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For your wellbeing
January 2016

Seventhousandthreehundredfortyfive kilometers, more or less.  
And to think that it all started with a walk, a classic bike ride with friends, on the first Sunday in April, the first sunny day, the first warm afternoon.
I don't know whether it was more the pleasure of the air on my face or a slope too steep to remind me that I hadn't loved myself for some time.
Winter truly makes us lazy, but the spring is too beautiful to not experience it firsthand.

Cycling became my drug. A drug without side effects, except dependence.
From 20 km a week to 20 a day, it takes less time to get there than you'd think.
Every time you get on the saddle you feel alive - an alive that you haven't felt for years, and every time you get off you feel more alive than ever. 
Sure, you could go for a run - but wouldn't you prefer to see the world passing by?
Sure, you could go to the gym, but then you'd end up never seeing the outside world.

By increasing the number of kilometers, you also increase the dose.
Climbs appear as hills, the pedal pushes down without resistance like a knife through butter, slopes become less and less scary - seeming almost like provocations.
That's where you start to want to push yourself, to try to put as many kilometers as possible between you and your lazy alter ego. It becomes a personal issue, an individual challenge.
Working against you is fatigue, your pounding heart and sweat that dissolves your will to keep going. 
But your legs won't fail you. Never.
And when you're on top, well, when you're on top you feel like you're the king of the world.

Spring has returned. Seventhousandthreehundredfortyfive more kilometers and four kilograms lighter.
A year has passed and I look five years younger. 
My lazy bones are gone. No climb is too steep for me. 
But the joy of the air on my face, that's the same as it was the first time.

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