Lance Armstrong, famous for starting the world’s first viral marketing campaign by screaming “GO LANCE” at random cyclists until the practice caught on with other motorists, thus generating valuable name recognition, has removed himself from the dusty clutches of the Leadville 100 bike race. He’s wise to do this.
I can only assume that Lance has gotten wind of what I’ve been saying about mountain biking for over three months now. You might as well whack yourself in the kneecap with a ball peen hammer, toss a handful of dirt in your drivetrain, and go on a road ride instead. Truthfully, all my problems with mountain biking stem from my lack of skill at it. I tend to fall off the bike rather a lot while trying it, and that annoys me.
Also, there is the fact that mountain miles count triple vs road miles. Some say they count double, but I think its more than that, unless the road ride is incredibly hilly or the mountain ride is incredibly flat. Either way, its more work to ride mountain.
In fact, sometimes mountain biking seems to me to be a lot like the recent Leonardo DiCaprio movie, Inception, except instead of being a bewildering tableau of dreams within dreams, it is a bewildering tableau of terribleness within yet more terribleness. Instead of waiting for a “kick” to pull you out of whatever current dream you are having, with mountain biking, each successive hellscape is ended when you are pitched off the bike and driven face first into the trail as your bike prances heavily up your spine.
And yet, my mountain bike remains in my sun room. So far I have not summed up the wherewithal to sell it, even though when I ride it I curse at it again and again, and fall off of it again and again. Am I enjoying myself? It doesn’t feel like it, but who can say for sure?
Maybe I should put in one more ride. Just to be certain that I don’t like it.
Let’s schedule something, people. I ain’t doing Leadville though. No way in hell!