Though the micro-maisons of America are stocked with the spoils of consumption and our totems glow with thousands of HD programme choices–all this to say that by most counts we should be well satisfied–it does not mean that bicycle riding is a safe haven from the hidden perils of 1st worlde life. There are hotspots in feet. Disparate brake feel. Warm EPO. Unevenly spaced payment plans. It gets rough sometimes.
We know that musique is necessary to solo racing, but just like an off-camber sock seam, poor music selection can completely ruin an otherwise delightful unit of Saturday morning domination. Without the metronome of social pressure, the selection of a prime bit of ear candy (piped in through one bud for safety and ‘nache) can keep the pedalés turning at a beneficial tempo and soften the purging of too much chianti. Bad music, however, can lead to emotional duress resulting in bike throwing or en saddle crying or farte. Ew.
Winter’s thermometer data may balance delicately on the precipice of bearable, but if early measures are taken, the heat will quickly arrive. Begin with Supernaut on the 4th release from motivational giants, Black Sabbath. Out of the saddle before I’m even out of the house, this type of sound will keep my quattroceps top-fueled for the entire 4.75 minutes metric. WATCHOUT CAT 4, I AM HOT ON YOU ASSE! (secret: i am cashed after this every time and have to stop at the staçionne-essence for the Snicker and Steel Reserve for le dog hair recoverre glucides. shhh.)
To re-enter a 3-digitte heart time zone, I try to think about how much property I own back at my large neighborhood club and switch my pod musique to something metered like Phillip Glass. Currently driving my nerves is his Kepler, set to a particularly esoteric (meaning I totally get it) German-Latin libretto. At this point, I usually fall into a nice zone of solo racing. I will break away from myself with the odde rhythms of academic-liberal-privelege music driving my cadence into an unmeasurable secret training mode. If counterintelligence weekend racing enemies tap my headphone, they only will just hear a sound like special school jump rope class and plonk-plonk blablabla Phillip Glass.
Like most times, on rides like this, I am very tired from OzzySprints®, and must flag down a country car for directions/a lift. But one think I am not doing is being lonely. Maybe my teammates are in Monaco, beach volleyballing, softening tan lines and growing tummies, but by this American way, with my American things like musique, I am learning once more how to dominate.
Back at home now, it’s time for some Nino Ferrer and cognac.
Jaque le Coq