My fitness is a bird in hand. It twitches and frets and wants to fly free. I hold it, while I can, but I know I have to let it go, to fly or roost, to feed on whatever scraps the season offers.
In freshman Spanish, we learned a litany of stock phrases, common exchanges and idiomatic expressions. One of them was, “Mas vale pajaro in mano, que cien volando.” A bird in hand is more valuable than one hundred flying. I suppose this is true but assumes you can hold onto the bird you’ve got.
For a long time, on every ride, I only ever thought of the birds flying, of the fitness I’d have later, of how fast I would be. Every ride was a prelude to another ride, the one that might make me something special on the bike. But being something special, strong or fast or tough, is only ever the birds still flying.
Now that I’m older and wiser (no, not really), I think a lot more about the bird in hand, about protecting it and sustaining it. It’s not that I’m ambitionless. It’s that I know how life plays fast and loose with the most carefully laid plans. The birds flying may never land, may never come home to roost.
Which means what we really have, what I really have, on any given day, is only the ride I’m on. I try to enjoy each one.
There’s an ego piece to this as well, the idea that I’m bigger and better than whatever ride I’m on right now, or that the ride itself only has meaning if it’s part of a larger story about being fitter, faster or tougher, that the bird only makes sense in the context of the flock.
Fortunately, we learned another Spanish colloquialism that is instructive for me when considering my worthiness or lack thereof, on the bike. “Aunque la mona, se vista de seda, mona se queda.” Although the monkey dresses in silk, he remains a monkey.
I may write about bikes. I may talk about them and sell them. I might teach other people how to write about, talk about, and sell them. I might have ridden centuries on various surfaces, assembled bikes from different categories, watched hundreds of races. I might know real and genuine experts. I might be faster than you on a given day, or comfortable in colder temperatures. Nevertheless, I remain a monkey.
At some point, you no longer need monkeys or birds to help you understand who and what you are, and what’s valuable in this life. I suppose if I’d been paying better attention in Spanish class, I would have properly internalized these lessons earlier, without having to plow so, so, so much time into bikes and riding them, without having needed to join the flock or dress in silk.
What can you expect of bird, or a monkey though? Exactly.