The mighty racer does not decry the lack of opposition, he beats the wind itself.
He knows the hardy tarmac, the arena of the Game, is as ephemeral as the grass which is laid and gone in the turn of a burnished crank, leaving only broken glass and pot holes for those who must follow in his draft.
The mighty racer knows that there is no player and no Game, but that there is the player and the Game. He knows that this unyielding truth will outstrip him even as he increases his cadence on the wheel of life, leaving him appearing to be standing still as he leaves shaven roadies and brakeless fixies standing still upon the road.
The mighty racer knows that the absence of opposition does not turn the Game to ashes or bitter herbs in his mouth. It makes the ultimate victory more sweet.
The Game, Silly Commuter Racing – whatever you call it, its simply an admission that when cycling to work, we all secretly race the other cycle commuters. Sometimes your prospective prey are only too aware of your intentions, sometimes they’re oblivious. Either way, it doesn’t matter, at the end of the day you’re only really competing against yourself. Its only a bit of fun, so no dangerous manoeuvers and don’t ride like a fool. And remember, its not a race…
This canon of work is presented to you by a humble scribe, whose name does not belong on the same pages as those of the early SCR brethren.