To Bike, or not to bike (Adapted from Hamlet 3/1 w/ apologies to the Bard)

To bike, or not to bike: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the hills and byways of your favorite 100 miler,
Or to take off due to a sea of work,
And by resting lose training effect? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by sleep to say we end
The ease at which we climb and the thousands of hours in the saddle
That cyclists are heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wisked away. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death-like fatigue what dreams may come
When we have sprinted off this mortal road,
Must give us pause: there in retrospect
That makes calamity of so long a route;
for who would bear the heat and humidity of time on the bike,
The opressor's breakaway, the proud man's arrogant solo sprint,
The pangs of horrendous hills, the law's delay,
The broken promises of politicians and potholes
That unsolicited support of the caboose club member takes,
When the lame excuses for falling behind he makes
With a stone face? Who would challenges bear
To grunt and sweat under a weary ride,
But that the dread of hors categorie.
The undiscover'd country from where new mettle is formed
No cyclist makes it back, puzzles the will
And makes us challenge ourselves to levels otherwise never attempted,
Than sandbag and draft on others we know not of?
Thus the logbook makes slaves of us all;
And thus the obvious tan lines of resolve
Is paled o'er with the sickening thought,
And accomplishments of great achievement and courage
With this point of view their efforts get blown-off,
And lose the name of action. -Soft you now!
(The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd).