I’m not a cyclist.

But about a year ago, my cyclist husband suggested that during our annual summer trip to Spain to see his family, we should take 10 days to bike through the Pyrenees mountains.

I said sure.   I could do that.   (I must have been drunk).

We bought touring bikes and panniers.   I tried my first hard uphill ride–Latigo Canyon in Malibu–and didn’t even get halfway.   In the alley behind our condo, I practiced unclipping my shoes from the pedals and braking.   The first time I fell flat on my side I almost cried it hurt so bad.  The second time too.  A neighbor pulling into his parking spot saw me sprawled on the pavement, still locked into the bike, and my face went red.  I slunk inside and inspected the giant spot on my ass where deep bruises were beginning to form.  I’m a 41 year old woman, I thought.  I don’t need this.

But for some reason I kept doing it.  Probably because we had already dropped a small fortune on bike stuff.   The employees at REI practically knew us by name.  So we made it our mission to “train.”  We rode every weekend.  We kept going up Latigo Canyon.   My wrists and lower back ached.   My bike was a foreign object that I had to bend my body to fit, and it didn’t fit.  Once I did get up the 10 miles to the top of Latigo, the wind going downhill was so cold I would have killed to pedal uphill again just to get warm.  Each time we finished riding I would stumble off the bike exhausted, hands tingling and chilled to the bone.  The months went by and the weather warmed but the uphill climb was always unfathomably hard and the downhill was always frigid.   Often somewhere around uphill mile six in a hot, dizzy delirium I would pray for a mountain lion to jump out and attack me.   It would have been a mercy.

And then before I knew it we were in Spain.   We spent a week with my mother-in-law getting fattened up and then we began our ride.     The day to day pains and joys of that trip are archived here…

Our next trip is summer 2013, riding from Geneva to Nice, through the French Alps.  My husband has instructed me to prepare myself for longer rides, steeper climbs, and possibly colder temperatures.   I’m not sure why I continue with this mad hobby.   Definitely doing it with my husband has brought us closer– like war buddies.  The post-ride endorphins are nice too.  But also I guess its the challenge, and the way doing something really physically difficult forces me out of my head and onto the task at hand.   I’m not talking to you while writing an email.  I’m not texting at a red light.  I’m not on the phone dealing with a work crisis while cooking dinner while pushing the cat off the counter while call waiting beeps with another work crisis while having to pee.   I’m aware that this constant distraction rules most of my life.  It has the power–if I’m not vigilant–to turn my eyes from a glorious sunset or ignore an opportunity to belly-laugh.  And then I get stressed, depressed, anxious.  Although I’ve been doing it my whole life, I realize my soul was never designed to multi-task.

But biking 10 miles up a big steep hill is simple.    I don’t have to do it well or quickly or with good hair.  All I have to do is keep pedaling.