When a writer says that they “often get asked” something, never believe them, claiming to “get asked” about something is almost always a filthy lie made up to conveniently bring up a subject “naturally”, and most readers can see right through such an obvious ruse. So, I often get asked, “Dan, why are you still racing bikes?” And I almost never answer these inquires because A: they are a hack writer’s trope used to bring up a premise, and B: only bike racers really know that I still race and bike racers are so wrapped up in their own justification system that they can’t spare any extra time wondering why other racers race.

There are many reasons why I probably shouldn’t be racing anymore. Firstly, it’s dangerous. There’s no getting around the fact that flying about in public parks with 90 other highly caffeinated fellows on weekend mornings presents many scenarios for mishaps. A momentary lapse in concentration, a turn of the head, or an overlap of wheels can send a rider to the ground quicker than Putin performance review (I am best, no?). Not to be glib about it, but bike racing is going to be dangerous no matter how old you are, that’s just the nature of riding in packs. If you race enough miles, your number gets punched. The difference for older racers is the aftermath of a crash. You heal slower, you’re more likely to have lasting issues with an injury, and you might have a spouse who will have finally had it with your nonsense and will strongly suggest you start golfing or play paddle tennis or some other such torture. So, looming danger hasn’t kept me from racing, but it’s not thrill seeking that’s keeps me coming back.

I will admit that I enjoy training to race bikes. I like the structure, the purpose, the meaning that training can bring to rides. It helps get me out the door when I feel that I have to achieve some specific goal for the day. It keeps me healthy, but the sad truth about bike racing is that you need to be in incredible shape to put yourself into a position to witness your own ass kicking during a race. Is it frustrating? Yes.  Will that make me stop? Lord, no. I’ve been getting my ass kicked for years, I see no reason why I should start caring now.

You see, if I were to try and explain why I still race bikes, I would explain my persistence with a metaphor. Have you ever seen a dog in a wheelchair? I’m talking about the specific wheelchairs that are made for dogs with two wheels in the back that seem more like a canine chariot than a “people” wheelchair. Dogs that can’t use their back legs get strapped into these chairs and they propel themselves using their front legs. The chairs are quite effective. The dogs are able to get around reasonably well. Every so often you will see wheelchair dogs out and about—at the beach or in the dog park—and you know what those dogs are doing? They’re having an absolute blast—because they’re dogs! At the beach. Dogs, God bless them, will remain dogs no matter what. They will joyfully run, chase and sniff their way about because they know nothing else. A dog, even if it’s wheelchair bound will maintain their doggy enthusiasm because they don’t know they’re supposed to feel any other way.

And that’s why I still race. I’m fully aware that I’m at a disadvantage due to my age and natural slowness, but when I’m in a race running, chasing and sniffing about, I forget that I’m a “master”; I forget that I may never win again;  I forget that my wheels may soon fall off. Just like a dog in a wheelchair.