My new road bike gives me more than just good exercise.
Up until a week ago, I had been somewhat of a cycling amateur, pedaling away in my flip flops at a leisurely pace on my pretty blue hybrid with its fat sturdy tires and its wide padded seat and its high handlebars, which were comfortably within reach. All it was missing was the white faux wicker basket and a shrill little bell that could herald my approach with the mere flick of a thumb.
I was riding under the radar, feeling invisible as I would occasionally be overtaken by a swarm of Tour de France wannabes in their brightly colored spandex and helmets with lights affixed to the front, as if they might suddenly be called off the peloton and back into the coal mines. I could almost feel the disdain in the draft as they blew by me, hear the snickers in the dull roar of their spinning tires.
Well things have changed a bit, now that I'm out there on my sleek new vehicle with its paper thin tires and aggressively uncomfortable seat and its curved handlebars which for some reason are positioned so far in front of me I have to pedal extra hard just to keep up with them. I have barely been able to sit on my aching butt cheeks for a week, and my arms appear to have grown a few inches. I have nightmares about failing to unclip from the pedals as I try desperately to brake gently without flying over the handlebars. I have yet to figure out how to keep my helmet on straight, so my fears of stopping with my feet still stuck to the pedals are not irrational.
But, as I sit here on an icepack, I realize how content I am with my pain inflicting and terrifying new bike. When the wannabes pass me now, they take notice. I may not be wearing brightly colored spandex or a light on my forehead, but I am one of them. I am uncomfortable and I am defying death with every pedal stroke.
Screw the exercise. What I'm getting is respect!
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