Like the onset of mental
illness, it’s been developing for a long time. It begins in September 2007 when
I buy the Jazz after six months without a car. Part of the rationale is the ability
to transport bicycles to country start points to diversify ride scenery. An
unexpected move to Bendigo four months later does that anyway.
The car gets me to central
Victoria then gathers bird poop, sap and twigs from the street elms overhead. I
pedal two minutes to work, four to the supermarket, five to the gym. On balmy
evenings and weekends I pump it out to Raywood, Kamarooka, Sutton Grange, the
Whipstick, Maldon and Fogarty’s Gap.
Back in Melbourne I hate riding
in traffic, opt for the car. My new job cuts out daily trips to buy food:
several days’ foodage doesn’t fit in a cyclist’s backpack. Long journeys to
Collingwood through winter eliminate recreational midweek rides. The commute by
bike is curtailed by circuitous off-road trails, back-breaking baggage, odd
hours, no daily or weekly routine.
A bleak chill winter, record
monthly rainfalls, rotten weekends, does not help. Daily blog posts encroach on
ride time. Adding an animal to the house complicates riding arrangements.
Fickle companions muck up ride agendas.
Training for an event—Round the
Bay, France—has got me out regularly in the past. I have no event to aspire to.
France 2013 is only a maybe, the challenge of circumnavigating the bay no
longer an interest. Charity rides abound but free weekends are scarce.
So it comes to this: I don’t
feel like a cyclist any more. I don’t know what I feel instead. Frustration.
Loss. Disappointment. I know part of this is my fault: I’ve forsaken
opportunities to ride, given other tasks, events, pleasures priority. Every
time I get out there I wonder why I don’t get out more often.
Is it a case of reasons or
excuses, or both?
Rock on.
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