How to dismount the machine

There are six steep kilometres between me and my favourite cake.

Five minutes in the car. 

20 minutes on a bicycle. 

Up and up the winding road to town.

And of course I take the bike, because treats taste better with a side of post-cardio bravado.

This morning I saddled up and set out on my sugar quest, grinding up the first few hills with a haggard expression that probably put the tourists off their brunch.

My bike is a city slicker – big on shine, light on gears. So most hills are a struggle, but none are quite as tough as the Can Crusher. 

It’s a short sharp climb on a footpath full of potholes, the occasional can of Carlton Draught lying crumpled in the dirt. 

Even in the lowest gear I can only just keep the wheels turning. But I never give in, oh no, I’d rather split my shorts or burst a valve in my head than let this hill beat me. 

But today, right at the steepest point, southerly howling and lungs full of grenades…

…I jumped off. And I pushed.

You might think it’s no biggie, but let me tell you about my personal bike riding policy. 

It goes like this:

NO PUSHING EVER.

That’s the policy.

I don’t like admitting defeat  – in fitness, in life. 

In my secret dreams I just keep getting stronger, reaching further, learning more, being more, chucking snow chains on my tires and pedalling up the face of Mount Everest. 

It’s all a bit grandiose, but there you have it.

Yet as I trudged up the slope, pushing my bicycle like a sad pilgrim, cold wind slicing through sweaty pits, strands of hair in my gob…

…I realised the folly of my ways. 

One day I’ll have to accept the limits of my body. 

One day we’ll have to accept the limits of our planet. 

And instead of pretending we’re invincible, on a quest to conquer every hill and capture every star, grinding up and up and up an unrelenting path of progress (even if it kills us) we can gracefully dismount, knowing when enough is enough. 

And anyway, still got the cake.