Starvin Marvin

Dinner had come and I wolfed down everything on my plate and sped through seconds, still I wasn’t full. Was this normal for a sixteen-year-old boy who was physically active? I could say. All I know is I was always hungry.

My name is Marvin, but those who know of my eating habits call me Starvin Marvin. Somewhere on Southpark, there was a kid who had the same nickname, and the creators of Southpark had a way to make it funny, but for me it was no laughing matter. I was six feet tall and weighed a mere one-hundred and fifty-three pounds. I had a twenty-eight-inch waist, and my legs were hard as iron. It wasn’t football or where I thrived at. Instead, it was bicycle racing.

Though I loved what I was doing, it wasn’t what anyone would call a popular sport, and not an exciting attraction for girls. Still, it was what I loved and lived for. When summer comes, I would take one-hundred miles rides in any direction that would take me. At times I would discover new towns and attractions, but they were lonely journeys I would venture on alone. The speed and distances I travelled were far beyond what others in my peer groups could even imagine, and that included my coach, Jeff, who had been a Colorado state champion in bike racing in his youth. Food, I could consume and continue my quests, but as for friendships, they were far and few in between.

Occasionally, I would meet someone in a distant town and make a short-term friend and at times I would come again to rekindle these friendships, but in the end, we would part in different directions. Me, on the road, and whomever I met, a relic of their town. You think I would have better luck making friends in my hometown or even school, and I wished that was true. Sadly, I was raised in a small town with few kids my age and the children at school, having witnessed my peculiar ways, have marked me as an outsider, an untouchable. On a good day, I may make eye contact with someone, and may even receive a nod in my direction, and on a really good day, I might be invited to play cards during study hall. Oh, how I wish that was ordinary. Normally I would sit in class and answer the teacher’s questions if the popular kids didn’t raise their hands, and during lunch, I would sit with the misfits and eat in silence.

During Spring, Summer, and Fall, I had my bicycle to fall back on, but during Winter, it was a living hell for me. I lived in upstate New York in the snowbelt, and my bedroom had little heat. Still, it was my sanctuary, and I learned to be thankful for what little comfort it afforded me. A place to play with my trains or race care set, and to listen to a cheap stereo I had in my room. I had about six different records I listen to, and one of them was Jesus Christ Superstar, eighty-seven-minutes long, which I memorized word for word. The trains, cars, and stereo were my only friends during those horrid months.

When the Spring weather melted the snow away, I put my old friends to the side and said hello to my best friend waiting in the garage, my Peugeot. Like a good dog, it was always faithful to me, waiting to help me escape the captivities of small town living and ready to whisk me away to the great outdoors. But it wasn’t that easy.

For months, I was bound to my room and have grown weak in my legs. I needed time to rebuild my strength and stamina. During that time of hibernation, my standing heart rate had jumped from fifty-three BPMs to seventy BPMs, and the muscle mass in my legs had shriveled away. Three weeks of training was my prescription for freedom, and so it began.

In movies, such as Rocky, you would see someone training, and there would be at least one person there to cheer or coax him on, and in the background, there would be inspirational music pulsating, driving him to do more. In real life, that was not the case. There was only me, in silence, with only myself to urge me on, to do great things. Fortunately, it was enough for me to suffice.

My inner demons, would always be whispering to me, “Why bother? Why do this to yourself? If you give up this nonsense, maybe you could make some real friends, or even have a girlfriend. Isn’t that what you really want?”

There was power in those demonic words, for they were laced with truth. I did want real friends, a best friend, and even a girlfriend. But at what cost? Was I willing to give up the one thing I loved for something that had an expiration date on it? How long would these friends I could make last? After high school, all bets were off. Even for a girlfriend. Nothing was guaranteed in life, but I knew bicycling could last a lifetime, if I so desired. I was the one who set the terms of our relationship. Unlike friendships, my love and desires for bicycling were never dying. Starving for friendship was my penance and at a steep price I was willing to pay for my love for the ride. My demons were brought into silence and my training commenced.

I climbed on my bike and began spinning exercising, spinning my legs at about one-hundred-fifty RPMs for at least an hour. For days, I would hardly be able to walk, the pain crawling mercilessly up and down my legs and back. Five days in row I would do this, until the pain was subdued. Then it was time for strength, and hill climbing was the solution. I would set the gear on my bike for the highest speed I could and still make it over the hilltops.

The pain I felt for this was excruciating compared to the spinning. Still, I gladly paid the price. If you wanted something great, you had to give greatly for it. Loss of friends, enduring pain for days, was the price I paid for my love, and I was glad to give it.