My son just screamed in my face: "Why are you like this, Dad? No wonder you cycle alone all day, don't you feel lonely?"
Oh! A young man lecturing an old man on the philosophy of cycling? True, can't blame him, a young person with big ambitions and a big ego. How can I tell him now...
He doesn't know, before... I was a person always looking towards the collective, I searched and longed for a cycling team of my own. However, I chose to ride solo. It all stems from the conflict of the group's "Egos."
I remember that morning in Big Sur that year. Thick fog. 20 brothers gathered under the bridge, shiny Carbon bikes, the sound of freehubs spinning evenly, purring, sounding incredibly good.
But just as we got on the bikes, the brotherly atmosphere died out. The guys in front buried their faces in their Garmin watches, eyes glued to the Power metrics. On the right was the majestic Pacific coast, but no one bothered to glance for a second. They were busy checking if the guy next to them was pedaling harder than them.
Shouts like: "Fill the gap!", "Don't drop the Pace!", "Focus!" kept ringing continuously in my ears. I felt suffocated. Clearly, I was cycling amidst vast heaven and earth, but why did it feel like I was locking myself in a narrow glass cage of rules and prejudices.
People often rush to find numbers, only to forget their own lives passing by right on the roadside.
At the intersection right at the start of Bixby Bridge, the rift exploded. On the left was Highway 1. Smooth asphalt, wide open but reeking of truck smoke. That is paradise for speed addicts. On the right was Old Coast Road. A red dirt road, jagged with boulders, looking deep into the redwood forest. It looked tattered like a scar in the middle of the old forest. The team captain just put a sip of water in his mouth, while pointing straight at the asphalt road: "Brothers, stick to Highway 1! That road is full of dirt and rocks, ruining all the Carbon bikes. Plus, only by going this way can we gun it to the finish before 7!" The whole bunch nodded, tucked down onto the handlebars preparing to shoot off like arrows. They were more afraid of dirty bikes than losing the experience. Comfort is sometimes the sweetest trap. People choose the flat road because they fear falling, not because they want to go far.
Right when that noisy crowd whooshed away, I quietly steered to the right. The bike bucked up, gravel crunching under the tires. My wrists went numb because of the bumpy road. Red dust rose up covering my face, salty. No comfort, no speed here. The invisible glass cage from earlier shattered completely.
As the truck engine noise faded, I heard pine leaves rustling overhead. Sunbeams slanted through the giant redwood canopy, dancing on my handlebars. I went very slowly, but every breath into my chest was sweet with the taste of the forest.
When you dare to turn onto the dusty road that the crowd scorns, only then do you see the wildflowers that never grow on the asphalt.
I didn't finish earliest that day. I came home with a bike stained with mud and tired legs. But my head felt light. I had left the vain "ego" of the crowd out on that asphalt road.
Just now, I didn't knock on the boy's door to explain. I quietly walked the bike to the backyard, turned on the hose. The strong stream of water washed away the red dust layer, the "souvenir" from the gravel road. I sat down, hands full of grease, meticulously drying each chain link. In the sound of rushing water and the pungent smell of machine oil, I saw no shadow of loneliness.
Only the peace of a man washing away the noise clinging to him with his own hands. A spotless bike is beautiful, sure, but only scratches and mud can tell the story of where the wheels have rolled. That is the reason I ride alone, son.
The crowd may give you a sense of safety, but only silence can return your true self to you