Greetings to everyone I’ve neglected to wish seasonal joy, and yes, I’m aware wishing “Happy New Year” in March is like bringing out the Christmas tree in February – technically possible but generates enough raised eyebrows to power a small village.
I’ve finally diagnosed my blogging condition: chronic inspiration deficit disorder. I wait for divine cycling muses to descend with tales of training triumphs, but as days morph into weeks and weeks into geological epochs, my monthly blog ambitions crumble faster than my willpower near a pastry shop.
December’s wheel deal
In December, I somehow dragged myself across the 10,000 km finish line for the year. Was it easy? About as easy as explaining quantum physics to my bicycle. December is the month motivation goes to die, buried under Christmas cookies and existential dread.
The only reason this miracle occurred was because Christmas came early. Twice. (That’s what she said – and I’m legally obligated to make that joke.) I gifted myself a new indoor trainer, the Garmin Tacx Flux S, primarily because my old one sounded like a blender full of silverware. The secondary reason? I somehow scored a late entry into the April race I’d been moaning about missing.
Of course, my new trainer arrived with its own special quirk because the universe refuses to let me have nice things without a catch. Nothing catastrophic, just a persistent squeaky noise resembling a mouse auditioning for “The Voice.” Garmin support, to their credit, responded with surprising efficiency (were they replaced by robots?), and the trainer is now hopefully being de-squeaked as we speak.
The race is on (finally)
A few magical slots opened for the Mallorca 312 race, triggering a finger speed competition that would make professional gamers jealous. Fortunately, I was glued to my computer when the email arrived, allowing me to spam the “register” button with the desperation of someone trying to buy concert tickets. Just to ensure my place, I sent a follow-up email because immediately after registering, I received notification that I was removed from the waitlist. Being fashionably late twice for the same event is apparently not in my style guide.
The anticlimax of achievement
Disappointingly, there’s no medal for cycling 10,000 km. Absolutely zero fanfare. No confetti. No parade. Not even a sad little digital badge. Once again, achieving goals results in the spectacular reward of… nothing. I suppose the real prize will manifest when I’m somehow still alive at 100, which frankly, I hope isn’t the case. The image of me on a bicycle at a century old, wobbling along with my knees hitting my earlobes, is not on my vision board.
New Year, new unreasonable expectations
I christened 2025 with the masochistic goal of 12,000 km, a neat 1,000 km monthly average, just to make math simple. January saw me push to 1,100 km, because apparently I haven’t suffered enough and needed to create a buffer for my future, less motivated self. Future Me says thanks, but also, colorful expletives.
Digital endeavors
As previously mentioned (for those keeping score at home), I’ve been updating my tracking data at wheres-marin.com/evaluate/. Since Denmark’s winter offers the delightful choice between darkness and more darkness, I’ve channeled my seasonal depression into app development. You can now witness my suffering in digital form at https://sporlyst.com/. Currently in its embryonic stage but open to brave souls willing to test it. Feel free to reach out with suggestions or sympathy. My personal data will soon migrate to https://sporlyst.com/public/profile/marin, where you can judge my performance from the comfort of your couch.
The road ahead (is steep and painful)
Now it’s preparation time for this year’s self-inflicted torture sessions: Mallorca 312 and Istria 300. Both races feature the delightful combination of 300 km distances with 4,500+ meters of elevation, numbers clearly conceived by sadists. I’ll consider finishing a victory (that’s what she said – sorry, contractually obligated again). Only time will tell if I’ll cross those finish lines or be found sobbing in a ditch at kilometer 250 (more like 120).
Until next time (which, let’s be honest, could be anywhere between April and the heat death of the universe),
Your sporadically blogging cyclist
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