Like(s) Riding a Bike

In the basement, in the rehab room, is a wall calendar where days exercised are ticked off with brief description by way of Sharpie pen. Not a training journal, nor a download of a Heart Rate or Wattage meter files to make bike riding akin to work in terms of graphs and charts and nonsense, but a simple reminder of general improvement, trends and routines I fall into or want to maintain. The calendar shows the rhythm of reconstruction.

I look at the rollers leaning against the wall or the bike bolted to the stationary trainer with disdain. I've spent more time in the last two-years riding nowhere than to somewhere. The little window fan covering the view of moss taking control of my crabgrass lawn reminds me that putting this Humpty Dumpty back together is now best done outside, not in a basement.

The bitter cold of winter is hopefully out of my hip. The dampness of day after day of rain soon to be shaken from my elbow. Bike rides are more regularly denoted on the calendar. Friends call after races they've won or epic rides they've completed. Anxious to share their accomplishments. I ride with them occasionally on their recovery days. They pedal slowly, and talk. I breath hard, my heart in my throat, the strong leg fatigues. The lactic acid burn is a reminder to force the weak leg to work. But slowly the supplesse is coming back...like riding a bike.

The pelvis pain is like new again after so much time off the bike. MMA fighters work to deaden the nerve endings in their forearms and shins in an effort to better take the fury of a fight. Cyclists need time in the saddle to toughen the soft tissue of contact points. Add a lump of bone mass that feels like a third elbow to the equation as well as knowing how much time and effort it took once already to make it tolerable and suddenly I'm more motivated to sit on the couch and watch Charles Barkley re-learn his game on the Golf Channel.

But the friends continue to call. Continue to tell of how awesome the new stage race was or how the coastal epic ride will be better next year if I am there to make fun of. They force me through threats of embarrassment to ride to the top of Mt. Tabor before heading home after pedestrian paced rides. I am reminded that the place where I feel most comfortable is on a bike.

Last week as the sun shone I put Gavin in the milk crate on the front of my Schwinn. He was content to sit and watch our block repeat itself lap after lap focusing on what landmarks we were passing along the sidewalk. I found more satisfaction hearing him make noises as we rounded corners than I have on a bike in a long time. Later, while running errands, we bought him a helmet so his grandmothers won't abuse me for him riding around the block without the proper protection. I tried an old leather Cinelli helmet on him, but he was more interested in chewing it than wearing it.