I did a seven mile bike ride this morning. There’s something delicious about fooling around on the bike as a different means of exercise to running. I’m just still noodling with it, and no, I haven’t given up on running.
The ride was a neighborhood creep. I live in a town where flat land is hard to come by. Instead, there are hills, like the backs of serpents, whales and dragons. My hills are legend. They are quadricep-thrashing hills. When I go down, I manage speeds around 23-25 miles an hour. When I go up, I’m happy to hit 5.
I kept shifting, moving the gears to their hardest settings as often as I could, and keeping my legs hard at work. I saw a few runners, and I felt guilty. Hey, I’m one of you, I wanted to shout. It’s the same way I felt when I was walking more often. I’m one of you. But I’m not, am I? I’m cycling. I’m one of them. But I’m learning to accept these changes and flows. I’m learning.
Tomorrow, I’m *really* going to attack things.
