The spring of our discontent

14 05 2017


Now is the spring of our discontent

Made ever more miserable by this lack of sun

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our rides

In the deep chasm of the puddles swamped

Now are our brows bowed with discouraged furrows;

Our soggy bibs hung up for monuments;

Our muddy cleats pedal to gloomy forecasts.

Grim-visaged trainer rides hath smoothed our wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting carbon steeds

To fright the souls of fearful pelotons,

We caper sullenly in garages and basements

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped as in previous seasons,

Nor made to be pleased by my reflections;

I, that am rudely lacking of sinew and muscle

To strut at the end of ambling pace lines;

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

Cheated of physique by dissembling weather,

Deformed, unfit, sent before my time

Into this breathing world with scarcely half the mileage,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

My Garmin barks as it forgets about me;

Why, I, in this weak piping time of rain and cold,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to chase my shadow in the sun

And slim down on my own deformity;

And therefore, since I cannot ride whenever,

To pine for days of warm, pleasant weather,

I am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle sloth of these cloudy, cold days.

Rides have I planned, long and languid,

By optimistic ambitions, routes and schemes,

To set my legs spinning and Lapierre

In delightful rhythm with each other:

And if the Weather Man be as true and just

As I am discouraged, cowering and cold,

This day of better weather should closely follow,

About a time, before spring becomes summer,

As cyclists wish for roads dry and bare of puddles,

Of days of shorts and cold beers.

Ride, thoughts, down to my soul; where

Is the sun?