sort of bet with a coworker, someone who didn’t believe I could actually lose the weight. His disbelief was enough to get me started, but soon I no longer needed the bet.
I began to fly up climbs again. The heart pounding, legs screaming, breath finding its rhythm. All of it came back.
And with it, the simple joy of being on the bike.
The body remembered.
There was an important difference this time.
There were no races.
No pressure. No Saturday or Sunday waiting for me at the end of the week. Nobody to impress, nobody to please. I could ride hard because I wanted to ride hard. I could suffer on a climb and enjoy every second of it. I could go somewhere simply because I wanted to see what was there.
I extended my loops and added climbs. I was once again addicted to that marvellous aluminium horse with carbon wheels.
I felt good.
Physically and mentally.
The bicycle that had almost disappeared from my life was becoming part of it again, but differently this time. There was nothing I had to prove with it.
The year was drawing to a close, and I was already thinking about how I would spend my cycling time the following year. Not as an obligation or a prescribed plan.
I simply wanted to ride.
After years of being almost invisible in the garage, the bicycle was back.
The bicycle was no longer a place to escape from, nor something I had to prove myself on. It had become home again. And I had finally come back to live in it.
