WE LIVE IN A SORT OF IMAGINARY “FIGHT CLUB”, WHERE ALL THOSE FACES WE SEE EVERYDAY BELONG TO PEOPLE WITH BODIES FULL OF SCARS AND BLOOD THAT SHOW THE INEVITABLE WOUNDS OF BEING A CYCLIST. IF YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF A CYCLIST, AND YOUR BODY HAS NO MARKS TO SHOW FOR IT, THEN YOU ARE NOT FIGHTING HARD ENOUGH TO BE ONE.

The waiter serving you your nice foamy coffee with sweetener could be a cyclist, or the doctor that suggests lowering your cholesterol, or the mechanic that changes the oil in your car. The girl at the bakery that carefully wraps your baguettes in paper could also be one, or the perpetually grumpy bus driver, or the hairdresser that always cuts too much off the top. The managing director of your bank that works 9 to 5 could ride. Or that insurance salesman that is always calling you to sell you a policy, or the doorman that never says ‘good morning’, or the guy flipping those burgers that you eat every Friday… Anyone, that means ANYONE around you, could be a cyclist. We are not alone, my friend.

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„If you consider yourself a cyclist and your body has no marks to show for it, then your are not fighting hard enough to be one.

The Italian writer Roberto Saviano starts his book “Zero Zero Zero” in a similar and brilliant way, making us see that anyone around us could be an addict, in his case drug addicts. The brutality of his narration turns everyone into a potential “addict” – without exception and without prejudice. Seen more broadly, Saviano’s book couldn’t be more apt as an example of showing how addiction can apply within cycling too, in all aspects of life. We live in a sort of imaginary “fight club”, where all those faces we see everyday belong to people with bodies full of scars and blood that show the inevitable wounds of being a cyclist. If you consider yourself a cyclist and your body has no marks to show for it, then you are not fighting hard enough to be one.

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Fight. Yes. The thing that we, as cyclists, have in common. We are addicted to the suffering, to the adrenaline and the blood. Shaven fighters clad in lycra that show a fragile external shell to put off rivals and the like. Never have bodies so light been so powerful on the road. Never has asphalt felt so close to the warmth of human blood spilling into its cold pores.

Blood. Yes. The deep red liquid that transports energy to our muscles. That boils in the toughest moments climbing mountains, it’s what we show when we want to express how tough the battle has been. Exhibitionists by nature, we don’t hide our addiction. We want the whole world to recognise our fucked-up pedal junkie condition.

Pedal. Pedal addicts. We need watts with withdrawal syndrome in a raw format. Fear. Pain. Passion. To and from hell in a voluntary and temporary way. Pure energy that we store and throw away, day after day. Pedal stroke after pedal stroke. Hit after hit.

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We are junkies, addicts, but we don’t want to be sent off to rehab in Los Angeles hills. Hills are for climbing, maybe sometimes for a KOM on Strava, but mainly for climbing them faster than anyone else. The question is how much of an addict do you want to be? Yes, controlling the level of addiction makes everything more exciting. You decide how deep you want to go in this sport that has no patterns or stereotypes. Remember that the police officer who fined you yesterday could be a cyclist, or the telemarketer who rings you every day to offer a free internet trial, or the neighbour that always parks his car too close to yours…


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Words: Alberto Álvarez Photos: David Broadbent (Illustration)