I wrote this last year and in celebration of my return to cycling after a serious injury I’m discovering my legs are still giving me the same flack. Just but a decimal between the one and tens places this summer. Not to worry, I’m planning on getting back to the thirty mile mark by the time snow flies. That is if I can figure how to get the bike in the back of the tiny white car and down the street for new tubes and a tune.
“Good intentions are the fastest way to Hell, right? Or something like that. Maybe it’s good intentions are better than two birds in hand. Make good intentions while the sun shines? What the Hell? That doesn’t make any sense? Does anything make sense? Why am I slipping into Camus and Sartre territory when I’m on my bike. Ohhhh! Pretty! Tree! Ohhhh!….Well HOW YOU doin’ Mr. Pretty Legs!…I dunno…what that saying is…but yeah I’ve got good intentions…hmmm maybe I should re-read Wayne Dyer. Oh yeah Laura, fit that in with the three other books you’re reading now. Because you need to read four books at once…wow that book I read yesterday was boring as Hell. I felt like I was backed into a corner by an over earnest academic at a cocktail party who zeroed in on me because I looked like a nice person. Hell, who would get that idea, I’m not really a nice person. Maybe I should work on that. . .”
That’s pretty much how the dialogue rolls in my head while I ride. The legs tell a different story. At least my legs aren’t as digressive.
Mile 1: “Yay! We’re riding the bike. Ohhhh I feel good! [Left leg sounds like James Brown] Letsgofasterletsgoharder!!!! Lets go go gogo go gogogogogo!!!!!! Zooooommmm! Wheeeee!!!!”
Mile 5: “Can we stop??? Can we can we can we can we can we? Huhhuhhuh??? Getting tired. Right knee just slapped me. Ouch! Right knee pain. Painpainpainpain. Remember that time you fell skiing. On your right knee? If you don’t remember, right knee does. So yeah…let’s stop…please. Water would be nice….mmmmm nice refreshing cold water….mmmmmmm replenishes precious cells…..waterwaterwaterwater. Yeah…that would help us”
Mile 10: “Are you fucking kidding me? When did you start drinking while you ride??? We need to stop. Oh help me ohohohohohoh help help me….Melting like the wicked witch. But I’m not the wicked witch YOU ARE! Right knee is now dead. And you are dead to me bitch if we don’t stop and get some water. And after we get some damn water, we’re turning around to go home. Because we are ten fucking miles from home and the last five are up hill. It’s up hill. Bitch. Up. Hill.”
Mile 15: “Laura you ignorant slut [my legs watched Saturday Night Live with me in ‘78] What. The. Fuck. Bitch. Yeah we’re headed home but we were off the pedals for fifteen seconds while you turned this mutha fuckin’ bike around. Nonononono…you’re stopping now. And we’re resting. And then we’re hitchhiking home. And then we’re never cooperating with your crazy ass ideas again. Ever.
Mile 18: “water…water…water…water…You have got to be kidding me. Stop. For the love of god STOP. And after you stop get a new hobby. We’re dying down here. Die-ing. The end. Put on my tombstone: ‘here lies Left Leg she was a good leg til that bitch pushed her to the limit.’ Right Leg can’t tell us what she wants on her stone because she is mute with exhaustion. “
Mile 20: “Did I mention I hate you? You know most women your age do sane things on Sunday mornings. They do things like sit on the couch and watch the talking heads. Or brunch! There’s an idea! Brunch! Another great pastime is wrapped around someone’s ba—“ “What? What? Obscene? That wasn’t obscene what’s obscene is the lactic acid overload I’m suffering from. I hate you. You know that don’t you. I . Hate. You.”
Mile 22: “Homehomehomehome. I see home. When I get home, I’m folding under you in the front yard until I say we’re walking into the house. And then I may or may not obey your commands.”
Thirty minutes post mile 22: “Hey that was AWESOME!!!! LETS GO AGAIN!!! LETS GO ON ANOTHER BIKE RIDE!!!! WHEEEEEEEEE”