We went for our first bike ride of the season yesterday. It was my first time on a bike since giving birth, and ultimately, I've decided that childbirth is quite a bit easier for me than pedaling a bike downtown and back. The following constitutes the thoughts that coursed through my mind as my body coursed down the bike trail on the back of my dear bike, the Chartreuse Caboose (named thusly because it's green, and you know where a caboose is always located in a train):
Mile 1: This seat is harder than I remember. A lot harder. Why does my calorie-o-meter only say that I've only burned 5 calories? I'm sure it's at least 75. Must need a new battery.
Mile 2: Ahh, I'm settling in. I feel so alive! I was born to bike! I think I'll sign up for a century (a hundred-mile ride) this year, just to give myself a challenge for the summer. Why do they make bike saddles so hard, anyway? Guess they know what they're doing.
Mile 3: Why does my odometer say that I've only gone 3 miles? I'm sure it's at least 6. Really must need a new battery. Biking is not for sissies, but it's cool, because I'm all over it.
Mile 4: Did they do something to the trail to increase the incline since last summer? Is there something wrong with just making the whole thing flat?? This is getting tougher, but I'm so thankful to have a husband who pushes me farther than I think I can go. He's awesome. My butt hurts. What a cool cyclist I am.
Mile 5: Why does my calorie-o-meter only read 250 calories?? Haven't I burnt at least 1000? Who in their right mind would even consider signing up for a stupid century ride? That's suicide! This whole 'sometimes-the-path-is-paved-and-sometimes-it's-gravel' thing is really not funny. Not funny, City of Colorado Springs! Oh, and my butt hurts. Do you hear that, City of Colorado Springs?? My butt hurts!!
Mile 6: My butt hurts. My butt hurts. My butt hurts.
Mile 7: Ahh, on the way home now. What the heck--where did that hill come from? It was downhill just a minute ago!! Did we get lost??
Mile 8: Dang right, calorie-o-meter--you just keep climbing. What is the deal with my husband? Why does he always push me way farther than I can go? Insensitive rogue.
Mile 9: What is UP with the the swordfish and the bloated dummy, anyway?
Mile 10: Curse you, all you naturally athletic types! If one more hippy-dippy cyclist passes me and says, "Good morning! How are ya?!" or is biking and juggling at the same time, I'm going to give new meaning to the phrase 'the wheel spoke'!
Mile 11: Killll meeeee. KIIIILLLL MMMMEEEE. My butt will never be the same. It's going to be a black-and-blue horror in about two minutes. I'm going to look like a baboon all week! My sadistic husband is going to be hearing about this every 4 minutes for at least a month.
Mile 12: What's the point in even trying to get home? If I make it into the driveway, I'll just collapse there for a day or two, and they can haul my blackened carcass into the house and to the couch where it belongs.
Mile 12.1: Look, butt! We're home! We made it! Butt?? Speak to me, butt! I'm sorry, butt. We'll just stay on the couch from now on, I promise. Some people were made to bike, others were made to hold the furniture down. We'll stay right here on the couch and write nasty letters to bike saddle manufacturers. Until next time.
--Teri. And Teri's Butt.
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