When I decided to bike to work, I had an image of myself on a bike with a beautiful, shiny, brunette wicker basket holding my over-designed notebooks and a strategically tossed Oxford #2 pencil.  Peddling down the trail dappled in sunlight I entertained the idea of being overcome by the beauty of nature. Never did it occur to me that I would have to use my big, fat thigh muscles to make the freakin' bike move.

The children and I picturesquely closed the gate to the courtyard in front of our house this morning and strolled down the sidewalk chattering and pushing the bicycle. It was obvious the kids held me in high esteem because I was pushing the cool-ass bike. My son held on to one of the handlebars as we walked in an attempt to glean some of the coolness.

Demonstrating my strength, I hoisted the bike onto the front of the bus and feigned humbleness as I casually dangled my helmet on two fingers and took my seat amongst the regulars. Like my children, I could tell that my bus friends were in awe of the bike as well.

When the children were deposited to their classroom I actually got on the bike and sailed down the hill from the school.  Cars zipped past. Holes appeared in the road. Traffic lights changed colors. A continuous mental movie looped in my mind where I watched myself crash into the cement and felt a bone jam into the pavement.  The movie's next scene showed the bike wheel getting caught in a hole and my body flipping over the handle bars with my face skidding against the road.

The movie subsided somewhat when the hills came because my body was overtaken by disbelief.  It seemed impossible that my heart could keep up with the demand of the rushing blood in my body.  Also, my back was aching from my thoroughly packed backpack. It occurred to me to toss my MacBook to the ground in an attempt to lighten the load.

Then the math started. Whenever I find myself in physical straits, my mind starts calculating. "If it took  X minutes to get from 29th Street to 15th Street, then it should take X minutes to get to my destination. However, I increase my speed, which would involve using 3% more energy thus causing my heart to burst from my skin, then I could arrive in X minutes."  When the math overtakes my mind, there is no stopping it, even if I beg myself to turn off the dividing and projecting.

Of course, toward the end of the trip my extra comfortable fashionable, yet functioning shoes are digging into my skin, and I can't even begin to explain how the bones that once widened enough to birth a baby have begun to feel.  Suffice it say, I know how that girl in the Story of O must have felt when she underwent genital mutilation, which if I recall The Story of O was sexual pleasure for O (sidenote: if you have not read The Story of O, DON'T!! The images from that book have ruined me. It's like seeing Nightmare on Elm Street - there is no need to invite Freddy Kruger into your mind.) Of course, the soreness doubled, no tripled, when I got back on the bike in the afternoon.

Tomorrow, I am going to take bus.

Comments

[Polly]

Yikes! You're brave for getting back on in the afternoon. I would have called someone and demanded a ride.

[Shelly]

You did not go there!! I have blocked "The Story of O" out of my mind for these many years and I do not want it back in. Plus, I may never ride my bike again!

[Avery]

Although equating a punishing bike ride to "The Story of O" is quite a vivid piece of mental imagery, I'm going to go bash my skull to erase it from my consciousness, if you don't mind. Otherwise I'll be thinking about that everytime I get on my own bike. (Hey, I've taken those rides. I totally get you! Just don't want to think about it!) ;o)