Chained Together

Mike and Paula have been friends of ours since our kids were preschoolers.  We really missed them when they moved to Worland, WY some years ago. We’ve always kept in touch and see each other on occasion.  They are treasured friends.

Their nest has emptied and, with both their kids now in college at the University of Wyoming, they are off on a transcontinental tandem cycling adventure, crossing the United States from Anacortes, Washington to Brunswick, Maine.  I’m very excited for them and wanted to share a link to their blog, so you can follow them too!  They will be posting updates as they go, and you can sign up for email alerts when new posts are added.

Mike and Paula begin their journey tomorrow, May 27, 2015.  Follow them here, at Chained Together : Paula and Mike’s transcontinental tandem tour

Mike and Paula, best of luck to you both.  Here is my wish for you:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand. (-an old Irish blessing)

Stay in touch, cycling friends!

Keep Moving Forward

My journey back to cycling since my hemorrhagic stroke (a brain bleed, not clot-related) has not gone like I had imagined it.  When I was in the first few months of my recovery, I looked ahead to the end of Summer 2013 and figured I would be riding 65-mile day tours just like I had at the end of Summer 2012.  But my body has not recovered exactly like that.  This reality has forced me to analyze my attitudes about goals and what they really mean to me.

The first time I got on a bicycle after the stroke was about five months into my recovery.  My left leg was still pretty wobbly, and I knew I wasn’t ready for my road bike.  I ventured out on my old hardtail mountain bike, with my husband and son in tow.  Everything felt marginally okay, until I had to stop.  I put my leg down to stop, and it crumpled up underneath me. I realized that my body and my bad leg did not remember how to stop.  It’s hard to explain, but my muscles didn’t know what to do.  Although I knew in my head how to stop, knew what it felt like and could envision it, I had to start over from square one like a child riding her bike for the first time.  I learned to think through the stop from start to finish, step by step.  It wasn’t easy, and it took a lot of practice.  Time passed, and finally I was ready to try clipping in on my road bike.  I spent over an hour starting and stopping in my back yard on the grass, so I could fall without getting hurt (which I did a lot).  Finally, I was starting to get it again, awkward as I was.  My long-term goal of just going out for a ride was waylaid by this whole start-and-stop problem that I didn’t expect.

Last summer I was a 42-year old,  in the best physical condition of my life, enjoying my 6th year as a recreational road cyclist.  Multi-day tours with mileage averaging 60-80 miles, day tours of at least 65 miles, and training rides of 20-30 miles were my norm until the stroke.  I even finished my first century two summers ago and planned on doing more.  These are humble accomplishments in the cycling world, for sure.  But to go from that state of physical condition to where I am now has been a dramatic adjustment.  I really had to change how I envisioned my recovery.  ‘Out’ was the unrealistic goal of riding the 65-mile Tour of The Moon my husband and I had enjoyed so much in October 2012, or most of my other favorite summer tours. ‘In’ was the goal of completing a ride without falling on my mountain bike.  Next goal was getting back on the road bike.  Next was completing a training ride without falling, and so on.  Right now I’m up to about 35 miles on my road bike, no falls and getting more and more confident with starts and stops. My last riding goal for the summer is to simply participate in the Venus de Miles Colorado for the sixth time.  I won’t be able to do century or metric century as in years past, but I can still ride it.  Small goals, small victories.

I’ve gone through most of life with big goals, and not ever had a problem with how I’d set them or attained them. If I worked hard enough, I reached them.  This time though, I don’t have total control over how my body is healing.  I can only work very hard and let time do the rest.  We’ve all had failures and have to learn how to deal with them in our own way.  Failure doesn’t have to become a reality, though, when goals are just a little smaller.  Reaching those small goals is just as satisfying as reaching the large ones; the important thing is to keep moving forward.

Keep moving forward.

Keep moving forward.

Those three words are what have kept me grounded throughout this entire recovery.  Those three words are what reassure me that no matter how small my goal might seem, it’s worthwhile and fulfilling to reach it.  No matter how little a step forward might seem, it’s still further along than before. Whatever your goal was or is, try not to dwell on looking back or worrying about the far-ahead future.  Step by step, small accomplishment at a time, you will get to where you need to be. Just keep moving forward.

“Go back?” he thought. “No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!” So up he got, and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.” 

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit


Stress relief

“I don’t want to go”, I thought.  I had a million excuses running through my mind.  “…this week has been too stressful…my teenager has been hard to get along with…been up too late helping my daughter with her 4H projects for the County Fair…stood too long in line today and my back is killing me…have to get up at 4:30 am and I’m exhausted…”  The list kept getting longer the more I let my stress envelop me.  I really, really did not want to ride that day.  But I had paid my entry fee, and my friend would be picking me up at 5:30 am.  No turning back.

Reluctantly, I got my act and my gear together.  My friend and I arrived in Waverly, CO, just after sunrise on a gorgeous Sunday morning.  I went through my little routine of getting my bike and gear ready, without really thinking about it.  I was just on auto-pilot.  My mind continued to race about things I needed to get done when I got home, the activities to get ready for the next week, the worries of a mom of a teenage boy.  The accumulated stress and fatigue weighed on me as if I were a cartoon character holding two pieces of broken bridge together so the cartoon car could pass, but I tried not to let it show.

Around 7 am,  we were ready to ride.  There were a few of us at the side of the road, just hanging around.  The ride people had said they would have an organized start at 7 am, but there didn’t seem to be anything happening.  I was chomping at the bit, already worried about when we’d finish the 72-mile ride because I needed to get home.  I asked my friend, “Are you ready to go?” and she said yes, so I clipped in.

I took one pedal stroke, then another.  The air was crisp with the promise of a warm day ahead.  Another stroke, and- that’s when it happened- a crack.
It was a crack in the cement shell of stress that was encasing me.
Another turn, faster this time, muscles warming.  Ka-chunk!  A large piece of the shell fell away.
My mind awakens, and another huge chunk breaks free, crash!.  Pedaling faster…more pieces falling behind me…breaking free…FREE!
All the worries, the thoughts, the list of to-do’s, the excuses not to ride; they are all erased.  The negatives are replaced with the peaceful bliss of a morning view of the Rockies, a cool breeze, and the simple rhythm of my cadence.

The effect of riding on my psyche has never been so obvious to me as right at that moment.  The perfect stress relief.

Indoor Training Blues

The cold
pushing its raw tendrils through doors and windows
The ice
reflecting sparkles and rainbows that hide its frozen menace
The wind
relentless, pursuing long-lost warm breezes
The snow
a white coat of paint saturating everything in its touch
flake by flake
Winter settles in.

And now it’s time for indoor training.

Last winter, I discovered the wonders of Spinning class. A friend invited me to come with her one evening, and I foolishly thought to myself, “Pffft- pedaling an exercise bike. How hard can it be?” If you’ve been to a Spinning class, you’re laughing at me right now. If you haven’t, let me tell you; it’s a 45 minute, 500-700 calorie Sweatfest. After dragging myself to a second class, then another, and another, I started to see some results. Increased muscle tone. A little weight loss. An increase in endurance. The following spring, I was amazed to find that I started out the bike season stronger than when I had quit in the fall. That’s when I realized that indoor training was probably something I needed to take a little more seriously; as in, I had to actually do some training.

This winter, life is busy. I can’t always get to spinning class when I want to, which leaves me with every cyclists’ standby, the trusty trainer-in-the-basement option. Our spare room is nicely appointed with a Bowflex, sewing machine table, built-in ironing board, and a small wall-mounted flat screen TV. There’s just enough room in the corner for me to set up my bike on the trainer, with a strategically positioned fan. So I can’t complain about my accommodations. But riding the trainer, as my friend said, “…is SO boring!”. Geez, she’s right. How am I going to stay motivated? First I tried having the TV on while I pedaled, but I couldn’t hear it over the fan and bike noise. Next, I tried making my own “spinning mix” on my iPod, but after working out a couple of times to the same music, it wasn’t enough variety to keep me interested.

During a recent conversation with another friend, our chat turned to our iPods and podcasts. I’ve had an iPod for years, but up until this point, I’d never entered the realm of podcast listening. My ears were about to be opened. If you’re new to the podcast subject, there is a cornucopia of free audio and video podcasts on iTunes (and you don’t have to have an iPod to play them). They cover just about every subject you can imagine, are updated daily, weekly, monthly, etc., and can range in length from a few minutes to an hour or more. My friend told me about one of her favorite podcasts, called Stuff You Should Know, co-hosted by two superbly entertaining guys, Chuck Bryant & Josh Clark. I decided to take a listen and quickly became a big fan. Then I discovered more podcasts that I’m now a subscriber to, such as: NPR’s This American Life, Fresh Air, and All Songs Considered, BBC’s World Have Your Say, and The Moth (a storytelling series). I can’t believe how quickly 40 minutes passes when the ol’ grey matter is engaged! I set out pedaling and listening, and before I know it…time’s up! I’m done with my workout and know all there is to know about Ninja. Or Hells’ Angels. Or a rotary-dial controlled car from the 60’s.

Out on the road, my mind is filled with sights, sounds, smells, and my wandering thoughts. This winter, I’m glad I’ve discovered a new way to keep the doldrums of working out indoors at bay. So thanks, Chuck & Josh, Ira Glass, Terry Gross, and Ros Atkins. Your great programs are helping me keep two kinds of wheels turning at my house; the 700 x 23 kind and the metaphorical kind.

I’m curious what you, my treasured but very few loyal readers- do to keep your indoor workouts fresh? And do you have any favorite podcasts?

White-collar riders

Recently I read an article by Bill Schneider in our local newspaper about bicycle rage.  I’ve heard of this dangerous phenomenon between motorists and cyclists, but I have been lucky enough to avoid any confrontations so far (my desk is made of wood… and I’m knocking on it).  There was something else in the article that bothered me, though.  Mr. Schneider, the travel and outdoor editor for, relayed a quote from a “blue-collar” motorist who described what they thought when they saw a cyclist on the road; “When I see cyclists, I see guys who don’t have to work for a living; why else would they be out getting exercise in the evening when hard-working Americans are resting up for another day of hard work?” ¹  Seriously?  I must be either woefully naïve or completely out of touch with my fellow blue-collar Americans.  Or both.  This statement struck me wrong on so many levels; I just have to sort it all out here.

First of all, the idea that cycling is just a white-collar sport shouldn’t surprise me, but it did.  Perhaps it’s because everyone I know and ride with are just regular, middle-class people.   Yes, there comes a certain point in one’s economic standing, I suppose you could say, where extracurricular sports become more feasible.   Some folks like single parents, raising families and working minimum-wage jobs, don’t have a lot of extra time or cash to devote to things like skiing, golfing, tennis, or other sports.  But there are also plenty of blue-collar Americans who do enjoy a variety of sports, and they shouldn’t be stereotyped because of their interests.

There are cultural differences to consider, too.  Is cycling still seen as an elitist European sport imported into this country?  It’s hard to escape that image when you see expensive road bikes and clothing sold at a premium in specialty stores.  They don’t sell Colnagos at Wal-Mart, you know.  And I’m not saying they should or shouldn’t, it just illustrates the gap in appeal and accessibility to the masses.  And take a look at cycling’s premier events: the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia, among others.  These European spectator events leave most of us Americans disconnected unless we can pick it up on TV.   Cycling will never enjoy the broad spectator appeal here in the states that basketball, football, or baseball does.

Finally, I have to address the statement, “Why else would guys [and gals] be out exercising in the evening?”  What exactly constitutes “resting up for another day of hard work?”  Of course it means different things to different people.  It might mean watching TV.  Scrapbooking.  Cooking a nice meal.  Going to a restaurant or bar.  Hanging out with the kids.  Or, yes, exercising.  There was a time (long ago) when my favorite after-work activity was watching TV accompanied by a beer or two, a pack of Marlboros, and a bag of Lay’s potato chips for dinner.  Yeah, those were the days!   But just because I don’t live like that anymore doesn’t make it wrong for someone else who chooses that lifestyle.  Conversely, I don’t like the idea of people judging me on how I spend my free time.

The whole judgment issue brings me full circle back to that quote in the Schneider article.  Without getting into the well-covered subject of cycling/road rage, it’s safe to say that the core of that person’s intolerance and bias was disturbing to me.  We’ve got enough small-mindedness in the world to go around already.  I’m going to be thinking more objectively about the motorists I meet when I’m riding, or the cyclists I pass when I’m driving.  Let’s just all give each other a break, no matter what color our collars are.

¹Schneider, W. (October 27, 2009).  Bicycle rage? Why? Wyoming Tribune-Eagle,  Cheyenne, WY.

The Whiners

Last weekend, I attended a women’s adventure event in Boulder, Colorado. It was pretty cool; an all day festival at Boulder Reservoir featuring clinics and workshops where you could learn about outdoor sports and activities. There was everything from orienteering to kayaking to slacklining. Plus there were a ton of freebies! And this stuff was nice… but, wait- I digress. Anyway, my friend and I had just walked up to the lunch line to get our crepes and microbrew (high-class, I’m telling you!) when we overheard a rather discontented woman complaining to one of the event volunteers. Unfortunately, this is something we have become familiar with when we participate in group events. My friend rolled her eyes and I concurred, saying, “There’s always one in the crowd.” Yup, you’ve probably met him or her too. They’re not distinguishable by any physical characteristic, but they sometimes have a certain air about them. They are: The Whiners.


Don’t get me wrong, I have been known to get cranky. Ask my kids. I’m not putting down anyone who is having a bad day or has a legitimate complaint during a group sporting event, either. You throw several hundred or even thousand people together and you’re bound to have some personality clashes and technical glitches, even with the best planning. But is it really necessary to bawl out a volunteer because there was a line at the Cannondale clinic? How about the guys working furiously cooking lunch for hundreds; is it their fault everyone got in line at the same time? What about the dude in the diesel truck who is forced to slow down due to traffic as he approaches behind you, then ‘smokes’ you purposely when he passes? Oh- him you can curse without guilt.

Allow me to indulge in a little Emily-Post-rule-making of my own. Perhaps if the ‘Dougs’ and ‘Debbies’ are out there somewhere reading this, (I’m dating myself with the SNL reference, by the way) they will accept my suggestions with an open mind. Yeah, I didn’t really think so either, but here goes anyway:

1. Stop and ask yourself, is this a real problem? Not finding your name at the registration table: problem. Not finding toilet paper in the porta: par for the course. A clean porta potty is an oxymoron, and you should be carrying your own paper supply, anyway.

2. If you’ve got a real problem, take it up with the right people. Nothing is more grating than seeing a volunteer berated for something they have absolutely no control over. I rode in a tour this summer that included a ½ mile section of unavoidable construction zone. Unfortunately, it had rained for several days before the tour, and the zone had become a soup of puddles and thick, sticky mud. When we arrived at the rest stop following the mess, there was a ‘Debbie’, filling the volunteer with an earful of heartache about the mud. I didn’t see God standing at the booth, so I’m not sure who she was talking to.

3. You didn’t sign up for a pedicure. Cycling tours, triathlons, and the like are arduous, exhausting events. Most of these endeavors are organized by volunteers who are fundraising for an important cause, such as the Komen Race for the Cure. Participants pay a participation/donation fee, not for a massage at the local day spa. Don’t expect to be pampered, and you won’t be disappointed.

4. Be tolerant. People are as diverse in nature as they are in appearance. That’s a good thing, in my opinion. It keeps the world interesting. But it also means that you’re probably going to run into folks who think a little differently than you do. Let whatever it is roll like rain off a slick tire, and you’ll get through your day with a lot less aggravation.

5. Learn your sports’ etiquette. In cycling, there are some basic, common sense rules that most riders are aware of. Simple courtesies like announcing “on your left” as you pass another cyclist are widely used and expected. If you’re a new rider, hook yourself up with a more experienced person who can show you how to pass on a crowded climb, for instance. Because when I was a new rider, I was so fast this is one of the first rules I had to learn (ha!).

6. Be safe. Not trying to sound like anyone’s mother here, but it’s true. If you need to stop, get off the road as quickly as possible. If traffic is getting a little hairy, try and find an alternate route. If you’ve got an early, hard ride scheduled in the morning, best to skip the Mexican food and margaritas the night before. No- seriously, taking a minute to assess whatever situation you’re in can save you a headache later on.

So there you have it, my six rules for not becoming a Whiner. I’m not going to finish this with some hokey “Now remember to have fun!” comment, because duh, we wouldn’t participate in these sports if we didn’t enjoy them. And it’s safe to say that we’re always going to encounter a Whiner here and there. But the next time you’re in line behind one of these folks who’s just finished complaining to the food server about the temperature of their free coffee, walk right up to that same volunteer and tell them: “This is a great event. I’m having a terrific day, thank you.” It’ll make their day, and yours.

Learning to Fly…and Fail

“You can ride 20 miles, right?”  That’s the question that I kept tucked close in my consciousness, ready to pull it out every time doubt tried to enter my mind.  It was a question my friend and riding partner frequently repeated to me too, whenever my doubt managed to escape my lips in the form of a complaint or fear.  Her logic was, “If you can ride 20 miles, there will be a rest stop.  Then you just ride to the next stop”, and so on.  (I’ve finished college now, and I believe this argument would fall under the fallacy of non sequitur or the composition fallacy.  Nice try, Jersey girl).  This question convinced me, in my extremely novice, unfit, and apparently delusional state, that I could handle a 72-mile ride in the Colorado Rockies.  Three mountain passes, one day.  “I’ll just ride a lot and train,” I thought. No sweat.

I had purchased my first road bike in the fall, so the spring/summer season leading up to the big ride was my first opportunity to put some miles on.  It was hard.  Everything hurt at first, despite the fact that I really enjoyed being out and doing something active.  But dang, I just didn’t seem to get stronger!  Twenty miles felt ok, but I was pretty tired afterward.  A thirty mile ride was really pushing it; my neck, back, and ass throbbed and begged for Motrin when I got home.  I could put in a forty-miler, but it took me hours to finish and nearly the whole next day to recover.  “I’ll just ride a lot more”, I thought.  No sweat.

In early summer, my friend starting talking me up about the Copper Triangle, a mid-August ride in Colorado.  The ride began at Copper Mountain Resort, near Frisco, and made a triangular loop over Fremont Pass, Tennessee Pass, and finally Vail Pass, with the downside ending back at the resort.  I went online and looked at the elevation chart for the ride.  It was a nifty little preview representing the hills we would be covering.  The lines on the chart zigzagged up and down like a heart monitor attached to someone having a really bad day.  I clicked the “Register” button on the screen anyway, and signed up.  I could sense the fear and doubt bubbling up from the pit of my stomach, but I made myself repeat my new mantra, “You can ride 20 miles, right?”

The summer kept moving on and we kept riding several times a week.  This can only happen when you’ve got a really supportive friend who will keep riding with you despite your whining and tortoise speed.  It can also only happen when you have a family at home who is cheering you on, encouraging you to go ride on those warm summer evenings and not worry about what needs to be done at home.  (I’m eternally lucky and indebted to those people in my life.)  Eventually, gradually, I started to see that I was getting stronger.  I started to experience a lot of ’lesses’:  less time needed to recover, less Motrin, less time to complete a set distance, less worry.  My friend was right, I had no problem at all riding 20, then 20 more.  “I’ve just got to keep riding more like this,” I thought.  No sweat.

The big weekend arrived before I knew it, and my friend and I drove to Frisco to spend the night before the ride.  Our early pre-ride breakfast took place at the local Safeway, where we purchased coffee, rolls, bananas, and yogurt.  We drove the five miles to Copper Mountain and looked for a place to park in the already bustling crowd of cyclists.  These people were intimidating to me.  It was the highest concentration of spandex, toned legs, and Pearl Izumi I’d ever experienced.  I was repeating my mantra A LOT as we unloaded our bikes and gear.  And then, just like that, the ride started.  No fanfare, balloons, or ceremonial shots fired.  Everyone just made their way out of the parking lot as they readied themselves and started up the hill.  Everything happened so quickly I had no time to think about anything except pedaling.

The ride began on an incline, headed up the first and longest pass, Fremont Pass.  Twelve miles up we climbed, with the first rest stop at the top.  I actually didn’t feel too bad.  I stopped a couple of times to catch my breath, but so did other people.  I was riding in my lowest gears, but then so were other people.  I forgot about cross-chaining and got my chain stuck real bad, but then so did… nah, I was the only one who did that.  Beginner.  I made it to the top, had some snacks at the rest stop, and was rewarded with a wonderful downhill cruise into Leadville.  By then, I had passed the 20-mile mark, and the road started creeping vertically again towards Tennessee Pass.  Uh-oh.  “No, no,” I told myself, “you just had your 20 miles.  Now it’s like you’re starting over again at the beginning.  Just ride 20 more.  Deep breaths, relax…”  I tried, I really did.  But by the time we reached the top of Tennessee Pass at about the 35 mile mark, my long-simmering doubts were turning into a low boil of fear.  “It’s almost all downhill from here, until the last pass”, I overheard someone say at the rest stop.  Downhill.  That word cascaded over me like a warm shower.  No sweat.

My confidence was short-lived.  Yes, there was a really sweet downhill for about 15 miles, but then there was this thing called Battle Mountain Pass.  Where on the crazy heart-monitor-elevation-chart was that?  I didn’t anticipate this!  I was tired, and I had to stop a lot, and hey, this wasn’t part of my mental plan that told me everything was downhill until Vail!  No fair!  My valiant friend had been more than patient with my sluggish riding the whole day.  She needed to keep on going, and I told her to go.  I didn’t want to hold her back anymore.  I rode alone, and with jello for legs, finally lurched into the rest stop in Vail.  I needed to sit down for a long time.  I wasn’t bonking; I’d been very careful about eating and drinking along the way.  But I’d reached my physical limit.  The reality that I wouldn’t finish the ride slowly started to sink in.  I was determined to make it to the next and last rest stop.  Slowly, with equal parts mental and physical anguish, I rode on.

I remember almost every detail about the last 12 miles.  Vail is a beautiful town, and there was a lot to look at.  That kept my mind busy and away from a little pesky detail called “incomplete finish”.  I had dropped so far behind in the ride that I was alone.  I knew I could not make it over Vail Pass, but I had to make it to that last rest stop.  I kept telling myself, “This is the longest ride you’ve ever done… you’ve only just started riding…you can keep training and try again next year…” to try and bolster my confidence.  But as I neared the stop and saw the ‘SAG wagon’ parked in front of me, I knew what I had to do.

I unclipped near the back of the SAG wagon and loaded up my bike with barely a word to the volunteer.  I took a seat in the back of the rented Ryder, grateful to be alone.  I felt the truck begin to move, and the long-simmering doubt that had rested inside me for a couple of months finally boiled over into big, heartbroken tears.  I failed.

What drama, right?  A middle-aged woman all upset about a bike ride.  I should have other more important things to worry about, right?  Well, yes, I do have more important things to worry about.  But at that moment, I was learning a very valuable lesson about self-motivation, goals, and failure.  I hadn’t given myself permission to fail. Determination alone wasn’t enough momentum in achieving my goal, as I thought it would be. I had worked so hard convincing myself not to be afraid of the ride itself, that I had forgotten that it was ok to just do my best and let it be at that.  It took me a long time to set that straight in my mind.  When my kids are disappointed with themselves about something, I have told them that the only time a person fails is when they don’t try.  But I wasn’t listening to my own advice.  No, I didn’t finish the ride.  In retrospect, I only failed because I lost sight of what a real accomplishment meant to me; and it wasn’t how many miles I logged.

I haven’t ridden the Copper Triangle again… yet.  I’m a much stronger rider now, and I really am more confident and capable.  Maybe next summer I’ll register for the ride again.  I’ll have a different perspective and a different attitude about what I can do.  No sweat.

Am I a True Road Cyclist?

I’ve got quite a few labels attached to me.  I’m Mom.  Wife.  Recent college graduate.  Pet owner.  There are many more things I can call myself, but I’ve never been able to call myself a cyclist.  I’ll tell people in conversation, “I like road biking”, or “I do some biking when I can.”  But, I look at the serious riders when I’m doing a tour, and don’t think of myself as belonging to their world.  The question creeps into my psyche now and then.  Am I a true cyclist?

What is it that qualifies a person as a bona fide road cyclist?  Is it the number of hours spent training each week?  A hundred-mile weekly average?  More than $1,500 spent on a carbon bike?  The number of tours or races completed?  I don’t really fit into any of these categories.  I’m riding a $700 Trek.  I’m a Mom with young teens, and I have my own business from home; I don’t have time to put in 100 miles a week.  I’ve only ridden in a couple dozen organized tours.  I have yet to complete my first century (but I’m close).  Not much of a resume for a cyclist who’s been on skinny tires for a couple of years now.  I’m not a novice anymore, so what am I?

Today, I kissed my husband goodbye and glided down the driveway and into the street, beating back the laziness demons that constantly torment me. “Just go later” they whisper, “you don’t have to ride today.”  Every time my derriere hits the saddle, I feel a small bit of accomplishment.  It means one more ride soon to be under my belt, and the demons get the door slammed on them again.  Surely, true cyclists don’t go through this struggle.  I went out and rode alone, between rain showers.  It was just me and a glorious Wyoming spring in the country, only a few miles from my home in town.  Along the highway, a fox ran across the road not far in front of me, and I stopped to watch him bound through a field.  His rust-colored fur was a stark contrast to the deep green sea of waving grass that enveloped him.  Above us were clouds that looked as though a child had taken cotton balls, dipped the bottoms in grey-blue paint, and glued them to bright blue paper.  But it didn’t rain.  About a mile up the road a beautiful Swainson’s hawk launched away from its road kill snack with an agility the best fighter pilot in the world could only dream about.  The entire ride was filled with a chorus of meadowlarks, robins, and some cars, of course.  Not that there was a lot of traffic to worry about, even at ‘rush hour’.  “Wow,” I thought.  “This is why I love Wyoming.”  But it’s also why I love biking.  Does that euphoric contentment make me a true cyclist?

My thoughts shifted to all the things I can do on my modest road bike, instead of focusing on what I can’t do.  I can change a flat and handle many bike repairs on the road, by myself.  I’m not afraid of traffic anymore, although I’m always vigilant.  I’ve ridden forty-five miles in snow (the weather doesn’t necessarily make sense out here in the West, especially during Spring).  I’ve had the best conversations and laughs with my friends out on the road.  I’ve met the kindest people who’ve made my rides memorable; ride volunteers who hand out fruit and a smile when I’m dead tired, the guy who stopped on Fremont Pass in Colorado and helped me with a severely stuck dropped chain when I first started riding (I’ve since learned how to shift properly); the guy in an old Suburban who had a water cooler with him the day my friend and I ran out of fluids, twenty-five miles from civilization, on a scorching 97-degree afternoon.  I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in my life, and I’m getting stronger.  I’m more careful about what I eat and drink.  I’ve recently begun passing a few men on hills who have calves as thick as my thigh and are riding Cervelos and Merckxs.  I’m starting to mentally keep track of my cadence, averages, and distances; my personal badges of honor on how much I’m learning and improving.  Huh.  Maybe I am a true cyclist.

I have concluded that I carry a lot of preconceived notions about what it means to be a cyclist.  It’s likely most of them are stereotypes I’ve developed or witnessed.  The only thing that truly matters, ultimately, is how I feel about biking.  It’s not possible to have the experiences I’m having in any other sport.  I can’t imagine ever giving any of it up.  I dream about multi-day tours I’ll be able to take with my husband when the kids are older.  I now regard the asphalt rising vertically in front of me as a challenge, not an obstacle.  I absolutely relish the satisfaction I feel at the end of the day.  I think I am a true cyclist, after all.

“Good ride!” my riding partner always tells me as we pedal back into town and split in different directions toward home.  You’re right, my friend, good ride.