The
cyclologist discovers he is still an adrenaline junkie
when he
returns to the big city where he grew up
"Ready,
Hold, GO!"
I
throw the bike forwards, pushing down and pulling
up, every muscle strains as I try to get the gear
turning and hoping my worn cleats don't fly out of
the pedals. The effort ripples along my legs as the
wheels turn, I'm out of the saddle giving it every
ounce of strength, my breathing hard as I see my target
ahead and my lungs trying to catch up.
It's
Saturday morning and I've joined in the track session
at the cycle club my kids go to. A few short standing
start time trials and my lungs are protesting, my
abdominals are on strike and I have found a conveniently
situated crumpled heap in which to fall.
"Red,
Amber, GREEN!"
I
throw the bike forwards as the lights change, pushing
down and pulling up, every muscle strains as I try
to get the bike moving and away from the four lanes
of traffic behind me and hoping that nothing breaks
and my feet stay on the pedals.
I
am on holiday down in the smoke and popping back to
the scenes of my youth as I run the messages in south
west London. It is strange being back in a city where
there are more than two lanes of traffic, feeling
that buzz of the cut and thrust of cycling in the
big city. It doesn't have to be like that. There are
quiet routes, peaceful rides where you don't need
to break a sweat. But hey, I've just realised that
under the spare poundage around my middle is an adrenaline
junkie waiting to get out.
I've
missed this, boy have I missed it.
