Back in the Saddle

I spent a good portion of my late thirties and early forties riding the hell out of my bike. I had the fancy clothes, clip shoes, aerodynamic handlebars, speedometers, and little black pouches stuffed with Allen wrenches and an extra tube. Sometimes I rode with friends. Mostly I rode alone.

I started riding because I wanted to lose weight. I abhor talking about weight. I once heard that more women my age struggle with eating disorders — diagnosed or not — than breast cancer. But anyway, my son told me the best way to lose weight was to find an exercise I loved as a kid. I chose biking because it seemed more realistic than roller skating.

I always had this idea of riding somewhere epic. The Oregon coast. Something cinematic.

I rode to Alamosa once. It was hard, but it wasn’t the mountain pass that nearly broke me — it was the long, straight gunbarrel highway. Mountains at least give you a rest. On flat roads, if you stop pedaling, you stop.

I drank enough water, but I let myself get hungry. By the end I felt weak and sick. When I finally reached Alamosa, I peeled off my shorts and found saddle blisters despite all the expensive gear. Even with sunscreen, I felt baked alive. The next morning I woke with a fever and caught a ride home.

So much for epic aspirations.

Then I was attacked on a ride.

It was early evening on the riverwalk in spring. A young man walked toward me, dressed all in black with a winter beanie pulled low. Something felt wrong immediately — wrong for the season, wrong for the trail.

As I passed him, he lunged. He grabbed my handlebars and wrenched me to a stop. I yelled — I think I yelled — and he spit in my face, hissing like a wildcat and calling me something filthy. Fortunately other walkers rounded the bend, I shouted again and he disappeared into the trees.

The fear came afterward. My hands shook all the way home.

After that, the trail didn’t quite feel like mine anymore.

My riding partners moved away. I stopped riding every day, then stopped riding regularly, and eventually I stopped riding at all.

During the pandemic I bought a cross bike for fifty dollars on Facebook Marketplace. I met the seller at a Sinclair station in Denver. She looked skinny and homeless-y and walked the bike toward us. My son raised his eyebrows and said, “This is how drug deals go down. That bike is probably stolen.”

Maybe. But I love that bike.

It’s faster than a mountain bike but sturdier than a road bike. I started riding again a little, mostly with my sister-in-law when she visited from overseas each summer. She’s strong and serious about cycling. After riding her state-of-the-art bike, I decided I needed a new road bike too.

Here’s the absolute truth about me: even if I were a millionaire, I would never feel good paying full price for something I could get on sale.

So I waited for a pandemic bike — one of those expensive purchases abandoned by optimistic urban cyclists. Eventually I found one in a bougie Denver neighborhood. I bought a nearly new road bike for a tenth of its retail price.

It was so fancy that I brought it inside the house instead of leaving it in the garage.

I rode it twice.

The idea of doing something epic never really left me. I imagine riding across the country and writing a blog every night about the day’s miles. I also imagine moving to Philadelphia and winning the lottery.

I have done none of those things.

Yesterday, though, I put on my biking clothes. I filled the tires. I rode about fifteen miles. Mostly flat miles, but still.

And somewhere along the ride I realized maybe epic doesn’t mean crossing a continent. Maybe epic is just getting back on the bike after everything that made you stop.

I wonder how many times life will offer me that lesson before it finally sinks in.