THE CHOICE

For the years that I did cycling, I had seen a lot of people quit.
People fell by the wayside one after another. A guy would quit a race
or two. He would start missing practices and then disappear
altogether. Somebody often had to go get his team-issued bike and
kit. I might run into such quitter afterwards. It was often
awkward. The guy would start talking about his new life, how great and
interesting it was. I might even show interest and ask a question or
two. But it would be clear that I knew that he just could not hack it
anymore. There was little to talk about.

I grew up in a Western Siberian city. Cycling was a rather strange
thing to do there. The snow often fell in mid-November and did not
thaw until late March. On our winter rides our feet froze so bad that
we had to periodically dismount our bikes and run alongside them to
restore the circulation.

The Soviets thought that athletic achievements would demonstrate to
the world the superiority of the socialist system. So they spent money
on Olympic sports. The athletics were organized such that everybody
was supposed to think of winning an Olympic medal some day. The
equipment and coaching were free. On the other hand, this being the
Soviet Union, things were in short supply. I remember how my mom
fashioned a windbreaker out of printer tape, how I stripped my
parents' bikes for parts and how I had to patch punctured tires all
the time.

Yet I loved cycling. I loved the split-second decisions of weaving in
and out of city traffic. I loved not having to obey traffic rules:
running red lights and using sidewalks or road as I saw fit. I loved
sudden sharp accelerations to catch the slipstream of a dump truck and
go at breakneck speed a few feet behind it. I loved the adrenaline
rush of 60-mile an hour descent. I enjoyed the perverse satisfaction
of pushing myself to the limit and beyond in a time-trial.  One of my
most memorable sights were the oncoming or outgoing double paceline.
When the riders are seen from a distance, the effort of riding bikes
is not visible. Instead, the paceline seems fluid, the riders'
movements look effortless and they appear to be gliding just above the
road. However, most of all, I just loved the serenity and simple
pleasure of daily rides, of being outdoors and watching the landscape
slowly unfold in front of me.

I did not win races. I hit puberty late. As the other guys' bodies
were awash with testosterone and grew pubic hair and muscles, I
remained an awkward gangly youth. I saw younger guys develop and
become faster riders. It did not matter. Cycling was the task to which
I dedicated myself completely. I learned to prioritize, schedule my
time and eliminate leisure.  I found it hard to relate to kids outside
the sport. However, I enjoyed the camaraderie of guys similarly
committed to cycling. On the flip side, I had to defend my honor a few
times, had my arse kicked and realized for the first time what it
means to be an outcast.

Cycling life was hard but simple. The future was pretty definitive as
well. I was going to do this while I was young. Compete, win races, go
to international competitions if I was lucky. Maybe even participate
in Olympics and win a medal. Then, I'll get a degree in the Russian
equivalent of kinesiology and become a cycling coach.

"Hey, dad, I want to be a coach when I grow up," I once said with
   conviction.

My father was a manager at an IT center. His face turned gray but he
did not say anything. In the Soviet Union most professions paid about
the same and a career of an athlete/coach was not altogether
unattractive.

   *  *  *

When I was in the second grade, my dad promised me that if I get
straight A-s on my quarterly report card, he will take me to
Moscow. To a Siberian kid, Moscow was a place of wonder. Kind of like
Disneyland for US kids. Moscow was the fabulous city where the
Kremlin, Metro, St.Basil's Cathedral and Lenin's mausoleum were. This
was were the buildings were as high as 40-stories and the roads were
six or seven lanes across.  Most Soviet movies were set in Moscow, so
it was kind of like LA or San-Francisco. I wanted it badly.
Sometimes, I even had dreams of going to Moscow.

I was a bright kid and a decent student. However, I could never muster
straight A-s. I was always math or language that I got a B for. The
grades were announced in front of the whole class at the end of the
quarter.  My classmates knew about the promise and they paid attention
to my grades as well. On occasion, as the teacher read my grades one
after another, they all started as A-s. The goal appeared within
reach. Then the treacherous B made its way in and I was reduced to
tears as my classmates jeered.

It went on like that all the way through middle school. I did really
well on the exit exams. I almost got all A-s.  Naturally, I got a B on
the written essay. However, for the first time, it appeared that I
might actually be good at math and physics. I was accepted to a magnet
school. The schedule was packed with geometry, algebra and physics
classes. I seemed to handle it fine and even enjoy it. I loved
three-dimensional geometry. It was abstract yet somehow easy to
grasp and appreciate. I still remember some of the problems of proving
the properties of tetrahedron cross-sections.

  *  *  *

For a while I was able to swing both school and sport. However, I
realized this would not last. There was not enough time. Moreover, it
was just impossible to focus on two things both of which required
complete dedication.

I did not make a formal decision. I just did not go to practice
once. It felt weird. I had so much more time to use. In a few weeks, a
teammate picked up my bike and I returned the kit a couple of weeks
later.  I never rode a racing bike again.

Once, when my former teammates were going for a daily ride that fall,
they spotted me coming home from school. They pulled over.

"Hey, Misha, how's school? How's life?"
"School is good. We have seven physics classes per week."
"Great."

There was I an awkward pause. I felt like I needed to say something.

"Hey, I have a date tonight. So I am busy. See you around."
"Yes, see you around, Misha."

It was a stupid lie. As they rode away from me, they fell into
a double paceline. It looked like they were effortlessly floating just
a tiny bit above the pavement.

I never got straight A-s in school. However, my classmates in the
magnet school organized a railroad trip to Moscow that winter. In
reality it was even more magical than in my dreams.