I — DISCERN DESIRE
“Andy, that was amazing!”
Tony Stewart seemed more hyped than usual,
which is amazing for a man who drinks more coffee than water. To me,
it wasn’t amazing; it was one place too little. I longed for a
top-three placing at USCF collegiate championships, but to come that
close, I might as well come in dead last. Tony patted me on the back,
handed me a cold bottle of water and a washcloth, and began to address
me and the rest of the Appalachian State University Cycling Team.
“Now I know you guys are happy with this result, but we really could
have pulled off something much better! Andy Bennet, Andy Bennet, when
will you learn that racing isn’t about who is strongest, but who
is the smartest with the strengths they’ve got? I saw you covering
way too many attacks at the start. If you had waited, you would have made
the winning break and possibly given a rest to your teammates a better
placing.”
He was right; application of gray matter
didn’t happen quite like I had wanted. I started the race and
wanted to prove my place, flaunt my power, and ride like a king. Instead,
I watched the winning break roll away and I was helpless to stop it.
Still, I gutted it out to make a go of it all to the end and slipped
away from the group to solo in for the fourth place. This result plus
the criterium and team time trial, and the ASU Cycling team came out
with a second-place overall in the Division One conference. Not too
bad at all.
I looked at my transparent reflection, my forehead pressed against the
glass, as the blurred vision of the endless landscape lulled me. I always
enjoyed the travel; it was my time to think and reflect.
Twenty-one years of existence, two years of college, and six years of
cycling. I had no idea where my life was going, but I felt a hunger
inside. I tried to place what it was exactly and it hit me … the
bike. At the ripe young age of fifteen, I happened upon a special place,
the Leigh County Velodrome. My best friend Alex Gardner wanted to see
his brother Tyler race at the velodrome during the premier Friday Night
Racing. It was there I was hooked, secured by an unknown force whose
grip was as real as steel. I watched as riders literately flew mere
inches from me, pushing the air so hard my hair brushed my face as I
stood against the track wall. The lights, the crowd, the speed, the
tactics … I was amazed, truly stupefied. There seemed no real
logic to it all. Only one winner out of fifty riders! Then there were
the blazing speeds, one gear, and no brakes! How was this possible?
One doesn’t just go that fast, bumping that many riders, have
no brakes, and be a normal person. I was right about one thing.
I stood wide eyed all night, trying not to even blink so I wouldn’t
miss a revolution of a solitary pedal stroke. My hands were so sore
from banging on the bleachers that I had blisters the next morning.
I knew then I had found something special and signed up for the track’s
development program the very next day. It was the start of something
great.
My bike and I were inseparable. On Friday nights when other kids were
out with friends at the local football game, I was racing track or driving
to a race for the weekend. Most of my friends just thought of it as
“that sport where you shave your legs” or “Oh, you
do BMX, cool.” I remember a pretty young girl I met at the mall
one night. She giggled and smiled; the talk was good. Then she asked,
“So what do you like to do?”
Eagerly I replied, “Oh,
I race bikes, it’s so much fun! I love it!”
I saw her eyes
widen in interest as she leaned forward with sparkling eyes and voluptuous
lips.
“Oh, I love bikes! The speeds they go are amazing! Guys
look so sexy on motorcycles!”
Click, click, went my brain and
I uttered hesitantly, “Oh, that’s not what I do. I race
bicycles.”
That pretty much killed the interest right there. I
didn’t care; it was my passion.
From the track I started to race on the road, and then later picked
up cyclocross and mountain biking to break up the harsh northeast winters.
I enjoyed those days with relentless lust, just me and my bike, riding
open roads. It was my freedom, my escape and I loved it.
The years went by fast and there was much success and failure. I found
myself in great form the years I had the will to actually apply myself.
There wasn’t much pressure from my parents to do cycling or to
succeed at it. I was left to my own accord and pursuits, so all my motivation
came from within. Seven years later, almost every one of my friends
I started racing with have stopped riding or even quit cycling. I watched
as they developed a bitter taste for a sport that had once brought them
so much love.
I never put much thought into doing other things with my time. The bike
gave me everything I wanted from life, but recently I am feeling conflicted
and utterly confused. I feel this hunger inside me; it’s being
feed, but it wants more.
I watched the sun slowly faded into flickers of crimson and maroon as
it retreated into the earth. I was exhausted from the weekend’s
races and travels. Sleep came expediently.