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.

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.

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.

Novara Carema

Road cycling is not a cheap and uncomplicated sport, and that has become even more apparent as my adventures have progressed from initial bicycle purchase through rides and upgrades. In a multi-part series, I’ll share the ups, downs, and everything in between about my initial affair with a road bike.

“Does this thing come with a book or a manual or something,” I asked, hoping the salesman had left the instructions for my new bike on his desk. He grinned and said, “Internet research is your best friend.”

In seconds, the front wheel was off the Novara, and the rest of the bike fit tightly across the back seat of my car. Seriously, no manual, and $4 extra for a water bottle cage? I remember buying my Diamondback mountain bike years ago from a different store, and it came with a manual, and not only a cage, but a handy bottle in the cage. I guess the economy’s putting the thumbscrews to the bicycle industry. I left feeling a bit like I might have just wasted a lot of money on a suicide machine. It wasn’t that the bike guy was bad—he just assumed that I knew at least the basics, and I don’t. I felt exhilarated and stupid, which provoked a random food craving. I drove to the nearest fast food Indian restaurant in town. Sadly, the vegetable korma and saffron rice weren’t what I’d hoped, and all I could really do was worry that someone was stealing my new bike as I downed a bowl of Veg-All soaked in fancy spices.

I wondered if I’d develop boney arms and big calves like I see on the Tour de France guys, and then I remembered that I haven’t developed eight-pack abs like I see on Olympic runners. I’m still not sure why when I start a new activity I compare my potential to the best of the best. I should have learned my lesson when I pitched college softball and walked in so many runs that the other teams started swinging at my wild pitches out of boredom or pity or both.

A five-hour drive back to my hometown afforded me with several rearview mirror shots of the bike, and I tried to see it for what I bought it for: a fun, new way to stay fit and active. By hour four of the drive, I wanted to ride the bike the rest of the way home. Thank God I didn’t.

FitChronicles.com is in its infancy, and to celebrate its birth, I’d like to share a quick slice of the day the site was conceived.

“Does it matter between these two?” I asked the REI salesman, as I pointed to two identically priced Novara road bikes. I was ashamed to say why I asked, but decided I should say whatever I wanted since I was about to spend September’s rent on a bicycle.

“No,” he said, and looked at me a little oddly, like maybe I just seemed like an athlete, and maybe I needed a remedial course with training wheels. I took a deep breath and admitted my reason.

“I like the yellow one. It’s prettier than the red one.”