My Husband's Bike Almost Killed Me

Yes, you read that right. My husband's bike almost killed me. At least, I assume it's his bike - we found it in the garage - the very full, drive-me-crazy-kind-of-full, garage. And I sincerely hope it's his, because I don't want to think that some unsuspecting bike rider somehow detoured in our garage, got lost and died. Finding a body would do me in, I'm pretty sure. But back to the bike.

I've been walking about 2 miles a night for at least 5 nights a week with my neighbor, and I'm not seeing the results I want to see. My husband, who never makes me feel less than lovely, kindly told me that he knows I don't like the way I look, and I didn't get there overnight, and I won't get back to where I want overnight. That's true, and I love him for his support (and other things). But after 5 weeks I'm not really seeing ANY results, other than a bit more stamina, so I decided to take it to the next level. I decided to add bike riding in the morning to the evening walks I've been doing.

I got the bike out, lowered the seat, and hopped on. Better to do this with no witnesses than wait until the family is home. They say once you know how to ride a bike you never forget, but "they" say lots of things I don't really believe. I was overly proud of making it out of my driveway and around the corner without falling off, although me and the brakes did have a bit of a misunderstanding that almost threw me over the handle bars.

I already had my 2 mile route plotted, since it's the same route we walk, so off I went. Let me just tell you a couple of things - in case you were wondering... First, riding a bike outside is way different than riding a stationery bike in the gym. Second, those tiny little inclines (which feel much like large hills) are much more obvious when you're on a bike. By the time I made it to the turn-around point - the half-way mark, I was wondering who I could call to come pick me up. My dogs don't drive (they don't work, they don't cook, and as seen in an earlier post, they don't know CPR), and all the adults are at work. Well, all of them but me. I finally figured out I'd just have to ride the torture device back home.

At this point the bicycle seat and my seat are not meshing. I don't know who designed this blooming seat, but it wasn't someone with tooshie comfort in mind. I'm pretty sure the person who designed this seat is the same one who told American Airlines that less leg room would be unnoticeable to passengers. Liar, Liar, pants on fire.

In any case, I'm as far away from home as I plan to be, so I have to turn around. Thankfully, there was a slight downhill slope so I could coast a bit before having to pedal again. I don't have anything against pedaling, except that it moves my seat on the bike seat, and as I mentioned, the two were not getting along. It's that If-I-Don't-Move-Maybe-It-Won't-Hurt-Worse feeling. The only silver lining is that it wasn't really hot, and the breeze was keeping me from sweating. BTW - I don't glisten, or glow - I full-on sweat. I did when I was thin too. TMI.

I managed to make it to the next uphill slope - I'm telling you this looked only slightly less intimidating than the 12,000 ft. mountain my truck climbed summer before last. Darn google map doesn't show this particular mountain range - it looks just like the rest of the level streets in the neighborhood. False advertising.

I have to talk myself into staying on the seat. The seat-numbing seat. I shame myself into staying on it and keeping my legs moving - after all, someone might be home and see me pushing the bike instead of riding it. By this time my seat isn't the only thing that's hurt and numb - and yes, they can both happen at the same time. The handle bars are making unnatural grooves in my palms, and the front tire is flat. But I'm almost home - I can even see my street. I manage to stay on this rolling torture device until I am in my driveway. Once I'm in my driveway, leaning on my truck, I can't make my legs get off the bike. I have to let the bike almost fall over to get it low enough to move my leg off of it. I stagger inside, finish off two bottles of water and start on Gatorade. While I'm trying to make my legs work I text my husband. See below...



I'm sure behind all of that laughter (at my expense), he is truly sympathetic. I am writing this down so that next time I decide to let myself go, I'll remember how hard it is to get back to where I want to be. In the meantime - anyone want a bike? The seat was designed by an airplane engineer (I'm pretty sure).