From the book of ROSSIN, 14:6: “He that regardeth the KOM, regardeth it unto the Lord; and he that regardeth not the KOM, to the Lord he doth not regard it.”
[Editor’s note: With many, many, many apologies to Henry van Dyke (1852-1933)]
Are you willing to forget what you have done for other riders—like that time you pulled for eighteen miles into a headwind while they discussed bottom bracket standards—and to remember what other riders have done for you, which is mostly draft off you and then attack on the final climb?
To ignore what the cycling industry owes you after you’ve purchased four different groupset generations in six years, each one promising “revolutionary shifting” that feels exactly the same, and to think what you owe the cycling industry, which is apparently your firstborn child, your retirement savings, and that carbon wheelset you’ve been eyeing since Black Friday?
To put your Strava KOMs in the background—all three of them, two of which you got because your GPS glitched—and your so-called recovery rides in the middle distance, where you still averaged 19 mph because you have a problem, and your chances to actually help someone fix their bike in the foreground, even though you’ll probably strip their derailleur hanger trying to true their wheel on Christmas morning instead of opening presents?
To see that your fellow cyclists are just as real as you are, including the guy who shows up to the no-drop ride on a time trial bike and promptly drops everyone, and the person at the Christmas party who thinks SPD cleats work with Look pedals, and the frame builder who lectures everyone about “road feel” while you’re all just trying to drink your cortado and eggnog in peace, and try to look behind their Oakleys to their hearts, hungry for joy and KOMs and maybe some holiday goodwill?
To own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of cycling—which is a sore ass, an empty wallet, and the knowledge that teenagers on e-bikes can pass you—but what you are going to give to cycling, which is endless opinions about tire width that nobody asked for, especially not at Christmas dinner when your family just wants to know why you’re wearing bib shorts under your dress pants?
To close your book of complaints against the universe for making you slow, gravity for existing, wind for always being a headwind no matter which direction you ride, and the sadistic route planner who puts the steepest hill at mile 47, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness, like maybe just shutting up about your FTP for five minutes during Christmas brunch?
Are you willing to do these things even for a day—say, December 25th, when the shop is closed and you can’t buy another set of titanium bottle cage bolts? Then you can keep Racing Season.
Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of the new rider on the hybrid with platform pedals who received it as a Christmas gift; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old and can no longer hold your wheel on climbs they once dominated, and who now sit at home on Christmas while you’re out doing “just a quick spin”?
To stop asking how much your riding buddies love you—whether they waited at the top, whether they soft-pedaled when you were struggling, whether they got you anything for the gift exchange or just regifted those gross energy chews—and ask yourself whether you love them enough to stop talking about that one time in 2019 when you actually won the town line sprint, which you bring up every Boxing Day ride without fail?
To bear in mind the things that other riders have to bear—like listening to you complain about your new saddle for six weeks straight through the entire holiday season—and to try to understand what those who ride in the same group with you really want, which is probably for you to stop explaining why their bike setup is wrong and yours is correct, despite the fact that you’re slower than all of them, without waiting for them to tell you, because they’ve been hinting since the Secret Santa ride?
To trim your Lezyne so that it will give more light and less of that annoying flash pattern that blinds everyone during the dark winter rides, like some kind of anti-Christmas star, and to carry it angled down so that your shadow of self-righteousness will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts about the guy who bought the same frame as you but in a nicer colorway with his Christmas bonus, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open, so everyone can see you’re definitely not jealous even though you asked Santa for that exact paint scheme?
Are you willing to do these things even for a day—perhaps the day we celebrate peace on earth and goodwill toward men, though apparently not toward the cyclist who bought the last pair of Assos bibs in your size? Then you can keep Racing Season.
Are you willing to believe that post-ride beer is the strongest thing in the world—stronger than pre-ride espresso, stronger than whatever is in those gel packets, stronger than the self-loathing that comes from checking Strava after a bad ride, stronger even than your mother’s disappointment when you skip Christmas dinner to get in “just one more ride before the year ends”?
And that sacrifice is as beautiful as power, which is why you’re definitely doing tempo and not just going easy, and that service is as blessed as suffering, even though suffering is literally the entire point of this stupid sport, and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem two thousand years ago—and in Belgium whenever Eddy Merckx was born, which might as well be a religious holiday—is the image and brightness of the Eternal Ride?
Then you can keep Racing Season.
And if you keep it for a day, why not always? Why not make every ride a celebration of the cycling nativity, when the first rider received the first bike and said “yes, I will suffer for this”?
But you can never keep it alone. Because cycling is a team sport where everyone hates each other but also can’t live without the group ride drama, much like Christmas dinner with your family, except with more Lycra and fewer cardigans.
And even then, you probably won’t, because you just saw someone take your KOM on Christmas Eve and now you have to go do intervals in the freezing rain to get it back, muttering about e-bikes and suspicious power files the entire way, while your family waits for you to help decorate the tree.
But sure, peace on earth, goodwill toward Freds, whatever.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night ride.
Now where’s my bidon? And has anyone seen the wrapping paper? I need to wrap this new cassette.
