Alas, I Digress…

After years of riding my LL Bean mountain bike everywhere, I have discovered a true love in my Not-Uncle Yong’s certifiably cool Fuji Aloha road bike, or, what I’m calling The Queen of Speen. (“Speen” is speed and mean put together. Or maybe it should be spean? Anyway, this bike is fast, and it is mean!) It has impossibly tiny tires and is about 12 ounces and is really kind of awesome. And it is FAST.

(Not-Uncle is my affectionate term for my Aunt Mary’s boyfriend. They’ve been together as long as I can remember. Yong is a very youthful character, bikes century rides on a regular basis, and is tortured by an adult calling him “Uncle,” especially my cousin Heather, who is only seven years his junior. As he is not officially an Uncle, and hates being called Uncle by adults, I jokingly refer to him as my Not-Uncle.)

The first time I got up on the bike, it was bad. The Queen has clipless pedals, which means that the shoes are attached to the pedals and you have to flick your foot in a very specific way to detach the shoe. I’ve heard of clipless pedals before and I thought they were kind of cool and was really excited to try them out.

What I didn’t realize is that when your shoe is attached to your bike, your shoe is attached to your bike. Suddenly, the convenience of being able to just put your foot down whenever you darn well please – say at a stop sign – is gone. You have to flick your shoe in that very specific way and THEN put your foot down. I quickly found out that if you don’t do it quickly enough, you go down instead.

My first time out on The Queen I had three accidents, and shed blood each time. I hadn’t fallen off my bike since I was in fifth grade when I took a dramatic nosedive over my handlebars, simultaneously scraping both knees and both elbows, which is odd, because if you think about it, your elbows are definitely on different sides of the body, facing away from each other. I still have the scars from this particular fall. (When I extend my arm, the one of the left elbow looks like a brain.) Going down at age 26, in front of a bunch of family and family friends (this was at my mom’s surprise 50th birthday party) was a little embarrassing, but it hurt less to bleed this time than 16 years ago.

However, even when I fell my second and third times down on the path behind my house and scraped up even more, I was kind of proud. It was kind of like I had battle wounds. (Even though, at this point, the battle’s score was Bike: 3, Rachel: 0.) I made my mom take pictures. I made sure I had evidence that I was in the battle, even if I hadn’t won. Those pictures were motivation, as if to say, “You may have won the battle, but I will win the war!”

So with the images of blood dripping from my knee emblazoned in my mind, and the weather a delicious 75°F (that’s 24°C for my Canadian friends), I embarked on battle number two.

I started out today’s ride rather cautious. I knew from my past battles to clip in one pedal at a time. I practiced unclipping and stopping. I practiced walking my bike with one pedal clipped in, using the bike and my body weight to keep me steady. And then I rode.

And I rode FAST.

My dad and I went out for a leisurely ride, and then I realized that this bike is much MUCH MUCH faster than my industrial-strength mountain bike. I guess it helps that the bike weighs oh-point-four pounds and that everything’s set up for a streamlined ride with the weight being placed JUST SO so that you have good balance and torque. The clipless pedals make for a more efficient ride. “Wait, you can pedal UP as well as down?!” was a thought that ran through my mind as I skimmed the pavement, suddenly taking advantage of this newfound discovery.

I whizzed down hills and easily pedaled up them. I could have had a conversation if I wanted to. It was hardly like doing any work. I used to bike up and down this trail every day to go to my old job, and I realize now that if I had a bike like this instead of my mountain bike, I could have woken up ten minutes later every day because my commute would have been shaved in half.

I came to the end of the path and waited for my dad to show up, as I had passed him a long, long time ago. He came in, smoothly and surely on his mountain bike. On our way back, I lost him completely – I had gone very far ahead and he had decided to go another way home. I went back to search for him by biking up and down the path a second time.

As I was speeding down the path back home a second time, I realized that I had not fallen once. I was so proud of myself! I had beaten the bike, and no doubt I could make it home in one piece. I had already crossed the busy road with ease, and the rest of the trip, for the most part, was downhill. Smooth sailing.

I had it made! I had power, I had speed, I had–

…TO GET MY FEET OUT OF THESE PEDALS BEFORE THAT GIANT DOG TOPPLES ME OVER.

Dixie, a five month old Great Dane (yet, no less Great than her adult counterparts), came springing from a local backyard to play. I had met her on my way in, and the reaction was similar, but as I had seen her from afar the first time, I was able to easily slow down and stop to pet Dixie before I continued my ride.

This time, I saw her bounding in. I tried to unclip, and upon trying, lost balance and toppled over. As if to rub it in, my foot came out of the pedal as soon as I hit dirt.

Dixie gave me a big wet kiss as I lay in the grass. Her owner came running out of the backyard, bright red, apologizing profusely for Dixie’s behavior – “Did she jump on you? She’s only five months old, she loves things with wheels, especially things that go fast…” et cetera, et cetera. I laughed, saying it wasn’t Dixie, it was me, I was trying to get used to these dang peddles.

So I sped off, Dixie behind me, once again humbled by the bike. Riding home, I became somewhat introspective about this whole triathlon thing. See, recently, I’ve been going through what is probably a slight case of depression. There’s really no way to hide it. Okay, that’s a boldface lie. Or not… I did not put the font for the lie in a bold face. (Typesetting joke, for my mother.) I can totally hide it. I am actually extraordinarily good at hiding it.  But I can’t hide it from myself, and sometimes, I can’t hide it from other people.

I had one of those moments at practice today. After swimming, we all went for a run, which, for poor little asthmatic me, meant a walk and then a run, and then a walk, and then a run… you get the drift. As my teammates jogged off into the distance, I walked at a “brisk pace” (according to dude who tells me when to walk/run). By the time I turned the first corner, I was on my first run, but the rest of the team was no where in sight. They had completely gone.

I ran my 90 seconds, becoming exceedingly frustrated with myself. Why can’t I run like they do? By the time I got to my first 3-minute run, almost entirely uphill, I had such a defeatist attitude about the running. I’ll never do it, I told myself. Everyone else can run, why can’t I? I started to feel my chest constrict and my tear ducts well. My heart started pounding in my chest as I grimaced and tried not to panic, tried not to let my emotions get the better of me and get me all asthma-y. (This was extremely important as I had left my inhaler in my car.) I realized as I was running down City Line Avenue, one of the busiest streets I know, that any car passing me would see my face and just know I was frustrated, in pain, and about to cry. I’m surprised no one stopped. I couldn’t hide my sadness at that moment.

My iPod told me to walk again, so I walked. I walked and tried not to cry, tried to catch my breath. I did another two rounds of walking and running, and when my time to run was over, I just wanted to collapse. At that moment, I just wanted to give up.

Thankfully, a song come on that changed my mind. I purposefully put this particular song after a workout to get my spirits up. It’s a song called, “Just a Ride” by the artist Jem. (No, not of the Holograms.) The lyrics are particularly poignant and basically say, don’t sweat the small stuff, life’s just a ride. It really struck a chord with me when I first heard it, and its message has reverberated ever since.

Today, in this instance, and in the instance with Dixie the Dane, I was humbled. Jem reminded me again and again (as I have this tendency to listen to a song on endless repeat if it’s resonating with me) that life is just a ride. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down. But don’t forget, enjoy the ride.

There have been others with harder rides. I remembered my mother. I remembered the struggle she went through and what she needed to do to be here today. Visions of her visage surrounded by a beautifully bald head (with a strategically placed frog tattoo) swirled through my mind. And as the opening chords for “Just a Ride” strummed for the third or fourth time, I decided that I was going to push it. Though I thought I could run no further, just down the hill was my destination. So I ran.

Life is just a ride. I just need to sit back and watch. I don’t need to compare myself to others, they’re on their own rides. My ride is different than everyone else’s. Sometimes, your ride is attacked by a big, goofy puppy wanting to play. Sometimes, it’s attacked by cancer. Sometimes your ride can be filled with grief, and sadness. Sometimes, joy. My ride, right now, was getting back to that locker room with my head held high.

As I turned the final corner to come back to where we started, I saw about a dozen fellow team members standing at the entrance to the gym. And as I jogged in, slowly, gasping for air, they clapped  and cheered and smiled shouting, “Go team!” My coach held up his hand for a requisite high-five.

I teared up. This wasn’t about who was fastest… or, who was lastest. It was about the team, it was about the mission. It was about my mother. My Aunt Betsy. It was about making sure that what has happened to them does not happen to others. These people knew that, and finally, I am realizing it myself.

If my life’s just a ride, this section of my journey is headed in a great direction. It’s up to me to choose how to spend my time while I wait to get to my destination.

So, don’t forget, enjoy the ride.