Bicycle by Mike Kratzer
Mike Kratzer runs. See for yourself.
RUNNING THOUGHT is Mike’s writings in response to someone giving him only one word of inspiration.
‘Bicycle’ supplied by Josh Rosenthal
There’s a moment — always — when you're grinding up a switchback, lungs on fire, and some guy on a mountain bike glides past you.
He’s got suspension forks, a carbon frame, and a smug little bell he doesn’t ring.
It’s not that you hate cyclists.
You just hate what they represent in that moment: ease.
Wheels.
Coasting.
The idea that terrain should be negotiated, not conquered.
But trail running doesn’t believe in shortcuts or gears.
You’re the machine.
Your knees are the shocks, your calves are the drivetrain, and your heart — that erratic, punk-rock bastard — is the engine.
When a bicycle passes, it’s not competition.
It’s temptation.
You think, Maybe I could just ride... maybe I could buy freedom.
But you don’t.
Because you know this truth: nothing earned through spinning tires feels like earning.
The trail gives you everything only if you give it blood.
A bicycle skims the skin of the earth — runners break through it, one stomp at a time.
Call it inefficient.
Call it stupid.
But when your shoes dig into loose gravel and your breath is a wildfire, you’ll know: this is the gospel of pain.
