I sit on my couch staring at my bicycle.  The new tape and hoods look good.  I decided, after a winter and early spring on basic black, to switch to red.  The red on the bars matches the red accents in my team kit and on my shoes, but there is more meaning behind this small change. 

In three weeks, I have crashed twice.  The first crash, at the Athens Twilight Criterium, was the result of a high speed meeting with an errant tree branch.  I lost a lot of skin and suffered a deep gash on my left hand.  The second, two weeks later at the Joe Martin Stage Race in Fayetteville, Arkansas, occurred within 200 meters of the finish line.  An over-exuberant junior made a mistake, and I was on the ground before I even knew what hit me.  I was carried away on a stretcher (after remounting my demolished bicycle and limping the final hundred meters to the finish line) and was diagnosed with a closed head injury and road rash…

Now I sit on the familiar perch of my saddle.  As I spin out a few easy kilometers, I wonder if I am going to be scared this weekend when I return to racing.  I wonder if I will be able to move through the peloton easily like I normally do.  I wonder if I will hold back too much.  I wonder if I will crash again.  I run my hands across my new red tape, and I relish the familiar feeling.  I see the sign for the county line ahead, and I sprint for it.  It feels good to get the legs going again.  I will be scared – I am scared, but I am more scared of missing another race.

Right now, the red of my bar tape is everything to me.  Red is the blood I left on the ground in Athens and in Fayetteville, but it is also the scar tissue across my body that is a sign of healing and health.  Red is the pain that I have endured in the past few weeks, but it is also the fire within me that would burn me alive if I were to let myself stop.  Red is every barrier I have overcome on my way to this point, and red is the courage I need to pin on another race number.

This moment seems very dramatic, but deep inside I have peace.  I know that after a successful race or two, I will regain my stride.  The fits and starts of the peloton will once again feel natural to me, and crashing will be the furthest thing from my mind.  I will go back to the rider I was before Twilight, and I will approach races with a casual air. 

The peace inside me is blue.  Blue is the color I see on a five-hour solo training ride.  Blue is the color I saw when I stayed off the front in the Rome criterium with Joe.  Blue is the color I saw when my chain fell off as I crested the climb with the front group the next day and laughed my way back to the van with Joe and John.  Blue is the color I see when I hear my nephew Maxx say “They’ll never catch him.”  Blue is the color I see when I stand on the podium.

To anyone who cares: I will be fine.  It may take a while, but I will be back stronger than ever.  When this happens, you will know.

Look for blue.