6 hours is a long time in the saddle. Even if I am riding with a group, which has never happened to me at San Felaso, I am essentially alone. When you get past the shiny parts, the ribaldry, and the exercise riding bikes is about two things.
Life and Death.
I ride with hope of escaping death- making death chase me around and around the back yard until exhausted- it grabs me by the collar and drags me away. In doing so it is only natural to reflect on my life and mete out the accolades and the bronx cheers I feel I have earned along the way.
6 hours is barely enough time to cover the backlog of material from 2008 alone.
Motivation comes from so many different places. When I feel the pace listing to the edge of the trail I can tap into spectacular victories, like the election of Barack Obama, to send a surge into my legs.
When the real pain comes? There is nothing better than bitterness to fuel me. In those moments I will tap into places I would never share with a bunch of rubes on the internet reading about bikes. That feeling you get when you are hunched over after a solid ball-kicking? That kind of anguish turns the pedals best.
I might have to ride it twice.