Last night I went for a bike ride. Nothing special except that I hadnâ€™t been in the saddle since May. While my husband was chugging away the miles and training for a triathlon Iâ€™d found excuses not to ride. It was too hot, I was too tired, laundry was piling up, I had to walk the dog, there was writing and editing to do.
Watching my thighs descent into jiggle mode, I finally decided it was time. The wind blew hot and steady like a hair dryer, but I bravely climbed on the seat. Even more bravely, my husband volunteered to go â€œslowâ€ next to me. The first roundâ€”we ride a circle through our neighborhoodâ€”about two miles felt as if my legs were filled with lead. On each small hill, the route meanders up and down, Iâ€™d almost come to a stop, frantically shifting into smaller gears, while my husband easily passed me up.
In round two I decided my bike was broken. Gears rattled and my chain ground in protest. I was destroying the bike, my husband commented dryly. No, I insisted, it was definitely the bike. In round three, things were becoming smoother, I was a little faster and didnâ€™t have to shift as much. By round four, the grinding and rattling had stopped.
By the time I finished and my husband began his â€œrealâ€ ride, I was smiling (thanks to the dopamine). Iâ€™d successfully overcome the lethargy of summer. Soon itâ€™ll be time for another ride. Got to get those legs in shape.