A couple years ago, I couldn’t have written this post.
After the heart attack, after the triple bypass, I spent two months off the bike. Not because I wanted to—because the doc was very clear: give your chest time. Don’t be a dumbass. So I sat. I walked. I did the rehab thing. And I felt my head getting louder.
When I finally got back on the bike in June, everything was different. Not the trail. Me. Every climb felt heavier. Every effort felt like negotiation with my own chest. I wasn’t pushing myself. I was listening to myself. And that listening changed everything.
Here’s what I realized: at 53, with a heart that’s had someone else’s hands in it, the game isn’t about going faster or harder anymore. It’s about consistency. It’s about showing up three times a week and knowing your body well enough to trust it.
I clip in now and I pay attention. I feel the pulse. I know what a sustainable effort feels like versus the reckless shit I used to do in my 30s… 40s. And fuck, it’s made me a better rider. Not faster. Better. More intentional.
The climb isn’t a test anymore—it’s a conversation with myself. How much can I ask without pushing too far? Where’s the edge between effort and damage? What does sustainable look like for a guy with scars down his chest?
I came off the trail last Saturday after a solid three-hour ride, and something clicked. The real world problems I’d been carrying—the business stress, the family stuff, all of it—felt smaller. Not gone. Just smaller. Because I’d spent three hours listening to my body, honoring what it could do, and proving to myself that I could still earn what I needed to earn.
That’s not inspiration. That’s just mechanical honesty. I respect the engine now instead of trying to beat it into submission.
