Man’s real home is not a house, but the road… (Bruce Chatwin)
We aren’t really alive unless we are on some variation of an adventure. That could be a Saturday ride, and the endless preparation the night before which takes us blissfully away from reality. Or, a journey that takes us away from our local roads, riding famous mountains in Europe or South America, or racing bikes in Japan. Whether you are on a new bike or a used bike is irrelevant.
Whisky should taste different when you have it at the Balblair Distillery in Scotland. Salty snacks, a delicacy after a tempo ride outside Nobeyama, Japan. A regular Coke becomes a healing elixir after climbing for six hours into the clouds blanketing the mountains of France. Normal things take on a new shape and flavor when you meet them on a journey. You can taste and feel their individual pieces.
People who ride their adventures tend to be more intriguing and calm. They are trained for things not to go perfectly and have learned to suffer and push through when the logical choice is to stop, rest, open a college savings account, plan for a rainy day, eat less saturated fat and only have 1.5 glasses of organic wine three times a week. Balderdash. That goes against all the written and unwritten rules of cycling—and anything remotely entertaining in the history of mankind. Time to get on a jet plane—and order desert while you are at it.
The simple act of riding a bike encourages adventure the moment the wheels begin to turn. We are a lucky group.