I had my first “oh shit” moment on the road bike today. After a wonderful 40-minute ride that overly inflated my confidence in my ability to handle clip-ins, I found myself wrecked and pinned under my bike—in my own driveway. I yelled for the neighbors, but was kind of glad when I got no response. Embarrassment and pain were of fairly equal measure before the blood even started flowing.

The fall came from stupidity, but it scared the hell out of me and taught me a lesson I won’t forget. My house is on a steep hill, and I wanted one last, quick rush of powering up a hill before I left the great outdoors for the overrated indoors. I challenged the driveway hill with more effort than I intended, and quickly found myself facing the chain link fence at the top. Great, I thought, as I slowed the bike. Just turn your heel to the outside, and your shoe will pop right out of the pedal, and… it didn’t.

I had nowhere to go but sideways and down. I felt like a redwood crashing to the ground, and with both of my feet still locked into the pedals, I twisted awkwardly in a panic reminiscent of those dreams where you try to run but your feet won’t go. The first impact was my right hip on the concrete, quickly followed by my right hand, elbow, shoulder, and knee.

When I saw the bike pinned down on my body and realized I was still locked into the pedals, I yelled for the neighbors. It was a half-hearted yell, and by its wimpy volume, I consciously realized what I subconsciously already knew: I’d gotten myself into this mess, and I needed to get myself out.

The first order of business was assessing my hip. It hurt terribly much, and I instantly thought of the broken hips I’ve been studying in school. Once I decided the hip was intact, I took off my helmet, pulled my water bottle from its cage, and tried to calm my dogs, who were going nuts on the other side of the fence. I took a sip of water, stared at the bike, and wondered how to get my feet loose.

As with all traumatic events, big and small, there’s a time period where you don’t know what happened. I don’t know how I got my feet free, but I did, and then I somehow pushed the bike away, heaved myself up, and took off those damned cycling shoes. The bike and I looked equally trashed—not too bad, but both would’ve rather the crash not happened.

I’m quite sure that a throbbing, hit-by-a-truck feeling will set in tomorrow morning, but for now, I say this to all you rookie cyclists out there—what those veterans told us, that crashing is inevitable—is true. And yes, when you’re falling, it feels like the scariest moment of your life. But once you’re picking up the pieces, it’s not so bad.

I was lucky, and I hope you are, too. Keep riding, friends. Tipping over in our driveways is what keeps us honest. If we aren’t occasionally reminded of our mortality, we might not remember how good it feels to be alive and able to pedal.

A 45-minute run through in the rain reminded me to pay attention to the finer points in life.

5. Flattery and human kindness. I noticed an SUV slowing down at an intersection in front of me, and figured the driver was probably lost. As I got closer, I heard his transmission clunk into park, and then the driver’s door opened. A fetching fellow wearing snazzy clothes stepped out and very cutely (and awkwardly) asked, “Do you, um, need, uh, a ride back or something?” He pointed at the sky. “Cause I mean, it’s raining…” I thanked him and refused his offer, briefly explaining that I was getting soaked on purpose. He drove away, and I smiled like a schoolgirl until the next steep hill. Sure, he could’ve been a serial killer, but the flattery felt good, especially since I’m still alive to write about it.

4. Freedom. Heavy rain and cloud-cover offered a break from sweltering summer heat. Being the only pedestrian in sight made me feel insane, but in a good, fun way. I embraced freedom because I chose to get out and run like I’d hoped to all day, even though the storm tried its best to convince me to stay on the couch. I did, however, wait until there was no lightning in sight. I like to feel free, not fried.

3. Indulgence. Waffle Cone Wednesday didn’t turn into gut rot after I ran off some of the calories. I had a scrumptious blend of peanut butter and vanilla in my cone, and running made me feel completely justified in my choice to gobble down the frozen yogurt and every speck of cone.

2. Trees. There’s no gentler, more beautiful tear than the one that rolled off a magnolia leaf and down my cheek. The water was cool and clean and earthy. A simple offering from a tree felt like a priceless gift from a wise old soul.

1. Appreciation. I saw more of the world around me than I could’ve ever seen had I peered through a window. As I flew through my favorite park—really, running felt like flying today—I couldn’t believe what a perfect rainbow arched across the landscape. Maybe people thought I was a slightly off-shade leprechaun in my high-vis shirt, but I didn’t care. The few cars around me drove through raindrops and away from what looked like an artist’s rendering of a classic rainbow. I knew that even if they looked out their windows and saw it, I had the better view. The rainbow seemed to drop one of its sides into the bayou, and I gleefully ran toward the bridge to see if it really did fall into the water. It didn’t, but as I crested the bridge, pelicans soared over my head in the multi-colored sky. Every bit of my slice of earth was in sharp, stunning focus. There’s something about rain that brings out the best details of life, and the resulting musty shoes are well worth a run in the rain.

Some of my toys.

To preface this post, I’d like to clear up any potential misconception about my view of age. Most of my sports heroes are in their fifties and beyond, and I fully recognize that they’re really good at what they do—it’s just that most of them have been really good their whole lives.

A rapidly approaching a birthday, becoming wiser, getting older—whatever you choose to call it—comes with a bit more reflection this year than past years, perhaps because I’m about to leave a packed, wonderful, and tumultuous decade behind. I’m taking stock of what I’ve done with my life so far, and how I compare to who I thought I’d be when I got this… old.

I distinctly remember a giggle-laden conversation with a friend in high school, and that the giggles stopped when we thought about how “being twenty” would make us strong-headed adults with long lists of accomplishments and maybe even a pair of Weimaraners. Twenty seemed so out of reach, but now it’s out of reach in the other direction. There’s a list of accomplishments, but it’s certainly not what I thought it would be, and the Weimaraners were bypassed in favor of foundling mutts.

What was bypassed in athletic terms was the ability to be really good—maybe even great—at something. Kids are getting recruited and drafted and molded into stars in various sports while in their preteen years, and talent is most certainly identified before the end of college. For a multitude of reasons, not the least of which was my lack of dedication and/or talent, I missed my window to be great, to be wealthy beyond comprehension from sporting success before a gray hair sprouted, and to have “that body.” Insert your favorite celebrity sports idol’s body in the previous sentence, and you know what I mean.

Sprawled on the deck, swatting mosquitoes and spraying my aching legs with cold hose water under the hot sun, I relished some weekend time to consider that I’d just run for an hour. As the water made whitish rivers of sunscreen on my stubbly legs, I felt like something more than UVA protection was leaving my body. I recognized a profound sense of loss. I will never be really good at anything.

The shock, the hurt, and almost a few tears eventually brought about eerie calmness. It’s freeing, in a way, to recognize that the only competition I have to worry about now is fighting with myself to stay fit and try new activities. Not such a bad life after all, although the riches and free clothes would’ve been quite nice, had I found remarkable athletic success.

Although my glass of water was not only half empty, but three-quarters empty, I looked at the glass and realized it was only losing volume because I chose to drink from it. In that sense—choosing to drink, to engage with life—I’d much prefer an empty glass to a half-full one. So long, rotten cliché. My glass may be half empty, but it’s because I’m thirsty.

Ready to ride

I thought I might chicken out as I clomped down the steep driveway in new cycling shoes. My loyal friend, who agreed to play human training wheels for the day, guided my bike down the hill so as to not complicate my descent. I remembered watching another friend fall awkwardly on the soccer field in high school and hearing her collarbone snap. By the time I got to the street, I was most certain my collarbone would be broken in at least three places from spilling off the bike.

The ride started out well, although the human training wheels routine—friend holding seat and top tube while I clipped in—was absolutely necessary. Once my feet were in, I felt a surprising oneness with the bike, and charged happily up the hill toward my first intersection. I don’t live in a high-traffic area, so I was pretty sure I’d be able to pull through a left turn without a full stop.

Not so. “The Cat Lady,” as she is affectionately known by many neighbors, had chosen that exact moment to come roaring up the hill in her ancient, spray-painted Mercury Marquis. I felt a moment of panic, remembered my intact collarbone, and concentrated on swinging a right turn instead of my intended left. I glided happily onto the open road, and could already tell the improved efficiency and comfort brought by switching to cycling shoes. I actually felt more stable on the bike, and buzzed around the block to return home to show off my skills.

The coolest part of the ride—it was only about a ten-minute jaunt, but I’ve learned to build up new things slowly and quit while I’m ahead—was being passed by a sleek, black Mercedes. The driver gave me a wide birth, and I could tell he had to press harder on the gas pedal than he originally intended to get around me, because I was almost doing the speed limit, and most people don’t expect that of a biker.

Getting off the bike might have been a bit of a problem without my dear training wheels, but the whole thing seemed dangerously effortless. I got off the bike feeling exhilarated and confident, and I can’t wait to clip in and ride again. I may fall next time, but the initial sting of fear is gone, and I’m sure glad to not have to attach to this post the picture I had in mind—a view of the emergency room ceiling.

Bike shoes

Today is the day, both dreaded and anticipated, that I take my road bike around the neighborhood for the first time with my feet clipped into the pedals. For those unfamiliar with such technology, as I was, for roughly $100 you can buy the strangest pair of shoes you’ll ever own, then fork out more dough for strange pedals, then hop on your bike and hope you don’t die. The goal is bigger bang for your buck—better pedaling efficiency, and less likelihood that any turn of the legs will be a wasted effort. Sold.

Underside of bike shoes

I have pretty good balance, but the idea of my feet locking into a pair of shoes that require a perfect pivot to release from pedals is terrifying. Every cyclist I’ve talked to has given me the same bottom line: I’ll fall a few times, but then I’ll get used to the clipped-in method and love it. They act like falling is no big deal. One friend even laughed when she described tipping over at a stop sign. While I’m glad they’re all okay, I’m not made of rubber like they seem to be. When I fall—even slip in a puddle in my own driveway—something snaps or pops or just plain hurts. I don’t bounce and keep going.

I’ve practiced with my funny shoes and funny cleats on an indoor bicycle trainer for a while, but the monotony of staring at the wall has forced my adventurous spirit to take to the road. It’s a “road bike,” after all.

I’ll not undertake this challenge without help. I perused the aisles of Wal-Mart and seriously considered affixing training wheels to my bike, but came up with a less embarrassing solution. I’ll have a good friend—the kind of friend who’s rare and wonderful enough to indulge my odd requests—act as human training wheels. She’ll hold my seat and the top tube of my bike until I get the shoes to lock into the pedals, sort of like my dad did when I first zoomed down the street on two wheels. I’ll loop around the block, then come to a gentle stop and have her grab my bike again while I try to click out of the pedals. Foolproof? Hopefully. I’ll wear a helmet, mouthpiece, and maybe some kneepads just in case.

It’s hot and humid, the first of August, and high time to find out if I can even begin to imagine what it feels like to be Lance Armstrong. Plus, I mailed in my health insurance premium yesterday, which always gives me a tingling desire to try something stupid. I look forward to the follow-up to this post, because if I write it, it means I’ve survived. Outta my way, neighbors!

Shoe details: Shimano SPD-SL RD86. Two velcro straps across the forefoot, plus a ratchet-style strap that adjusts smoothly, even in a hurry. Nice cushioning inside, with a removable insole.

Organic Bean Salad

Beans—fiber, protein, sometimes gas-producing. Yum?

Yep.

If you’d told me as a child that one day I’d not only be eating beans, but actually consuming them by choice, I’d have thrown a tater tot at you. Age and nutritional understanding led me to put down the tater tots and reach for food that doesn’t require dredging a mound of ketchup before eating.

I ran across a colorful bean salad while at a conference in New York, but was disappointed in its taste. A mayonnaise-ish film coated the beans, and the spices weren’t quite right. I liked the basics though, and as soon as I got home, I set about making my own version of a bean salad. It’s quick, cheap, and addictive (kinda like tater tots, right?).

I use all organic ingredients (except the vinegar, which I can’t find locally in an organic variety). You’ll need:

1 can black beans

1 can dark red kidney beans

1 can garbanzo beans

1 can no-salt-added corn

Extra virgin olive oil

Red wine vinegar

Sea salt

Black pepper

Rinse and drain the beans and corn in a colander. Combine all ingredients in a large bowl and stir, taking care not to smash the beans. I go light on the oil—about one tablespoon—and heavy on the vinegar. I also don’t use a set amount of salt and pepper, but frequent taste-testing will tell you when you have the right mix. Cover and refrigerate the salad for a few hours, then stir and eat with friends.

I’m pretty impressed with my bean salad, both for its simplicity and good flavor. Make your own version and let me know how it goes.

Some days, or weeks, life seems to work against fitness ambition. The second week of November epitomized that week for me. I decided to run my second-ever 5K, and was hoping for perfect preparation. Instead, here’s what I got, blow-by-blow, with no ugly details spared:

• Forgot to bring dinner to work, so had to buy on-site meal that tasted a little funky. Became close acquaintance of toilet most of the following day.
•  Night before the race, reluctantly went to dinner with friends. Still skeptical of prepared food after very recent recovery from flushfest. Ordered chicken salad, got a beautifully prepared dinner plate, stuck my fork in the salad, and found a ginormous human hairball in the middle. Chicken, mayonnaise, and hair. Enough said.
• Went home to get some rest before race (and try to get hairball image out of my head), choked on a gulp of water, ran to the sink to spit it out, and rammed my forehead into the stainless steel faucet. Small goose egg, big headache.
• Bedtime routine seemed like a safe haven. Took long, warm shower to wash away the food poisoning, hairball, and possible concussion. Stepped out of shower onto plush rug and a sizable shard of porcelain from a broken nicknack. Pain, blood, and defeat. I’d cut the bottom of my foot less than 12 hours pre-race! 

Luckily, after some careful washing and Band-Aiding, the week’s drama was over, and I went to sleep. And, shockingly, I didn’t fall out of bed or trip over a dog in the middle of the night. Perhaps this week backs up the no pain, no gain theory– I ran a more than three-minute personal best, which required powering (and wheezing) through the race at a pace I never imagined running. I do hope the next pre-5k week is at least hairball-free though. I’d sacrifice a few seconds of gain to be spared that pain.

Last-minute fitting of my backpack before hopping into my loaded-down Civic for a drive to the beach for a 16-mile hike.

The typical Honda Civic seats five humans. Mine, however, seats one, or two if somebody doesn’t mind discomfort. It’s not that I don’t want friends riding with me– it’s just not possible with my active pack rat lifestyle. I’ll go space by space to explain (and this is just stuff that’s in there today, after a recent cleaning).

First, the front passenger seat. A bicycle helmet, a newly purchased pair of work shoes so my feet don’t hurt after long hours of exercise and walking hospital floors, an empty bottle of Naked Superfood Green Machine, and various receipts for athletic paraphernalia. Foot room? Uh-uh. On the floorboard is a bike pump, a water bottle, some dirty athletic socks, and a pair of running shoes. While we’re looking around up front, I should mention the console. The cup holder on the right has a gym membership card and a pack of gum (to avoid gym breath). The one on the left has registration information for a nearby 5K. Really, where would you sit?

To the back seat. From one end to the other, without 1/2 inch wiggle room, is most of my Novara bike. On the floorboards is its front wheel, plus two clean pairs of running socks, another empty water bottle, and a sweatshirt that should’ve been washed three workouts ago. Plus, there’s the general funk that comes with sporty things kept in a confined space.

I like to think of my car as a second home, or maybe a bit like a mobile storage shed for gear in case the urge to pull over and get active strikes. Have I killed my gas milage yet? Maybe, but you can bet I’ll be ready for any impromptu fitness gatherings in town.

Sure, my crotch had been hating me for wearing running shorts while riding my new bike, but black spandex with a pink pad? Are you kidding me?

Pink padding on the inside of the shorts.

After listening to my complaints of agonizing rides, the bike shop tech handed me two sizes of the strangest-looking black spandex shorts I’ve ever seen. Neither looked big enough to house half of my butt, but I eased into the bathroom anyway, ready to be compressed into comfort.

As I flipped the shorts inside out to see what would protect my precious parts, the first thing that stood out was the bright pink maxi-pad-like insert in the crotch. I’d imagined black, gel-like material, but the pink stuff seemed to be cotton or other cloth and felt-lined. I flipped them right-side-out and wriggled into them.

The second surprise was the waistband, although its irregularity quickly made sense. The back of the shorts came up way higher than the front—by way higher, I mean up to my middle ribs, compared to waistline in the front. Common sense quickly decoded the strangeness, and I bent over in front of the mirror as though I were riding my bike. No skin exposure. So, no funny tan lines, no unexpected sunburns, and maybe a little less chance of drivers honking at me. (Why in the world do people honk and yell at exercisers, anyway? Has anyone ever met a significant other or good friend by blowing the horn at someone who’s in the midst of a workout?)

Higher in back than in front... no one will get mooned!

Fashion-wise, the shorts were atrocious. The larger size was worse, although it felt slightly more comfortable at the waist. The padded butt pooched out like a diaper. The smaller size didn’t pooch as much and fit me better in the thighs, and although I didn’t feel like I’d found a true winner, I chose the smaller shorts because I figured most of the apprehension I felt was due to complete inexperience with padded shorts.

Thank the bike gods for getting me over my fashion faux paus moment and pushing me to buy the $39.99 Trek shorts. The next ride (largely also due to my new bicycle seat) was not only tolerable, but actually fun. I spent 40 minutes on what were probably slightly underinflated tires for the sheer joy of riding. A little spandex (and padding) goes a long way, and when I headed for home but would have preferred riding longer, I knew the real reason people love to bike: it’s a fast, fun, and comfortable workout. Three cheers for weird shorts!

Tech Specs for Trek Women’s Club Short, as claimed on tag: flat seams; polyester spandex; quick dry; silicon at leg openings; non-stretch chamois (crotch area).

Presta valve

I can easily lift the Novara with one hand. My beloved mountain bike, an old Diamondback Sorrento, can be picked up awkwardly and requires a grunt or two if lifted with one hand. I had a feeling from the first time I picked up the new bike and felt that it was no heavier than my beagle that I would be able to fly on it, and probably crash pretty bad, too. I thought about what my instructor said when I went through Emergency Medical Technician school (although he was referring to motorcyclists): “there are two kinds of bikers. Those who’ve crashed their bikes, and those who will.”

I like my teeth, and I’d rather not bust them out, so I put some serious thought into wearing a motorcycle helmet with a faceguard while riding the Novara, but decided that that was not only ridiculous, but impractical. I stuck with my years-old gray and black Giro that has seen me through zero crashes on my Rollerblades, Diamondback, and ancient Natas skateboard. If I crash the Novara, I’ll try to aim for the ground with something other than my mouth.

The first time I rode it, I felt like I needed my dad to firmly grip the back of the seat and safely guide me forward like he had when I rode the Schwinn I got for my 5th birthday. The forefoot straps on the Novara were intimidating even on the loosest setting, and I couldn’t figure out how to up-shift. After some awkward stopping, starting, and cursing, I got going pretty good. Stopping was scary, because I wasn’t used to the vertical brake position.

Then I discovered the real problem: hitting tiny bumps that I never knew existed in my neighborhood was like turning the Novara seat into a genital jackhammer. Holy hell. I tried standing on the pedals for relief, but that was hard unless I was going uphill. I took the pain and eked out 30 minutes of practice. The bike will definitely fly, but I’m not ready to lift off just yet. I have two missions before I ride it next anyway—figure out a solution to the crotch ramming, and buy a pump that will inflate what I think, thanks to that handy Internet research recommended by the salesman, are called Presta valves. My generic, standard pump is useless to the fancy valves on my new machine. I really wish the bike came with a manual.