i have an angry mean streak the size of North, Central, and South America. luckily, as in the geographic reality, it lies below miles of arctic frozen tundra. it takes a lot of effort to chip away that distance of chill to reveal the landscape below.
that's where cycling comes in. it's a third party. it is the tap to a keg that's been buried under ice for years.
when operated properly it lets out just enough at a time - enough to fill the contents of a pint glass or two, enough to get me through a painful grip of miles, or more. it is alaskans venturing south into canada. they experience enough warmth to suffice, then they return back to the warmth of their frozen cool. they walk the line.
however, sometimes an Inuk mistakenly boards a plane bound for Quito, Ecuador and, upon arrival, all hell breaks loose. there is no tap on this keg this time, the contents while under pressure have been struck repeatedly with a finely honed Gransfors Bruks.
it really only takes that first real blow, the rest are unneeded, yet still add to the continued explosion.
there is one real difference though - the figurative keg is not able to rip that fine brand name axe from your hands and chop you about the head, neck, and face. i, on the other hand, am incredibly capable.