Got back on the bike yesterday, and once again, it had been too long.

Which begs the question: Why don’t I just ride a little bit on my own every day?

Answers/excuses: I don’t have a lock for the bike so if I go somewhere, I can’t stay there. I don’t feel safe riding without a buddy. (Scott is an excellent buddy.)

Nevermind that I see kids riding their bikes around our neighborhood all the time. See previous post for a hint to my history of not taking risks like biking somewhere all by myself! Not to mention growing up in the canyons of southern California, in a house perched on a hill above the road. Even if getting back up the driveway weren’t daunting, where would I have ridden to? My neighborhood was all hills, and we lived miles away from anything interesting, like a store. I guess I could have ridden down to my friend’s house, but I can’t imagine how I would have gotten back up, except by walking the bike…. Funny how the long steep street I live on now mirrors the terrain of my childhood.

So, it was yet another perfect Bay Area day, sunny and cool. I had been in bed all morning, because I wasn’t feeling 100%, and because it was our wedding anniversary weekend, and we were doing every indulgent thing: eating out, cooking in, exchanging presents, going to a matinee, seeing friends, listening to live jazz, knitting (me), working on toy-related projects (Scott), and vegging out.

We had planned to go for a ride on Sunday, something maybe 10 miles, something flat, coastal, low-traffic. But when Sunday came we mostly wanted to stay home. Until we started getting antsy. Around two-ish.

Feeling lazy about loading the bikes in and actually GOING somewhere, we decided to try walking the bikes up our street, to a part of the neighborhood that is a LITTLE BIT flatter, and get me some of that practice I definitely need.

Once again, just getting ON the bike was a challenge. Who said that all 150 pounds of me should be perched on anything so NARROW?

We rode around. And around. Today, there was no song in my head. Today all I could think was that I don’t really want to be doing this. And then I would think, this type of defeatist thinking is not terribly helpful. And then I would think, hey, where’s the music?

After maybe 15 minutes, it was clear that I just wasn’t into it. Scott suggested we take a break, as were were right next to a grassy park, ringed with redwoods, oaks, and ornamental plums. We laid the bikes in the grass and then lay ourselves down. Damp, thick grass, bright warm sun, blue sky. I ate my delicious Larabar. “Hey, isn’t this what we were doing at home?” Scott said.

Well, yes, and it was nice to be laying around outside, rather than in, and on grass that we don’t have to weed.

To get home, we rode down the hill, rather than walked. Or, I should say, we FLEW. I had the sense that if I used the brakes less, I might not only enjoy it more, but also might enjoy more stability. But, I am who I am (Popeye?) — so I flew part of the time, and firmly ground down the brake pads part of the time. That’s what they’re for, right?

As we returned the bikes to the garage, I turned to Scott and said brightly, “That was a success.” Because it was. Despite all of my mental and emotional resistance, we HAD gotten on the bikes. It happened. I rode. A bit. And that bit, being evidence that the resistance did not entirely win out in the end, counts.