Grasping for Air

Sometimes, if you ignore something long enough, it will go away. Sometimes, that's not the case.

The last time I tried to ride the death defying road bike my husband purchased for me on behalf of the kids for Mother's Day, I noticed the tires seemed a bit soft. So I dug out the compressor in the box gathering dust in the garage, and set to work fattening things up a bit. I sifted through all the various attachments, some of which looked as if they should be thrust into places with a bit more give than your average bike tire tube stem. (I was going to call it the thingy, but I looked it up so I could sound intelligent.)

I plugged the little machine into my car cigarette lighter (which seemed to make no sense but I couldn't locate a normal looking plug) and let it rip. The noise was deafening, sending Manny running back into the house, and adding to my already mounting headache. With all that racket, I figured, something must be happening, although the little needle on what I assumed to be a pressure gauge wiggled from the vibrations but appeared to go nowhere. Hmm.

Here's where the self-delusion part comes in. I ignored the seeming lack of movement of the pressure needle. I ignored the fact that my tires still seemed on the soft side, convincing myself I was simply being prudent to not overfill them. And I got away with it, finished my hour long ride without mishap. Even my back is beginning to adjust to the puzzlingly uncomfortable lean.

Yesterday morning, I decided it was time for another ride. Hmm, the tires still felt a bit on the soft side, but they had served me well days earlier, and there was no way I was starting that whole routine again with the compressor and the strange looking attachments and the car cigarette lighter. For pete's sake, I had just done that. So off I went.

Pedaling seemed a bit on the tedious side, but heck, I haven't been sleeping and I'm clearly out of shape. I shifted the gear down, and forged ahead. At least I was already on the return portion of my loop when I discovered something was amiss. That I couldn't blame the bone jarring bouncing and grinding on my lack of fitness, or even on potholes or pebbles or cracks. The road was as smooth as, well, a baby's behind, having just recently been repaved. I was riding on pure frame.

At least it was a nice day for a walk, although bike shoes are not exactly the most comfortable things to wear for a prolonged hike. I called my son, who had to drag himself out of bed (it wasn't even noon yet), locate the compressor, and come rescue me. They say two heads are better than one, and as prone as I was to imagine the tires were actually getting plumper, my son gave one of them a big squeeze and looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. Yes, two heads are definitely better than one, particularly when one is seriously malfunctioning.

The bike is safely in the hands of the bike store professionals now, and I won't even have to be tempted by it until Tuesday, when I pick it up. It was a Mother's Day gift, damn it, and no matter how terrified I still am of being clipped in and not being able to unclip, of not being able to reach the brakes in time, of throwing my back out again from the unnatural body position it requires, I'm going to keep riding that thing as long as the weather permits. Unlike the true diehards, I will give myself a pass when the thermometer dips below seventy, so there is an end in sight to my suffering.

I suppose things don't go away if you ignore them. Although you can always delude yourself, at least for a while.