Blood, Sweat and Donuts

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

Baxter Grade averages a relentless 7 ½ %.  I know this because I have made the calculation myself.  Today, somehow, it feels like 15½.  And a headwind on Baxter?  It feels personal.   I will still be hearing my heart pounding in my head later tonight.  I have scrambled legs, my sweat tastes like regret, and I just know my Garmin is judging me.

Somewhere out of the mist of my addled brain a thought materializes:  CRUMB DONUT.   I’m not riding for glory.  I’m riding for fried dough.

We cyclists are world-class negotiators, at least with ourselves.  I’m slow up this hill because I’m “just not feeling it today”.  But I’m never really “feeling it”.  Or, if I can just make it over this bump, I get a little downhill.  Or, keep moving, I’m only 3 miles from a donut.  Pastry becomes a performance-enhancing substance.  My Garmin will tell me how many calories I will burn.  I can easily under-estimate the calories in a cinnamon bun with extra frosting.  The math favors pastry.   That’s just science.

Oh, there’s blood and blood-adjacent stuff.  Road rash, chamois cream, frozen fingers and saddle sores so aggressive they have their own TV lawyer.  Just small, dumb sacrifices only the avid cyclist understands.  We ride anyway.  I’d rather feel some pain than not feel anything.

Sweat?  I got your sweat right here, crusted on my helmet straps.  And I’ve learned not to put sun block on my forehead.  Sweating will drip it right into my eyes.  That soft-cloth piece on the thumb of my bike gloves is insufficient for drying eyes and clearing noses.  For the fourth time this month I have considered quitting cycling, but the wind changes, I can see the destination and my body seems to forgive me . . . for now.

The enormity of the Blood and Sweat all becomes moot once one enters the Cathedral of Recovery – The Donut Shop.  Cleats clack across the linoleum floor and sunglasses fog up from an atmosphere thick with sugar and coffee as the bell on the door announces the arrival of the survivors conquerors.   The display case glows like a high school trophy cabinet.  Carbon bikes worth thousands of dollars lean against a window while grown-ass adults argue about custard vs. jelly.

Salt-streaked riders with burned legs and sticky fingers fill the few tables available.  The sugar rush hits the bloodstream.  We didn’t ride 50 miles for our health.  We rode for this donut and it tastes like victory.

As Alanis Morissette would say (often incorrectly), “Isn’t it ironic?”  The avid cyclist measures weight savings in grams, completes an advanced calculation to find the exact tire pressure for each wheel and uses AI to determine the best hydration strategy.  Then inhales deep-fried dough dipped in chocolate.

But that’s the point.  The donut isn’t cheating the effort.  It completes it.  I love the smell of sprinkles in the morning.

We bleed a little. We sweat a lot.  And sometimes the sweetest miles come glazed.

Someone is already planning the next ride.  “It will be an easy spin”, he lies, as I lick the sugar off my phone and check my ride stats . . . so far.