A Ride
Yesterday was exhausting.
First: my last day at my “new” job.
I was torn about this. I don’t like leaving a job after such a short period of time (165 days to be exact), and I really liked the people I worked with. But for quite a few reasons, and perhaps a bit of karma, I chose to apply for my old job back at RPSC when it opened up again. I’ll let Erma Bombeck tell it like it is. Because of the overtime I had worked, I only had to work a whopping 4 hours today, so I cleaned out my desk, sent off a final email to my team, filled out some paperwork, and called it a day. Now my meager work things are packed in Target bags waiting to be unveiled again at my old job on Monday. I’m not sure what fits me more—the zebra mug I have my tea in every morning, or my red Swingline stapler.
Second: I went on a bike ride.
For those of you who know me, you know I have not been an avid bike rider. I got my first bike when I was 9, and it was the perfect 9-year-old bike—a huffy with the big huge pink seat. After trying and failing to learn to ride without training wheels (yes, I was 9), I almost gave up. Auntie Gail came out of the house, and told me to just “pedal.” She grabbed the back of the bike seat, and pushed, and then said, “keep pedaling,” and shoved me off down the street. That was it. My second bike came a few years later, and was a 10-speed (I believe). I remember Terri walking it out from behind the house as my surprise birthday present. I remember this one, because I think it was this bike I was riding home from organ lessons on Ferry Street when I almost got hit by a car. Read: almost. But it was enough to give me an asthma attack, and to ensure I never rode my bike on the street again… until graduate school. Again, Gail came through and bought me a bike so that I could ride to and from school. It was about a 2-mile ride one way, and I’d say the grade only went up about 6 inches over the entire ride. Easy, right? I totally stressed out about it, but ended up riding pretty regularly. I rode a little bit in Seattle, to and from school (too bad it was all downhill to school), but gave my bike to the church auction and didn’t get another one.
So when a new friend suggested I go biking with her, I was scared, but excited. I want to find an exercise that doesn’t require a gym but that I can enjoy without being stressed, and can actually write in my head while I do it. I contemplated running, but another friend recommended biking over running, because of the bad knee thing. Of course, he’s like the Superman of outdoor activities, and rides miles. I mean Miles. I was scared because I have not been on a bike in a long time, and my new friend is like Wonder Woman—she regularly tows her little boy in a trailer behind her, adding about 50 lbs to the ride. I, however, am like Po from Kung Fu Panda—Level 0. The plan: ride about 4 ¼ miles on bike trails to this park where her son could play, then back. Pretty simple, right? 8.5 miles. Again, totally stressed out about it.
Here’s how it went: I rode in back. It was a warm day, 90’s. When we went down the big hill (and yes, “big” is relative) I realized I’d have to, eventually, go back up it. We rode under three or four bridges, through a field of prairie dogs, through fields of switchgrass and thistle, past 3 or 4 other parks, and along a creek. We passed 2 people on bikes. I thought this meant I was doing great until I realized they were like 80. When we got to the park, my butt didn’t hurt. On the ride back I saw an older couple, off to the side of this nicely groomed park area. She was laying on the grass in the shade, on her belly with her chin in her hands. She had a white floppy hat, and sunglasses on. He was taking pictures of her. I would have liked to see how those pictures came out. As we passed the prairie dogs again, and they scattered from the sound of our bikes, I realized I was writing a poem in my head. Or pieces of poems. The rest of the ride was uneventful, except for the uphill thing. But I did not have to get off the bike; I did, however have it in the lowest gear possible, which my friend kindly stopped herself from referring to it as “granny gear.” But that’s ok. If I live to be 80, and still ride a bike with my man, I will not regret going up that hill in “1.” When we got back, my butt didn’t hurt. I think this was a big victory.
It was a good ride. A good day.