Just before I die, I hope to be uploaded into my Tacx virtual reality bicycle trainer. In preparation, I’m throwing things out: bundles of The New Yorker and Treadlie; half worn tires that I have been hoarding; books; clothes I don’t wear. I am even contemplating a rationalization of my bike collection. Honestly, I don’t like my mountain bike—well, to be precise, it’s the trails that annoy me. Can’t they be straight? A roadie at heart, I like to expel energy with my legs, not by steering. (So a 29er with Alfine gears is for sale. Just let me know.)
I’m not sure I would like to pare my life down to an iPhone on the stem of a fixie, though the monk’s blood in my veins does make me look at that image, and pause to consider (okay, so this monk in my bloodline, had a dalliance maybe, or perhaps did his lovin’, then did his chantin’).
Gentlemen, I put it to you that cycling can be a proxy for hermitage. Have you not been three mountains from home, with no more bananas in your back pocket, rain drops now needling your jersey, and feeling totally free? Free of the need to breed—and let’s face it, what woman would want you, slogging along on the road shoulder, like Bobby The Wonder Dog, running out of skin on his paws. Free of the need for shelter, safety, or love, substituting this ache in your legs for every layer in Maslow’s pyramid. Why I want to spend death on my Tacx virtual island, is it is totally empty, but for 2-D people, saying the same thing over and over.