Tommy T and I rinsed ourselves out mind, body, and spirit this past Monday at Santos and man, did I ever need the mental colonic. I have to say, of all the friends I hate when they are making me suffer, I hate Tommy the least.
The general flatness of the landscape at Santos means you are always turning the pedals. Like a Tibetan prayer wheel, the repetition eventually transcends you to someplace above the bike, above the trail, most of all- above the bullshit, the minutiae, modern life. Meditating in the pain cave, the mind becomes quite still. Like an approaching orgasm, your entire being is poised, hung high on the expectations of the next searing breath.