Max Riffner

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Shackleton Turned Around, Too

The running program had been going well until this weekend. I suffered from a common ailment: drunk dancing. I seem to have twisted my knee up pretty damn good. Strangely, I found that I wasn’t that upset with the injury. I used to get in a deep funk about injuring myself like that when I was regularly running. But after running out on the trail again lately, I kept thinking to myself that I wasn’t going that fast.

And by fast, I mean I wasn’t speeding past the scenery on my bike.

People change. I no longer think of myself solely as a runner. As my friend Dan asked me the other day, if I keep getting hurt so often, why do I do it?

Well, part of it is to help stay in shape, and I think I’ll continue on the running program as I am. If I can run a couple times a week for 20-30 minutes, I’ll be happy. I enjoy it for the intensity, but I don’t really have a passion for it anymore.

Upon realizing that this morning as I cranked my sore knee up the steps, I thought I should prepare for some cold weather riding. I can’t run on the knee this week anyway, so why stop excercising completely?

I ran by a bike store and picked up a balacava, gloves, an orange jersey, and my first pair of tights. I rushed home, weaving in and out of traffic to get my new clothes on and get out on the road before dusk settled in. I rushed the dogs through their food and pottied them, then quickly changed and headed downstairs to load up the car.

When I got out to the garage, I found I had locked myself out. The bike was inside the house. At least I had my cellphone… but the Chief had a late meeting. It was dusk as she arrived home to see a Spider-Man lookalike in the garage, balacava and all (because it was getting a bit cold in the garage).

But damn if I was going to let it stop me (after a quick pep talk from the Chief). So out I went into the dark, rushing through the night with my lights on.

I stopped to a dead end on the trail; Dodge Street is still under construction after all. I took my light off my handlebars to inspect where the trail dropped off into a mudpit. It wasn’t the longest ride, I thought to myself, but at least I got out there. And as I picked up speed leaving the lights of Dodge behind me I felt pretty good about myself, right up until my headlight flew off my handlebars and shattered on the pavement.

Anybody coming out of the local Grissanti’s restauraunt probably heard a very loud “Fuck!” echo out of the trail. I was alone in the dark, with nothing but my blinking tail lamp to help me find all the pieces. After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I looked on into the darkness and pulled a Shackleton I mounted up and I rode on despite the setback. Now, out on the trail, you do go by some areas that are lit well, but mostly you are out in nature. And despite what my best instincts were telling me, I hauled. I shot through trail sprinting as quick as my legs would carry me, as if I were being chased.

I got back around 8pm, had some dinner, and laughed to myself about my misfortunes, but I couldn’t help the nice butterflies I got when I thought about how it felt to be going as fast as I could in the dark. I should have wrecked, the night I was having. Instead, I got hooked a little deeper into cycling.

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