Monty Moore took to his basement one late night in September. He felt foreboding to his very bones and didn’t know why. The smallest thing made him nervous. He could barely stand to wash his dishes. He kept glancing over his shoulders as if something was about to happen. He flipped the basement light on, tapped into Spofity and selected one of the faster playlists. Every playlist started with a warm-up segment; he fitted his feet to the pedal braces and pedaled slowly without hands. He folded one arm across his chest, pressed and lengthen it with the other arm. Switch. The beat was instrumental, slightly watery, soft, like riding through a gentle breeze. He focused on feeling his quads all the way to the sockets. The SpinTales manual helped him write his own SpinTales, then directed him to record them. He had found the experience of following his own voice oddly pleasing. He was currently working on a narrative he could add music to called, Racing Fear. He figured if he had to race and beat fear, he might lose his fear of feeling it in the first place.
As the playlist picked up house intensity, Monty imagined he was being chased. Sure enough, his body believed the power of the mind, and his heart rate went up a bit. He lifted slightly higher in the saddle and directed his heart rate to slow, using the pumping action of his legs to signal the diaphragm to breathe deeper. Instead of being chased, he felt compelled to pick up the speed and to beat his opponent in an old fashioned race. But something was off. Anxiety crept into his leg joints and he felt inclined to end the spin right there.
His coach took over and told him to empty his thoughts and keep pedaling. He was able to find an empty mind moment, but then the weird feeling started up again. The critic sat on the side of the road, laughing at him, telling him to quit, to give it up for the night. He managed to get through the torrential storm, and thankfully the music cooled out for a stretch. He focused on loosening up his legs from soles to sockets and twisting tension from his torso. The tempo faded into electric guitar and words that led a tortured ascent up a steep hillside of despair and heartbreak. It was a six-minute song, relentlessly driven by the guitar searching for peaks of truth in the pain. By the end of it, Monty knew he was in for trouble. Fear flickered into flames inside.
He entered the lively valley below on a spicy beat. shifted his gears to the lowest of low and expected to find the groove, but he only felt a shadowy cloud blocking out the sunshine. He pedaled hard to get out from under the cloud, to leave behind the fear. It became a race, and for a while, he thought he was winning. His legs pumped effortlessly. But, slowly, his opponent caught up, edged alongside. When Monty glanced over he saw a demonic face inside a wild painted helmet, the word Fear slashed across the front of the cyclist’s t-shirt. Monty’s resolve to win faded, and he let the race go. He wasn’t ready. But, he knew he would be someday. And that was enough for the time being.
