I haven't exactly been diligent in getting on my bicycle. I was jazzed about not having to work at all today, and decided it would be a great day to ride to the beach. It would be my first high-mileage adventure.
Then I woke up to the sound of rain.
My desire to turn over and go back to sleep eased my disappointment in the early morning hours, but once I was up and moving, I couldn't help but be bummed about my foiled plans.
I've also felt some frustration at having no training advice or support given so far. Next week I'm signed up for an online class that supposedly gives the 101 on bike riding. I'm relieved, because thus far, I feel lost. I know NOTHING about riding bikes, other than this childhood lesson:
Don't take your hand off the handle bars to wave to a neighbor when you're flying down a hill in a bikini. You will crash, get a black eye, half your face will be scraped off, along with mammoth sized scrapes down your ribcage and thighs. Your face will be swollen for a better part of a year, and your shiny, neosporined wounds will frighten folks of all ages.
Hopefully this childhood lesson won't come into play this time around.
Inevitably, I do believe a crash will happen. When? I don't know. How bad? Not sure. Will I be able to still give massages with sustained injuries? That is the golden question. Clearly I will have to learn to ride with clip on pedals. But clipping OUT of the pedals when I need to stop.... will I remember in time? Another golden question.
Regardless of this inevitable and looming crash, I'm waiting for the skies to clear so I can hop on my second-hand mountain bike and cruise the mean streets of Los Angeles. I've got the gel seat cover, I've got blinky, obnoxious lights so cars will see me, and my wonky, really-need-a-new-one helmet to keep me comfortable and safe.
Wish me luck. And just to be on the safe side, maybe ship me a case of neosporin.