For a pretend bike racer, the fall is the most glorious time for cycling the Eastern Seaboard. The leaves are shifting to a dazzling array of colors, the light softly shines through the trees as the sun shifts its angle towards the earth, and riding for results is a long lost memory, replaced by the need to pedal towards coffee and pastries. It’s such a nice time of year that I didn’t want to despoil my September by typing about it. It felt as if the mere act of reflecting upon how much I enjoy the autumn would somehow dispel its magic and turn my favorite month into something much worse—like March—a month so exasperating and demanding that we bike racers naturally decide to begin our racing seasons during those thirty-one days, because there’s nothing a bike racer enjoys more than needless suffering. Have you ever heard a bike racer talk about their process for brewing coffee? We’re maniacs.

But thankfully the weather has been holding and the riding has been rapturous. I’ve been meandering through my well-worn routes, taking time to actually turn my head and look about. Which may sound surprising to those who don’t know the purposeful nature of setting out to do an interval ride—the steely focus that we bike racers employ during interval season can rob us of the joy of turning our heads and seeing the neighborhoods and vistas that we pass by, denying us the opportunity to learn that some of our neighbors order so much stuff from Amazon that you can barely see their front door. It’s been a fine fall riding season, and I shall savor it, because every seasoned rider knows—Zwift is coming.

But right now Zwift is a far-away sweaty land of toil and streaming services. Now is the time to begin stockpiling the delusion that I will need to race bikes again. I will convince myself that I can somehow wring more performance out of my 54-year old chassis. That I will magically acquire sprinting prowess or even raise my FTP to a height that will allow me to dance away from every bike racer that is doing the exact same preparation as I am—as I said, it’s delusion-building season. And I know that what I’m doing is creating a pretend world of athletic achievement—I’ve been doing it for over 25 years—but that is beside the point. The point by now is the process. It’s the build-up that makes the efforts enjoyable, because I know that the decline will find me eventually, but if I can bluff my way through a few more autumns, it will be worth it.