Not long after my last post, I took a spill at the end of a training ride. Maybe I can blame the newfangled, post-1987 pedals that I could never use on an Eroica ride that broke on a climb. I had to turn around and go home via a route I would not have used. But like the Jimmy Buffet song says, it’s probably “my owned damned fault.” No women to blame, just rainfall and a slick spot under a bridge. In a heartbeat, my rear wheel was horizontal and so was I, tumbling to the concrete pavement. I ended up with the number one and two most common cycling injuries: road rash and a broken collar bone.
Just as I was coming into form for a season, the cruel fates sidelined me. Just as I was gaining confidence that I might be able to stay in the gruppetto in very amateur category racing, I found my arm in a sling and my kit on a hanger. That was 12 weeks ago and it’s time to see just what can be salvaged of the season.
I’m thinking that I might get my mojo back by returning to the Moseman that stood me in such good stead for l’Eroica and decades of enjoyable cycling. Perhaps the carbon fiber needs to take a rest a little while longer and the reliable steel bike returns to the sunlight. I said there was no woman to blame, but if we ascribe female genders to ships, why not bikes? If so, the Cervelo was either a cruel mistress or the Moseman was a jealous, jilted lover. Regardless, the result was the same: a crash, weeks of recovery and rehab along with streaming video of the Giro d’Italia. And, a welcome end to the obsessions of Garmin uploads to Strava.
L'Eroica Dreams 
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