The Bike Rode Me
So, I'm a little out of shape in a big way. On a glorious Friday morning, having decided to take the day off from work, I set out to reclaim my riding prowess. I used to be pretty diligent. In fact, in undergraduate school (because if I say college I have to explain that I went several times and have to provide details on which college) I rode up Provo Canyon nearly every day. I was the slayer of mountains then.
Not so much now. It started off pretty good. I got up the hill out of our neighborhood and then rode down to West Salem via Glen Creek. It's a little up and down, but nothing my two pistons of manliness can't overcome. I got down on Wallace, and then turned down Edgewater for the return part of the brief loop I set out to conquer. When you get past the Safeway, you turn on Eola Drive to head back up to the neighborhood I call home.
Now, when I say up, I mean up. From the perspective of a bike rider, a hill is at least twenty degrees steeper than it is in a car. You feel every millimeter of pavement as you struggle to get up the slope--all the while trying not to gear up too far because that makes you look like a wimp. Well, I quickly wimped out and got into my craziest gear. You spin and spin and get practically nowhere, all the while my pistons turned into rubber and my vision began to tunnel. Your brain screams: "I hate this, I hate myself for doing this, and why on earth did I think this was a good idea?"
I made it to the top of that hill, only to come around the bend and find another one, a much longer and if possible, steeper one. I willed myself forward....for about fifteen feet, and finally had to get off before I fell off. I began the walk of shame. You don't see many road bikers walking their bike unless they have a flat tire. I had two flats, my left and right legs, and felt perfectly dignified walking my bike up the hill.
I walked up to the top of the steepest part, and then got back on. I climbed some more and then turned off the main drag onto the street into my neighborhood. Yep, that's a straight up climb too. From my oxygen-starved vantage point, it looked like I would have to crawl up it on hands and knees with crampons and climbing ropes. I got off my bike again, and began walking it up this hill as well. I had to stop once to sit on an electric junction box before I fell over. Someone came out of their house right then, but offered no help or commiseration--I'm not sure they saw me but I think they could hear me panting. They turned on the sprinklers instead, and walked back inside. That's okay, I appreciated the moisture. I certainly didn't have any in my mouth.
I made it home. Shamefully slow, and with a blister on the back of my ankle about the size of a quarter. Bike shoes were not made for walking.
I'm resolved to keep trying, but whoa, that was kind of painful.
Not so much now. It started off pretty good. I got up the hill out of our neighborhood and then rode down to West Salem via Glen Creek. It's a little up and down, but nothing my two pistons of manliness can't overcome. I got down on Wallace, and then turned down Edgewater for the return part of the brief loop I set out to conquer. When you get past the Safeway, you turn on Eola Drive to head back up to the neighborhood I call home.
Now, when I say up, I mean up. From the perspective of a bike rider, a hill is at least twenty degrees steeper than it is in a car. You feel every millimeter of pavement as you struggle to get up the slope--all the while trying not to gear up too far because that makes you look like a wimp. Well, I quickly wimped out and got into my craziest gear. You spin and spin and get practically nowhere, all the while my pistons turned into rubber and my vision began to tunnel. Your brain screams: "I hate this, I hate myself for doing this, and why on earth did I think this was a good idea?"
I made it to the top of that hill, only to come around the bend and find another one, a much longer and if possible, steeper one. I willed myself forward....for about fifteen feet, and finally had to get off before I fell off. I began the walk of shame. You don't see many road bikers walking their bike unless they have a flat tire. I had two flats, my left and right legs, and felt perfectly dignified walking my bike up the hill.
I walked up to the top of the steepest part, and then got back on. I climbed some more and then turned off the main drag onto the street into my neighborhood. Yep, that's a straight up climb too. From my oxygen-starved vantage point, it looked like I would have to crawl up it on hands and knees with crampons and climbing ropes. I got off my bike again, and began walking it up this hill as well. I had to stop once to sit on an electric junction box before I fell over. Someone came out of their house right then, but offered no help or commiseration--I'm not sure they saw me but I think they could hear me panting. They turned on the sprinklers instead, and walked back inside. That's okay, I appreciated the moisture. I certainly didn't have any in my mouth.
I made it home. Shamefully slow, and with a blister on the back of my ankle about the size of a quarter. Bike shoes were not made for walking.
I'm resolved to keep trying, but whoa, that was kind of painful.
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