A while ago, I started a thread about cycling to work, asking my fellow dopers for advice and tips. Now that I’ve found a trusty steed and made the move to two wheels, things are certainly getting interesting…
My fist big shock was finding out just how out of shape I really was. I knew that I was carrying around a few extra pounds (that was my reason for buying the darn thing in the first place), but I had no idea that my aerobic fitness had gotten so bad. On my very first ride out, I got barely five minutes from the house before having to turn around and head back. It was either that or keel over from an aneurysm. Granted that we have some slight inclines around here, but that was truly embarrassing.
But it wasn’t only my pride that was injured - my ass was also being ground into hamburger. Now I know that the wonders of modern technology have given us gel-filled saddles and all sorts of wonderfully comfortable ways of pampering one’s posterior, but I hadn’t actually bought one. Nope, I was stuck with a stock sadddle, straight out of the factory, and after a half-hour ride, my ass felt thoroughly tenderised.
In an effort to uh…rectify the problem, I gamely walked into a bike shop and asked the proprietor what they had in the way of suitably crotch-protecting garments. I walked out twenty minutes later with something that looked and felt decidedly kinky. I don’t know about any of you experienced cyclists out there, but having padding around my pink bits is going to take some getting used to. Anyway, black spandex does NOT look good on me, so the offending article was covered up by another pair of more decent looking baggy shorts. I still look like a dork though, and the helmet doesn’t help either.
I haven’t had any problems with cars so far - everyone seems to be sensible enough to give me a wide berth when they see me wobbling down the road. Nevertheless I can’t help but notice that some drivers steer wider than others, and it always seems to be the expensive cars that get the closest. Seriously, it’s always the Jaguars and Land Rovers that force me to hug the kerb in mortal fear, while the cheap and cheerful rust buckets give me plenty of room as they rattle and chug their way past.
So why do I do it? I’ve asked that myself that same question over the past couple of weeks, mostly when I’m straining and wheezing like a man in his last death-throes to get up a hill. However, it’s in the quiet moments and the fresh air that I find my answer. I’m quite lucky in that I live in a rather green and pleasant corner of England, so when I get home, get changed and jump on the bike, I’m rewarded with plenty of oxygen, great views, and plenty of time for stress-free contemplation of life’s many mysteries.
I’m starting to find a measure of satisfaction in getting up that hill - and the one beyond it. I’ve glimpsed moments of zen-like tranquility in the rhythm of heart and lung. I’ve found moments of peace when the road was my own, when the only sounds were the hum of my wheels and the early evening birdsong. I once pedalled right past a fox who peered warily at me from the cover of a hedge, and I was so pleased that I actually waved at him.
So yes, I think that it’s all worth it so far - hamburgerized ass notwithstanding. I get a very smug and self-satisfied feeling when I realise I’m looking after my heart, and I look forward to getting fitter and being able to go further and faster. But I’m to be honest, I’m also looking forward to getting buff and attracting the ladies. Let’s just hope I don’t damage anything essential before then…
Updates to follow, so stay tuned for the further exciting adventures of a Novice Cyclist.