So, I would never make any claim to be physically fit. It's kind of funny, especially given that I am married to a man who rides his bicycle to and from work, and routinely rides ridiculous-mile-rides on the weekends, somehow managing to find his way back home without collapsing.
I have two bicycles. One is an Electra Cruiser, the other is a Redline road bike. Because I am married to a cyclist, I have plenty of gear. But none of my stuff gets used (at least not by me) on a very frequent basis. I occasionally decide to reform, and start riding a little bit. I have a couple of friends who are training for a triathlon, and they very kindly invited me to come along with them to scout out the cycling route today. I was excited, but also a little nervous. I don't ride that much. The most frequent physical activity in my life is carrying about thirty-eight pounds worth of dogs upstairs and down.
This morning, I rummaged through the tangle of cycling gear to find my socks and a lighter weight pair of gloves. Jeph attached a water bottle cage to my road bike and filled a couple of bottles to go for me. He loaded my bike into the truck bed--neither of us thinking that I would be able to successfully deal with unhooking it from the bike rack and getting it back together. I was all set.
After a few wrong turns, my friends and I reached our starting point. I felt compelled to remind them that I anticipated being dropped early and that they shouldn't worry about me when it happened. I joked that Jeph always tells me that you have to ride your own ride. I was right. The first big hill waylaid me. I kicked it into low gear--because otherwise, I was going to have to get off and walk it.
When you get dropped, there's the natural tendency to feel embarrassed and to try to push yourself to catch up. I resisted the urge, in part because my body didn't give me any choice. If I was going to make it without having to walk the bike, I was just going to have to settle for what I could do.
Over the years, I have frequently spent twenty-one days in July watching over a hundred men be completely turned inside out while riding the Tour de France. It's usually the hills that separate the pack and reveal who's really in it, and who's not. There's usually a small handful of riders who take off ahead of the crowd, desperately trying to win a stage and a moment of glory. You often see them looking over their shoulders to gauge the distance between themselves and the peloton. And you can see the moment in their eyes when they realize they're going to be swallowed up.
As I pedaled for all I was worth up the first of what I am sure were a hundred hills, I wasn't interested in looking back, and every time I looked ahead, all I could see was what seemed to be an insurmountable distance. How was I going to make it? And so I found myself just staring down at the road beneath me. I soon realized, the only way I was going to make it was to focus on where I was and nothing more.
When you're struggling to put one foot in front of the other--or in this case, one pedal in front of the other--you end up thinking a lot. I hadn't brought my iPod, because I did start off with the illusion that I might stay with the pack enough to chat, and because I can't find a set of ear buds that I don't hate. So in lieu of music to keep me going, I started thinking the mega cliche. This ride was like life. If you spend your time looking back, you're likely to ride headlong into a tree or a moving vehicle. If you spend your time looking too far ahead, you're going to feel too overwhelmed to make it. Just like you have to ride your own ride, you have to live your own life and make your own way.
I spent most of my ride quite a ways back from my friends. They more than kindly waited at points where a turn was being made. Each time, I tried to reassure them that if I got too far back, or separated from them, I would be fine. Even if I wasn't sure about the route, I knew I would eventually find my way back to the parking lot with the truck.
We continued, and I got dropped several times along the way. But it didn't matter. I managed to make it up every hill without having to get off and walk, and even when our fearless leader made a wrong turn or two, I managed to keep going. In spite of my struggle, I was enjoying how happy my friend seemed on her bike, and it didn't bother me a bit that I was going to be bringing up the rear.
By the time we made our way back to the parking lot we started from, one of the riders in our little trio had had to peel off and head home for a prior commitment. We arrived just in time for her to call and make sure we'd made it back all right. And we had. Even I had made it back all right. I'd managed to pedal my way fifteen miles without stopping, collapsing or feeling like my whole body had been ripped apart.
I hadn't made the ride easily. It was a challenge. I rode my own ride. But as I watched my friend so happy on her bike and I managed to make it safely back to the trusty truck, it occurred to me that even though I had ridden my own ride, I was awfully happy to have been invited to join someone else on theirs.
http://youtu.be/Guv6hWaIQaE
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