Recently, I joined a cycling club in West Colorado—a group of truly seasoned riders. Mike, in particular, intrigued me. A 70-year-old veteran with major surgeries on his back and palms, yet he remained the most resilient "engine" of the team. Before a major climb, I visited Mike's home to collect a supply list. That was the first time I saw a completely different Mike.
The cabin was peaceful, filled with the scent of medicines. Mike walked with a staggered gait, clutching a chair for support, his face contorted from back pain. He sat across from me, slow and heavy. I was skeptical. Could he endure four mountain passes tomorrow? I waited as he scrawled jagged notes, broken just like his labored breathing. "In that room, Mike looked like a fading draft of himself, where time used a trembling pen to slowly cross out the pride of a rider."
But on the saddle, Mike becomes someone else. The climb begins. He clenches his jaw, facial muscles contorting as his back protests. He devours the pain with strange calm. Each pedal stroke is heavy, stubborn, as if he were nailing his existence into the asphalt.
Riding alongside, I saw sweat pouring, soaking the scarred palm gripping the bars. He was hurting. But this was the euphoria of survival. Lungs wheezing, eyes blazing. At home, pain was a prison. Here, it was a weapon. He relished the self-torture.
He listened to his body screaming, for only in screaming did it truly exist. Each revolution was catching the rhythm of the road, a persistence to enjoy the privilege of pain and the raw fact of being alive. To Mike, every scream of his muscles was a feast of the senses—a taste of a life that refuses to surrender. More importantly, he feels he is truly living.
When the ride ended, Mike dismounted with ease. The staggered gait was gone. He sat in the sun, savoring coffee, looking decades younger through absolute internal control. They don't ride to prolong life, but to prove time can't dictate their existence.
They claim the right to "die" at the peak of effort rather than "live" in the decay of a safe body. Better to be exhausted in the euphoria of pain than to exist invisibly on a soft sofa.
The salt of sweat, the heaving of lungs, the tightening of thighs. They feel it—they ride to feel it.