An Open Letter to Everyone Who Lives With a Fondo Rider

To my wife, my kids, and anyone else who shares a garage with me: we need to talk. Or rather, I need to talk, since I've apparently been doing all the talking about cadence targets for the last six months.

I signed up for the MSU Gran Fondo in what I described as "a fun little challenge." Let's be honest about what happened next.

The Training Plan Became a Personality

I told everyone the ride was in June. What I didn't say was that training started in February, which in Montana means riding the trainer in the garage while staring at a wall. You noticed, though. You noticed the 4:45 a.m. alarms, the towel draped over every chair, and the fact that dinner now happens on a schedule determined by "long ride Saturdays."

You've heard the phrase "zone two" more times than any human should. You know my FTP number. You never asked to know my FTP number. I'm sorry.

The Gear Situation

Can we address the garage? There is currently one car in a two-car garage, and the other half is a museum of carbon fiber, spare tubes, and a wind trainer that has seen more action than my golf clubs, which I also swore I needed.

The purchases have been, let's say, aspirational. New wheels "for the climbs." A second pair of shoes because the first pair had, and I quote, "the wrong stack height." A wind vest I've worn exactly once. I stand by all of it, but I recognize that from the outside, this looks like a man building a shrine.

The Delusions of the Mid-Pack

Here's my confession: I have spent entire rides composing the story I'd tell afterward. In my head, I'm one lucky flat tire away from the podium. In reality, I'm a 47-year-old man who got dropped on a climb by someone's grandmother and will describe it later as "a solid tempo day."

I've watched course preview videos at work with the focus of a man studying for the bar exam. I have opinions about chamois cream that I've shared at dinner. Unprompted. You didn't deserve that.

What I'm Actually Thankful For

But here's the thing. When I rolled through that finish line — mid-pack, soaked, grinning like an idiot — the first faces I looked for were yours. The kids holding the sign that said "GO DAD (SLOWLY)." The wife who pretended the garage situation didn't bother her for six months.

Endurance cycling is a selfish sport. We leave early, we come home tired, and we talk about it too much. The only reason any of it works is the people who hold down the fort while we're out chasing a time we'll never admit doesn't matter.

So thank you. For the early alarms you slept through. For the dinners that waited. For pretending to care about the difference between a gran fondo and a regular fondo.

I'll be back next year, obviously. And I saw a really good deal on a new bike computer, so we should probably discuss the garage.