Our dreams are made of sweat.
Keep training, keep peddling, just over the next hill. Keep pushing, keep the rotation. Down gear.
Peddle the downhill, climb the grade, press it, roll into it, sweat it out.
Sprint it, burn burn burn burn, you're almost there, drink the water, toss the bottle, and
The earth is for the cyclist, up and down the mountains, spanning across the salt flats, and switching out the blow-outs while never dropping a rotation. And then, we train.
I started training again today, for the tour, for myself, for the dreams made of sweat.