voluntary loner

"Are you alone? Training? You don't see women that do that much here."
It's been over a year since an older gentleman with stronger legs said that to me. We bumped into each other on a popular ride route, on a weekday morning because I was unemployed and he was self-employed. He offered a wheel for the way home, and I bumped into him three times that same week.

Employment, winter, and a trainer mean I haven't seen him in months. I have his number ["were you trying to pick her up?!" a friend of his joked when I ran into them], and I'm sure he'll be down to ride, but I feel a little weird getting back in touch. Riding alone - either because I don't feel like burdening anyone I know with my slower legs or because I want the freedom to roll out of bed and ride without waiting for someone who's "going to be there in like 10 minutes, I just woke up" - has always been become the norm. The group rides I've been on are happy memories, but my reclusive riding has turned me into the eternal bachelor friend, the one who's been flying solo for so long that commitment starts sounding odd; a nice concept, in theory, but maybe one that doesn't apply here.
You could say that I've been hoarding the freedom implicit in solitude. There's security in knowing that I'm alone, plus a twisted ego boost from being confident that, no matter what happens, I'll be the one getting myself home in one piece. There are no concessions to make - of water, pit stops, ride routes, or meeting times - which means I get to be a selfish asshole, but that I also have to deal with whatever comes my way, alone. I'd like to think that it's made me better at not blaming other people for situations I've created...although, you know, let's not entirely rule that out yet.

It would be disingenous of me to claim that embarrassment at my self-consciousness has nothing to do with being the voluntary loner. When you ride with others, you start to notice things about how you ride, or they're noticed for you. Habits become "really fucking weird habits," or, worse, "shit you're not supposed to do." That kind of insight, though usually helpful, can be a bit like "suggestions" from significant others about your personality: uncomfortable to hear, and sometimes only appreciated in hindsight. You'd think I'd be used to being wrong by now, but I still have a hard time not letting it get under my skin.
The annoying thing is that after you disengage from all that for a while, after you get used to the independence, after you see nothing but positive things about the isolation, you wake up early one Saturday morning and wish for the impossible friend who would be doing the same, just so you guys can go out and ride. Not someone to vent to, or to shoot the shit with, but simply to be there, riding next to, in front of, or behind you.

As someone who requires a regular people detox, it was a strange feeling. It only made sense later, grimacing through the prickly, hot pain of tired legs as I dragged my bike up the train station stairs. It wasn't only the desire to make some more of those unforgettable, shared memories. With friends that like to ride hard, there will always be an understanding of why you're useless for a handful of hours afterwards. There are no demands to shower, get changed, and immediately go shopping in heels. It's okay to be caught between exhausted and hungry for the rest of the day, spending the afternoon with legs stretched out, watching highlights of the TDF, and going to bed at 10pm on Saturday so you can do it all over again on Sunday. That distinctly heavy, post-ride exhaustion becomes a part of your life - raging bitchfests are too easily triggered by drained legs, so my weekend naps have become non-negotiable - and remains elusively inexplicable to those who prefer to always coast easy.

"Oh, fuck," I had said breathlessly to no one in particular last Saturday, halfway up a mountain pass. My legs were reminding me that I hadn't ridden there in almost a year while my face was dousing itself in sweat. Not the glistening-in-the-heat-this-could-be-sexy-if-done-right kind, but the kind that gets squeezed out of your skin because you're pushing so hard on the pedals. I looked terrible; my hair half matted down with sweat, not a trace of yesterday's eyeliner around my eyes, my face bright red.
Even so, I would've loved some company.

public vomiting and solitary riding

A few nights ago, I woke up to uncomfortable stomach pain. In the hour that followed, I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet, hurling out half-digested food and bile with the gusto I usually reserve for rides or make-out sessions. Crouching in front of the toilet with a bathmat underneath my legs to pad my knees, it was the first time in my life that I have vomited in solitude.
I understand this admission risks leading to the assumption that my life thus far has been unusually coddled and sheltered. Such is not the case; my public vomiting has always been a thing of choice. Like a shameless cry for help and pity that was not so much aural as visual and olfactory, I have thrown up the remnants of soup onto the hallway floor, mussels and oysters into plastic bags in the kitchen, and [the only time I made it to a porcelin receptacle] a mixture of nachos and Grey Goose into my sister’s toilet. Each time, there was someone within vomiting earshot. Someone who came running and either held my hair, the plastic bag, or offered to clean up the mess. I never flinched [even in hindsight] at how readily I accepted their offers of help. In fact, I found comfort in this, and could not understand why, when my sister threw up in her own room one day, she refused to accept my offer to clean it up, going so far as to tinge her rejection with a threat of physical harm should I so much as even try.
That night I threw up alone, through sweaty nausea, I wished for once that I had a room mate. This was a preference that, under normal circumstances, would have been immediately dismissed. I view living alone as not only a necessity but a sign that I have grown out of the phase where lack of sufficient income forces one to make the less than optimal choice to live with a person one is not simultaneously sleeping with. In school, I justified my comparably indulgent living situation as critical for academic success [or, failing that, at least an academically optimal environment]. At present, lacking any income and thereby opening myself up to be labeled as a hypocrite, I rationalize my aversion to sharing common living areas with other people as solitude suffered for the greater good. A benevolent, selfless act undertaken to assure that any potential room mates will never be subject to my slovenliness, bad cooking, or terrible music; and that I in turn, will never have to execute passive aggressive countermeasures based on suspicions that a stranger is partaking of my condiments.

This self-awareness of my own flaws - however limited - also extends to my riding. Fully conscious that I pose a significant danger to those around me due to my lack of bike handling skills, I primarily ride alone. Despite how comfortable I may be with my solitary riding, when people hear this, they feel compelled to comment. “You’re never going to get better riding alone,” some say, as they look me up and down, expecting me to rise to the challenge. Others misinterpret the information as fishing for an invitation: “I’ll totally ride with you! We need to ride together,” they’ll say. The philathropic offers are appreciated, but I’m also blessed with friends who don’t tend to follow up. They leave me to ride alone, pedaling towards that day when I might be able to sit in calmly without the fear that I will most certainly kill the person riding next to me.
“But you always say how much you hate riding alone,” Mike says. And to his credit, I have at times expressed a desire to have company that is more tangible than Kanye’s voice. Fortunately, Mike actively attracts group rides, so I get to hear all about them. “We were supposed to leave at 9:30, but so-and-so was running 15 minutes late. Then he really wanted coffee so we ended up leaving around 10:15.” Call me an ass but even the thought of hanging around an extra 45 minutes - precious extra pillow time when you’re talking about a Sunday morning - chafes harder than wearing men’s chamois shorts. I love my friends, but few would be worthy of such cleat-tapping tardiness. “And then some of the guys were just hammering,” Mike might add, in between complaining about the pain still running around his legs. I shake my head in pity, my relaxing solo ride challenging, but still safely within the confines of “fun.”

The irony is that recently, these solitary rides are catching up with me. My lone figure seems to invite invitation to join a paceline more times than I’m actually comfortable with, demands to stay on a wheel or take a pull to close a gap inevitably follow. Tests to see how well I can hold a line ensue, as I secretly thank my non-parabolic rollers. My visions of casual riding in the little ring go the way of Cavendish’s chances of a win in Milano-San Remo post-crash as I drag a stranger up to his friends or vice versa. Blame it on too much Kanye, or too easily bending to perceived flattery [“do they really think I can keep up?”]; a feeling of perverse guilt and obligation consistently keeps me from waving them off in a polite “no, thank you.” “Riding alone,” is quickly becoming “riding alone until someone decides to pace me, drag me a few miles on their group ride, or otherwise cause me unnecessary pain.”
With my history of relative reclusiveness, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that I resent these charitable strangers. But much like how the stark loneliness of vomiting in solitude only comes into focus after a lifetime of public retching, to be caught up in a group ride that is not your own, then dragged along for a portion of it, makes the solo ride a peculiar anomaly. An activity that one might not pursue so adamantly after a few moments of proximity to other, real-life cyclists. I think about this, sometimes, as I pinch my tires and put on my shoes, coiling my right earbud around my helmet strap. There are questioning thoughts about tardy friends who like to paceline aggressively and all the group rides I’m not trying. I try to want those things as I swing my leg over my saddle, heading out alone, wondering who I’ll meet today.