The Morning Ride

At 5:30 in the morning, most sane people are still in bed. Or perhaps coming home from a hell of a good shaker. But during the spring and summer months, when the sun comes up early, a small group of dedicated (or certifiable perhaps) cyclists don spandex, helmets and duck shoes and hit the open road. We ride West to Headlingly and back, logging about 45km, our ultimate goal: the Starbucks at the end of the ride.

Other than one overpass, the ride is dead flat. But on the way back into the city, the overpass is the finish line to a stage win at the TdF. On the approach, the attack begins, the train of pain. This has always been a challenge, but with the recent addition of some very strong riders to our group, the intensity of the sprint has risen to retarded levels. My goal is just to keep up, to desperately hold on to a wheel until we make the overpass. By then my legs are dead like tree trunks and I am near the point of vomiting. It is my favourite part of the ride.

To start the day this way, and see the sunrise on my bike on our way back to the city is magic. If only summer lasted forever.