Last night I went for a bike ride. Nothing special except that I hadn’t been in the saddle since May. While my husband was chugging away the miles and training for a triathlon I’d found excuses not to ride. It was too hot, I was too tired, laundry was piling up, I had to walk the dog, there was writing and editing to do.
Watching my thighs descent into jiggle mode, I finally decided it was time. The wind blew hot and steady like a hair dryer, but I bravely climbed on the seat. Even more bravely, my husband volunteered to go “slow” next to me. The first round—we ride a circle through our neighborhood—about two miles felt as if my legs were filled with lead. On each small hill, the route meanders up and down, I’d almost come to a stop, frantically shifting into smaller gears, while my husband easily passed me up.
In round two I decided my bike was broken. Gears rattled and my chain ground in protest. I was destroying the bike, my husband commented dryly. No, I insisted, it was definitely the bike. In round three, things were becoming smoother, I was a little faster and didn’t have to shift as much. By round four, the grinding and rattling had stopped.
By the time I finished and my husband began his “real” ride, I was smiling (thanks to the dopamine). I’d successfully overcome the lethargy of summer. Soon it’ll be time for another ride. Got to get those legs in shape.
I admit I only did three days instead of the ten I’d aimed for. On day three I was ready to kill someone, felt depressed and unbearably hungry. I asked myself why I was doing this and at last…made a spinach salad.
Food never tasted this good!
I have a new respect for anyone who’s doing a serious diet. And three days is better than nothing, but still, I failed at my goal. I guess I’ll do it again.