If I’d had it in me, I’d have done more than the 20 miles, but I didn’t.
Fug that.
I had “it” in me, but “it” was having its metaphysical arse ravaged by the voice in my head that sounded eerily like Codie. The voice just kept repeating “don’t be a meathead”, followed by something in Spanish-o. What resulted was a good leisurely ride at dawn that nudged my heart rate, awakened a parts of my legs that are otherwise neglected, and gave me time to meditate while whipping along a near desolate path.
City living has very few downsides in my book, but one of them is that unless you ride with someone else, you’re pretty much invisible. The same roadways that are littered with oblivious drivers are also ruthlessly narrow and more often than not, in a state of disrepair. The “PATH” trails are another option, but they weave through neighborhoods and all the intersections only stand to piss me off. Since I subscribe to the theory that for every challenge you identify requires your finding a solution, I decided that rather than combat cars, potholes, and my frustration at stop signs and stop lights, I would pack up the bits I needed and leave the safety of my existing neighborhood for the safety of my old neighborhood.
I don’t get on the bike nearly often enough for a litany of reasons you’d either scoff at or ignore entirely. When I do though, and I have days like this, I remember what I loved about it growing up and the freedom I’d find on my ten-speed racing up the hill to the high school and back in an attempt to outrun/outride my angst. I’m also given a glimpse of what I did to myself thirteen years ago that shifted the relationship I have with two wheels to an intermittent one (see also: don’t be a meathead).
As the ride neared its end, I kicked myself for not having stopped for any of the wildlife I saw/surprised on the voyage. Mother Nature must have had a hot date Friday night because she smiled down on me when I was ten minutes from my parking spot and showed me my third set of deer for the day. I nearly missed them in their cammo (ok now I’ve got a visual of a deer in that horrible pink cammo fabric from last season, hanging in the woods chillin’ and chowin berries and making bets on reality TV cast offs) and had to double back to try to snap a shot. When I was back to the spot where I’d seen the furry brown babies, I clipped out. Really clipped out.
One of my cleats detached from my shoe and remained lovingly latched on to my pedal. Luckily, I’m terrified of falling/crashing so I’m a premature clipper-outer and the struggle with the springs, screws, and pedal presented itself before I’d come to a stop.
Yeah, responding to the man who offered to put it all together for me with “I’m ok thanks…I’ll do it myself” was probably not the best choice I’ve made in a while. The words came hurling around the planet and nearly knocked my skinny arse off my bike.
I’m telling you, I’m a hulk of a woman. Not only do I not know my own strength, apparently I also don’t know when to accept help - especially when it’s offered by a man.
Needless to say, I didn’t get the photo.
Kissy boo!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m stoked they’re wearing helmets at all, but I can’t look at them and without thinking they lost their real helmets and had to go dig one out of a cardboard box in the garage labeled “Bones Brigade”.
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