TwoWheeledWorld

Please, forgive the sentiment, but here goes:

A season-long journey is now over. From the pasty white legs of April, to the bronze tan-lines of September, in one final race-day descent the 2007 mountain bike racing season is over. The final race is always a sentimental one for me- it's easy to dig deep because it's the last one. It's a time when I reflect on my season-long journey: the places I've been, the trails I've raced on, the hotels, the drives across Colorado, the scenery, the friends, the stories.

I don't know what my fellow competitors do during the week. I have no idea who works full-time or what they do. All I know is I see the same faces every other weekend at a different venue. I can depend that the same guys will be out there in the cold Colorado mornings throughout the summer, as I am, warming up in the chill of the Rocky Mountain mornings before the race. I know who I'll see those Saturdays and Sundays as I line up at the start.

It's during those 2-3 hours on race day that our race is the most important thing in our universe. We race as though our lives--our very existence depended on it. Pushing to the very limit of our capacities, and sometimes past. Comraderie and lightheartedness turns to seriousness and silence as the announcer at the start line says, "5 seconds..." Up the searing climbs hearing each others breathing rythems through our own pounding heartbeats. Calculating how much the other guy is suffering based on how hard he's breathing. Descending narrow, twisty trails as if being chased by some unseen terror pushing us faster.

What does it all mean? It doesn't really matter to the rest of the world; doesn't even matter in February. The meticulous prep...the training...the eating....the hydrating...week after week after week. Yet we continue year after year, like a band of traveling gypsies. Training, traveling, and mountain bike racing. Purpose. Love. Passion.