giving up

The most difficult part is the thought of losing friends, losing contact, losing friendships. As a child I moved often and in that way lost contact completely with my friends every two years and that is art of me. I never really minded in some ways (at that time) I particularly remember leaving Blackwater for the last time which means I must have been about, let me think about it.. I did the last few months/weeks of grade 6 in the next town Buderim so that makes me 12 or so. Blackwater was where I first learned to ride a bike, at the ripe old age of ten. It was an old, and I mean old at that time, 26er. I think that's what they are called anyway. If I still lived in the same house, perhaps I would know. anyway. It was waaay to big for me to learn on in one sense, and it is probably a criminal offence these days to make your kids learn to ride a bike on one that's too big for them. But don't get me wrong, I think it was perfect to do so, don't let me make you think otherwise. We were mad as hatters then but now we've gone way past what's reasonable. I learned soon enough, blood and gravel rash are powerful motivating forces. I had, or I should say I've had some amazing stacks. I (also particularly) remember, on that same bike, which had apehangers, in a pretty upright position, held on by one of those old goosenecks going over a pothole and breaking aforementioned gooseneck clean in half. As you can imagine I was not long for this upright world at that point and although I seemed to have time to consider whether to study philosophy when I grew up, in that way that time has of , dilating I think the word is, stretching out in those points when disaster becomes inevitable, but hasn't happened yet. Funny enough I can't associate any particular scars to that particular spill, so it probably wasn't too bad. I would have been going all of seven miles an hour I suppose. A few years later in that next town, Buderim I remember touching wheels with my mate ... umm, I can picture him but I can't remember his name. I like to think I was going at 60 kph in this one, and it's pretty likely. I was going flat out downhill. I only had a Malvern Star ten speed, but still, flat out and downhill! Well, OK, it wasn't a particularly steep hill, like some around there, it was probably fifty, knowing what I know now. Still, knowing what I know now I would have bought that Peugeot that was in the bike shop instead of the Malvern Star. And then I am sure I would have become a pro. A domestic to be sure, but a pro cyclist all the same. Well, that's assuming that I met some cyclist around that moment instead of twenty three years later. later, always later. when the fuck am I going to learn to live in the moment. God, it's been a continual quest, but and incredibly unsuccessful. Focus Scotty, it's all about focus. Well, anyway that's an appropriate point at which to recognise that I have gotten a little off track here. I was trying to talk about the fact that I am giving up cycling, as such, or at least given up serious, competitive cycling. I will still be going out on my bike, and in fact I am going to do so this morning but I am no longer going to compete. I am sure I will still ride in the same way, always flat out, but I am not going to be systematically training so I will not be able to always seem to be, to those who quickly leave me behind. It has not been an easy decision, in the sense that I have been going over it in my head for a loooong time, but last Wednesday I was finally able to make it crystal clear. Wednesday morning I received a message cancelling my midday class, which opened up a world of possibilities for the day. I suddenly could blow off my Pilates class, and go out and train on what was a really splendid day, although certainly crisp, by any standards. The thing was, although I blew off the Pilates class, I felt much more desire to paint, than to train. I was torn to train, by my conditioning that it's necessary, and it certainly is necessary for a serious cyclist, but, am I that? A serious cyclist can't also work a long and demanding job if he wants to be a painter. And I am a painter. I have been a painter all my life, and I have spent too long not painting already. Those people who know me know I certainly took myself seriously as a cyclist, especially my second year racing, but I still couldn't change the fact that I started 23 years too late, and even then didn't keep it up seriously. Because I'm a fucking painter not a cyclist. I have to be able to admit that. Apparently I'm also a teacher. If I feel I am doing something as a teacher, then in a lot of ways I don't really mind. I am currently quite excited by a new method of English teaching that I have discovered and am thinking of adapting to the job of English Teacher in Madrid, no experience or Qualifications necessary. I really think it's the missing ingredient in the Madrilenian School of English teaching. I suddenly am imagining, visualising in fact, a chain of schools teaching a form of remedial English that opens up across Spain and indeed the world and sets out to fix the overwhelming problem of English Pronunciation and spelling, and finally making me financially independent in the process. Well, since I really do want to go for a ride this morning with my Saturday friends I will have to love you and leave you for a while so I can take my little buddy out and make it all happen.