And So To Bike...

The. Bike. Is. Hard.

Not just on your ass and various other members of the undercarriage family but in general. I hadn’t counted on that. Frankly, I’d kind of seen the bike as the easiest part of this whole thing. The longest bit yes, but, what’s a squiggly 14 miles when you’re on something with wheels, right? I figured it’d be a bit like taking a taxi only involving the wearing of a helmet and requiring a little more balance. This is one of the reasons I’ve delayed doing any bike training until a scant eight weeks before the triathlon.

See, kids put ribbons on their bikes and old people carry miniature live animals in baskets on them. Bikes are something sweet and nostalgic which whisper of bygone eras and sun-dappled summer rides. Tell that to my sorry ass.

I borrowed a road bike from a friend months ago. In my professional opinion, it is a sweet piece of kit indeed – very light and um, has two wheels etc. I should’ve been itching to get on the thing but biking has never really been my bag. I swim, I run. I just don’t do bike. And so the sweet bike stayed in the basement as I opted to fire through Jillian Michael’s exercise DVD’s instead to strengthen my legs.  

But as time rolled on, bike anxiety gathered momentum. It was time to unleash it from the basement. I required a husband’s tutorial before I took it out to get my head round the gears. Then I needed more instruction and more. Sensing the tutor’s patience was waning, my brain finally locked in his prophetic teachings of ‘press the silver lever when it’s easy, press the black one when it’s hard.’

And with that I was off. Weaving my way like a drunk, hacking away at the gears, hugging the side of the road like a toddler refusing to go to day care. The whittling wind played havoc with my hearing and cars arrived behind me like lurking sharks as I thrust myself further to the side while they overtook.

I encountered pot holes and sand piles, road cracks and rocks. Or rather my ass did. I know little about bikes but enough that a mountain bike’s meaty tyres take some of the slack, shock-absorbing when you tackle a bump on your ride. Road bikes on the over hand, let you have it all. Yowser.

Terrified to remove hands from the bike for fear of losing balance, I was lucky I didn’t need to indicate at any point for other road users. As for reaching for my water bottle while I rode, forget it. I decided I’d rather keep an intact face than satiate my thirst.  

Meanwhile the distance guage on the bike told me I was racking up the miles. My thighs were searing hot and my ass was on the kind of pain planet Jillian Michaels could never prepare me for. But I was rocking this bike ride, dammit.

On the final stretch before making that hungry right turn home, I actually enjoyed it. I was more in tune with the wind, I’d figured out my own funky gear rhythm and I’d bagged 11 miles. A drop in the ocean for some, a major feat for me, my ass and I.

All smiles up front. Ass on fire at the back.