I Wasn’t Always a Jock

I married one. Never once did I date a jock until I met this one, and even then I had no idea what I was strapped into. It began when we were dating.

“Let’s go for a jog.”

“Sure,” I replied.

Always an optimist, I envisioned myself sprinting down sidewalks of upscale neighborhoods, people stopping to look at the attractive couple who were obviously fit and successful. That image lasted, oh, about three minutes before I implored my boyfriend, Tony, to slow down. Way down. I assumed my fish-like gasping was evidence enough that I was on the brink of meeting my demise.

He laughed and just trotted on as I started whining illnesses as excuses for not being able to continue. Thyroid. Anemia. Certainly heart disease was eminent.

Weeks later, I proclaimed to Tony,”I really think I could run the Peachtree Road Race (10K) this year.” That’s when that slow motion, surreal feeling of falling happened. A crack in the sidewalk and I splayed on the concrete like a jellyfish dropped from a high rise.

“Pride comes before the fall,” was all he had to say as he sped ahead.

Over the last 25 years of marriage, variations of these scenes have played out. We have run (well, I walk some) the Peachtree together several times, done a few 5K’s and we’ve added to our physical fitness repertoire. Typical stuff. Nothing big. Until ACL surgery propelled Tony into keeping his knee moving for a lifetime. And by moving, I mean a lot.

At first it was a Fuji hybrid bike to help him cross train. He took to the greenway and it wasn’t long before he started trying to sell me on the idea of getting a bike, too. So I got a Fuji hybrid. Yellow. Cheerful.

Cycling was the feeling of freedom – wind in my hair, sun on my face.

First ride out I was downright cocky! Eight miles on the Suwanee Greenway and I was hooked. Who would have ever thought I could be such an athlete.  Thighs were notably sore the next day and my neck, well it hurt. It always hurts. But, there’s that sense of freedom that sort of trumps all that.

So on to bigger rides, like the mighty Silver Comet. That took the sport to a whole new level. I’m not sure at what point those hideous padded bike shorts started looking like something I needed, but there was a turning point.

At first I was content just sailing by the walkers, joggers and occasional child on training wheels. I mean, I had a pink helmet, gloves, and a cute cycling skort. I was bona fide.

I even picked up the lingo. “On your left.” Such empowering words. I actually went five miles out and five miles back. I had an app. I was burning some serious calories.

But when the big boys and girls came flying by on their sleek, skinny bikes I felt like I was the one on training wheels! At first I thought they were just jerks. Scared me to death. What if I pulled out to pass someone and got run over? But they were better than me.

So I went out and did 12 miles!

Surely those big biker boys and girls were professionals. They wore gear. They had names on their biker jerseys and diaper spandex shorts. And the shoes – did they also tap dance?

So I plodded on.

I discovered music helped me keep pace (and made me forget the burning in my thighs). Hills were nasty things. There’s a fear that if you don’t keep pushing the hell out of those pedals, you’re going to start rolling backwards. Then, God help you. Fear is a strong motivator for me.

There have been times when I didn’t think my lungs would make it. But we have always made it and I thank them every time for not giving out on me. I love my lungs. They most certainly swell with pride each and every time we succeed through a challenge. In fact, my lungs and thighs have become close friends.

Just when I was feeling good about my 12 miles, Tony got a road bike. He became one of them. Still intimidated, I resigned myself to being a Hybrid Babe. But I did pick up the pace and the mileage a bit more.

Every year, or so, I try to challenge myself to accomplish something new. I’ve gotten certified as a scuba diver, successfully managed a ropes course and zip line, (I’m mortified of heights). I’ve flown a plane, gotten a brown belt in Kung Fu. Things like that. I think it’s just a good idea to face fears and I have plenty of them. But the process to getting there for me is pretty much always a comedy act. Most people rely on pride and dignity to stop them when they suck wind at something. Not me. I seem to excel in spectacle. Like the time I twirled fire as a majorette and torched my rear end, right there in front of the home crowd.

So when I agreed to do the Bike MS Atlanta challenge last year, I entered into another pact with fear and shame. I agreed to ride 30 miles. Driving me were the handful of friends I have who suffer with MS. I figure if they can manage to push themselves to move each day, the least I can do is raise a little money.

So I set out to build up my body to handle that 30-mile ride. It hurt. My entire body cried out for a hot tub and prescription strength Motrin after every ride.

I got a new saddle for my bike and went to a better pair of riding shorts. That helped. I walked with a bit more swag, graduated to speaking gear and gained some significant thigh definition.

I also gained a bona fide riding jersey compliments of the Deloitte Cycling Team. I was a part of a Team! On a Fuji hybrid. Sporting a pink helmet.

So on the morning of the ride, when the announcer started the race, I put my full determination into the pedals and was pretty much left in a trail of smoke as I clearly became one of the back of the pack crowd.

There were so many hills that I was yelling at them by the end of the ride. But I never walked and I never stopped. I came through the finish line 2.5 hours and 34 miles later, aching but thrilled and satisfied. And I watched the big boys and girls come through later in the afternoon as they completed their Century – that’s cyclease for 100 miles. Tony was in that group. I was proud.

The following year some of life’s more demanding events took us away from much of our physical activity. So when I saw Bike MS Atlanta pop up a couple of months ago, I figured I had accomplished my goal. I was good. Pass.

But, Tony signed up. Dang it!

It took about 24 hours before I realized how it would feel to be sitting there at the finish line cheering him on with nothing accomplished on my end, so I signed up. I was overwhelmed at how quickly I was able to raise the minimum goal to participate, and once that happened there was no turning back. But then something even more interesting happened.

A friend offered to let me test-ride her road bike. She had convertible pedals, which is cyclease for not needing the special shoes to clip in. So I took it for a spin. Intimidated by the faster, smoother version of the sport, the road bike required more attention to balance and speed, but after a bit of riding I discovered it was a beautiful thing. My mind started spinning.

The following Saturday morning, Tony and I moseyed over to Suwanee Creek Bicycle just to pick up some things. There, on the rack, was the exact Fuji Roubaix 3.0 as his. In my size. On sale.

The first day out on this beauty yielded 44 miles on the Silver Comet. I still had gas in the tank after the ride and felt optimistic that I was ready for the Bike MS 60-mile course. Intimidated, but optimistic.

The morning of the race I didn’t clip in for the ride. And when we took off I was still initially fell to the back of the pack, but then I started passing folks. The last 14 miles were excruciating but I did make it the full 64 miles. And I wasn’t the last person to come across the finish line.

And I wore a dark grey helmet.