Agony

Last week when Christina and I took a relaxing walk together, we started to talk about biking. Well, we'd talked about it before, but never this seriously. Thsi time she meant business. I could see it in her eyes. Phrases such as "we should bike together sometime" quickly evolved into talk of biking to Hinckley by the end of the summer. From her neck of the woods (which, thankfully, is less hilly than Duluth and a little further south), it's a fifty-six mile bike ride. Visions of firm thighs and a respectable hobby danced in my head. It was these visions that led me to smile and agree, rather than laugh in her face and threaten to have her committed.

Yesterday after work, when I met Christina at the mall for shopping and fabulous food court cuisine, she was quick to broach the topic of biking. She proposed that we get together once a week for a nice long bike ride, building ourselves up to the big one, which she has tentatively decided will take place in August. The more we discussed it, the more excited I got. All this biking! It could be a really good thing!

Last night and into this morning, the delicious whopper and greasy fries that I dined on at the mall wreaked havoc on my insides. It wasn't pretty. When I woke up this morning, I still felt a lot like ass, so I called in sick and climbed back into bed, cuddling up under the covers with my Tums. When I awoke the second time, I was feeling a little better. At least I no longer feared that my internal organs were going to explode out of either end of me at any moment. It was a step in the right direction. My recovery had begun.

I got to thinking...what better way to help that recovery along than with a little fresh air? I needed to spend some time outside. With the Tour de Hinckley in mind, I whipped out my bike for the first time since moving to Duluth. Leisurely lakewalk bike ride time! I was PUMPED.

Because I still felt a little under the weather, I decided it best to put my bike in my car and drive to Canal Park. It more difficult than I had anticipated. For the second time since we broke up, I missed Chuck. The first time was when I had a lot of groceries in my car and didn't want to carry them in. He was just as good at fitting bikes (two at once!) in my car as he was at hauling groceries. When he was able to complete these tasks without talking, I was at my happiest.

Anyway, the bike in the car wasn't happening. Even with my backseats down, I could not coerce my big manly bike into the car. Frustrated, knowing full well that even if I got it all the way in, I would never be able to get it out...I gave up. Mission: impossible. All I took away from that experience was a big scratch in my car.

On to Plan B, because you know I wasn't dragging that bike through the forty-five doors it takes to get back to my apartment without riding it first. I sailed down the hill in front of my apartment building, appreciating the cool breeze, ignoring the little raindrops pelting me in the face, and thinking to myself, I could really get into this. I cruised down to Canal Park and spent some time lollygagging on the Lakewalk. Life was beautiful.

Then came the ride home, which was a little slice of hell right here in Northern Minnesota. At one point, I swear I could hear Satan laughing at me. The wind was blowing HARD and it was no longer working in my favor. Hell, I don't think even my aerodynamic little Grand Am could have cut through those gusts. At one point (okay, three points), I had to get off my bike and push it along side of me as I tried my hardest to put one foot in front of the other. My thighs felt like jello...tight, burning jello.

By the time I reached the daunting hill leading up to my apartment building, I didn't think I was going to make it. I trudged very, very slowly up the hill, breathing harder than I ever have before. It was obnoxiously loud, overly dramatic Lamaze type breathing, and I made no attempt to calm my desparate gasps for air as people passed me, looks of concern in their eyes. At one point, I carefully leaned my bike, the bane of my existence, up against a rock and let my body collapse to the grass below.

When I finally made it to my building, I would have breathed a sigh of relief, had my breathing not still been akin to that of an 80 year old, four-packs-a-day smoker climbing a flight of stairs. I knew my battle wasn't over yet. The doors! The stairs! The freaking bike! Halfway to my apartment, I paused to let a kind looking woman with poor English pass with her two small children. The kids started at me, wide-eyed, like I had two heads. Their mother smiled kindly and greeted me with hello, followed by a whole bunch of phrases and questions that I didn't understand. When she finished talking, she looked at my expectantly, awaiting an answer to the last question I didn't understand. I forced my kindest smile and replied affirmatively, praying that she'd just asked if I need an ambulance.

Hinckley, I'll see you sometime soon. I'm shooting for 2008.