“If you had demons like me, you’d run fast too.” Those were the words from Sally, an accomplished runner who attributes her success up to an obsessive-compulsive disorder. It was her response to me when I told her how I respond to people who ask me what I do for training. I tell them this: I don’t train; I self medicate. It’s no coincidence that the two days I spent in Jail were during a period of time when I was riding less than any other in my adult life.  

Last Saturday a few of my friends were preparing for their January ritual: to burn a Christmas tree down at Golden Gardens.  I called up another friend and invited him to come down and burn his with us. I also asked him why he had not come on the ride that morning. He told me it was because he had worked that day.  He was frustrated about it, but it was the only day he could get this project done.

When he parked his car at Golden Gardens I could see him in the front seat arguing with his girlfriend. I walk over to the car and he jumps out yelling, “I am the asshole?”  Eyes bulging out, he begins to yell to me the details of whatever they were arguing about. I tell him to calm down, I tell him it’s gonna be okay, I might as well be speaking in Hebrew because he doesn’t hear a word. “Take the fucking tree!” He pulls his Christmas tree out of the back of his van. “Take this too!” He dumps a grocery bag onto the sidewalk. I hear the clack of a jar of pickles, which miraculously does not break. There was also a big bag of bread and smoked salmon.

The next day he shows up for the ride. “I just drank three shots of moonshine.”  He is still talking about the night before, justifying his actions, but he has chilled down a bit. As soon as we start riding his ramblings turn to jokes. We spend the first hour of the ride mostly laughing. When we get to the first hill he is dropped pretty quickly. We wait for him at the top. When he shows up his eyes look weak.  I tell him he should turn around. He agrees and says it would be good to have some time to clear his head. 

I worry about people who ride for the training and compete for the competition. I worry about people who think winning is important. I can understand my friend and his Christmas tree. I can understand wanting to start the day with a shot of moonshine, or three. I have been there. Maybe we all have at some point or another.

If I get on my bike, let it be to keep me sane, rather than to prove self worth. Let it not be an act of courage, but an act of humility in recognition of the fragility of my own mind. And if I win, let it be a triumph not over my fellow bike racers, but over my own demons.