Why Cycling Matters
I went for a ride the other day for the first time in several weeks as my injured ankle has been giving me grief again. I was tired, and my ankle was not happy (neither was my right hamstring, come to that), but it didn’t matter. I was energised by turning the pedals. What mattered was that it was cold and dark, but I was riding.
As I rode, I began to think about why I love cycling. Why does it matter so much to me? Perhaps it was the death of cyclist Maria Defino on these very roads not so long ago that put me in this reflective mood, but my senses were sharpened to the experience of my ride.
What mattered was that, as I rode under the streetlights in the darkness, my shadow sprinted over the top of me, coaxing me to follow. What mattered was that I heard the familiar hum of tyres on tarmac as a group ride passed me in a blinking mass of tail lights calling “Riders right!”
What mattered was that, as I rode through the suburbs, I could smell the breakfasts of the working men of Sydney flowing out into the streets from the cafes and takeaways: coffee, bacon, freshly baked bread, and the sting of salt and vinegar on hot chips - not to mention the scent of dope smoke trailing behind a skateboarder who happened to crossed my path.
What mattered was that I saw the dawn of a new day, the still hidden sun’s purple and orange glow slowly climbing its way up a wispy ladder of light cloud.
What mattered was that I was revelling in being a part of this pre-dawn that so many don’t see. I was out there with my dodgy ankle, my tight hamstring and my cold hands, and I was loving every minute of it.
That was a good day.
