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People often tell cyclists that we are freaks. Are we the freaks? The ones who slather goo on our butts at 5:30am before a pre-work ride? Who meticulously wax and shave our legs so that when (not if) we crash, the road-rash wounds will be easier to clean? Or who squeeze our bodies into skin-tight, coloured lycra uniforms in order to go out and inflict pain on ourselves?

Or maybe the freaks are the ones who have never experienced the exhilaration of cresting a mountain, like Ventoux on a sunny Autumnal day in Provence? Or the tingling sensation of new-forged steel coursing through their leg muscles? Or even the soulful pleasure of gently rolling down a country road with the wind in your back


Dear Mr.Mountain

I respect your immense, hulking mass and your sharp, angular lines. You bring me suffering and break my will, but I like that you are a known and quantifiable enemy. Straight up. A benevolent oppressor, kind enough to let me know when the abuse will stop, humane enough to reward me with a free-wheeling downside.
You are an evil prick. An invisible, faceless assassin. The sniper in the bell tower. The black ops of the natural world, slowly and steadily masterminding my downfall. I do not like you. But I won’t say it out loud as I know how curses travel upon your currents. And how on hearing them, you’ll change your angle of attack just to spite me. No, I know you Mr Wind, so I will humbly bow my head into your wretched breath, grind my way home, and keep on peddling in defiance. 
All Images Courtesy of CycleAtlas © 2014