I used to know a man who wanted to be a century rider. His heart's desire was to ride the Hilly Hellacious Hundred. At least, that's what he said.
It was odd, though. As far as I know, he never rode a century. In fact, he didn't even train, to speak of. His job was too demanding. By the time he'd put in a day's work, he was too tired to ride, he told me.
Which isn't hard to understand. The question is why he didn't quit his job so he could train. I once told him his job must be more important to him than his riding. I suggested that his heart's desire must be keeping his job.
He was deeply offended. He insisted that riding was his first priority, that I just didn't understand.
Which was true. I didn't understand. I thought that if his priority were riding, he'd ride. He'd find some way somehow. But I didn't say that.
He explained that he had to keep his job. Otherwise how would he send his kids to college? And besides, the work he did was worthwhile, wasn't it?
Good questions, of course. But they made me wonder all the more about what he really valued. Surely it wasn't riding. It was getting good things for his kids and having worthwhile work.
Which is OK, I guess. Understandable, anyway. But he should admit what it is he values. He worked fifty hours a week. He trained a couple of hours a month--maybe. And he never rode a century.
The closest he came was when he joined a club for century riders. He attended every week. Together with other members, he memorized the names of century riders and their ride times. They subscribed to "Centuries Today" and debated the relative merits of Shimano and Campagnolo. I'm not sure they ever rode together, though.
Sometimes they went to century workshops together, however, and listened to lectures on how to ride centuries. The lecturers were professionals, though it was never clear to me whether they were professional riders or professional lecturers. There's a difference, you know.
Once his club chartered a plane to go to Asheville to study the course for the Hilly Hellacious Hundred. The walked where century riders walked. (Actually they walked where century riders rode, a difference that seemed to escape them.) And while there, they discussed how to tell when you were near the end of the course. A good question, certainly, but what difference does it make unless you ride?
My friend told me that there were other kinds of century clubs; some didn't believe in literal centuries anymore. They didn't think anyone had ever actually ridden a century; the distance was so great that anyone who tried would have dropped dead. The whole idea was scientifically absurd, though, of course, it contained an important truth-- something abut the need to do our best, I think it was.
Naturally the demythologizing outraged my friend. Century rides were the most important thing in his life, and it bothered him that some denied their existence.
To tell the truth, sometimes I personally could hardly tell the difference between the two sorts of clubs. My friend's club used different rhetoric, of course. But I wondered whether they believed in century rides themselves.
When I cross-examined my friend about it once, he explained that actually training and riding were impractical. Though they were an ideal to be pursued, at least at his stage of life, he just couldn't do them.
Realistically, how could he care for his family and do the worthwhile parts of his job if he spent his time riding?
People he'd known who tried it has always been young and idealistic, and they'd outgrown it eventually. Besides, actual century riders tended to be fanatics, and he didn't like fanatics.
It was sad, really. He reminded me of us all.
Of the life we have spoken of so often and have never lived.
Adapted from John Alexander, "Marathon Man", January/February 1996 "The Other Side", as posted in the message good words! by Tom Blair on Topica.
© Blue Ridge Bicycle Club Inc. 2004