As a child, I remember the book The Velveteen Rabbit Or How To Become Real. The fuzzy stuffed bunny longed to become alive. To interact with and be accepted by his friends. This story came to me as I struggled up only the second hill of many as I rode in my first century.
I have never considered myself an athlete. I played plenty of sports in high school, but never paid attention to proper form and was not disciplined enough to take any of them seriously. In my 18 years since then, I have always been one to exercise semi-regularly - but not out of the love of movement - more out of the fear of becoming fat. It wasn't until I began to take Spinning classes that I actually began to look forward to my daily workout. There was something different about Spin. There was a common goal and purpose among everyone seated on those stationary Spinners. We worked together, sometimes even cheering each other on. A rush set in each time the 55 minute class come to an end.
The months that preceded my embarking on this 'Spinning obsession' had been some of the most trying months of my life. Everything felt out of my control. Like many women, I found there was one thing in my life I could control - food. I eventually stopped eating almost altogether - dropping not only weight, but valuable muscle. I didn't realize how weak I had become until I was trying to carry a bag of groceries and a sleeping 3 year old up the stairs to my kitchen. I couldn't make it halfway. This had been a task I had done many times over in my then 5 years of motherhood. Yet I was unable now - thanks to wrecking by my body through borderline anorexia. But Spinning gave me a reason to eat. If I didn't eat, I couldn't make it through class. Simple. I began to take Spinning seriously, including diet, and eventually became a certified 'indoor cycling' instructor. Teaching was even better than taking. It satisfied the control freak in me and gave me something new to look forward to each day.
Fast forward a few months. It occurred to me that since I loved to ride the bike in Spin class, maybe I would really like riding outside. Spring was in the air and the flowers were all beginning to bloom. There was just one problem. I had not been on a "real" bike since I was 15 years old. Furthermore, I knew little to nothing about bikes, bike gear, or bike anything. Problem.
Being the obsessive compulsive that I am, I dove into books, the Internet, and everywhere else I could in order to learn everything bike related. I read books by women, for women. I read Chris Charmichael/Lance Armstrong training books. I read bike magazines. I read countless bike reviews on countless websites. When I was satisfied enough with my bike book smarts, I braved my first bike shop visit.
Fast forward. A month and two bike purchases and exchanges later - I had my bike. A blue Orbea Onix. Smooth and sweet. Although I must confess the bike I REALLY wanted was the Orbea Diva. Ahhh..... the pink and black carbon frame. I dream about it sometimes. (Is that wrong?).
So, now I own a $2000 bike, $99 pedals, $110 sweet shoes, $45 helmet, etc. Now what? Oh, ride it, you say? um.... ok..... How many falls can a carbon fiber bike frame withstand? So far about 25. You see, fitness only counted for half of my biking ability. Once I was up and riding, I could go all day. It was the stopping and starting that stalled my endeavors. Nevertheless, I felt so free on my bike (yet to be named) that something kept moving me to go back out. Was it stubbornness? Pride? Or simply the feeling of life's weights being lifted off of my shoulders as I rode on long rides by myself. Still, even through the euphoria of riding came a sense of dread. Getting on my bike and pushing off made me fall. Stopping my bike at intersections made me fall. And every time a car passed me it literally took my breath away - and not in a good way.
But, there was more. No matter how much I read, what kind of gear I had, or how much bike lingo I could speak, I still didn't feel like a real cyclist. You know what I mean. Part of the club. An insider. Frankly, if not for a few fantastic fellow Spin instructors and my best friend Staci encouraging me to keep on, I may have been Craigslist bound.
So there I was. Up at 6am on a dark, chilly Saturday morning. Excited and sickly nervous all at once. Staci had agreed to ride the century with me. One that promised to be the "perfect first century for riders of all levels." I had new shorts and legwarmers. A cutey-cute hot pink Livestrong jacket, and all the rest of my gear shoved into the back of my minivan. I met Staci and we headed to the hilly Sequatchie Valley.
We arrived 45 minutes late as a result of poor map reading abilities on my part. The parking lot was full of cars and empty bike racks. We hurried to get our numbers and unload. It seemed like it took us hours to bet our helmets on, shoes on, lip gloss on :). I think we were both stalling because we both had the same feeling of being out of the loop. We eventually got ourselves and stuff situated and headed out onto the road.
I immediately noticed my legs felt weak. Darn it, I knew I should have listened to my friend Charles who had warned me to either teach off the bike or ride easy in my spin class the night before. But I didn't listen and now I was paying for it. My leg warmers kept sliding down leaving a gap of skin showing. I felt more like a Tuesday afternoon stripper than a bike rider. At mile two, there was what the event promoters described as a "short, steep hill". It would have been more aptly named, "The freaking impossible wall".
As we rounded a corner, I saw it. No time to build momentum, I pushed as hard as I could to get up. Nope. My brain said, "Unclip! NOW!" But before my feet got the message, I was falling over, chin hitting the bike, head slamming onto the ground. I quickly jumped up, a bit dazed, blood dripping down my neck. I had a Kleenex in my pocket and stuffed it under my chinstrap. We walked our bikes up the hill. As we got to the top, only 15 minutes into our ride, I felt defeated and humiliated. I was embarrassed to be wearing a Livestrong jacket. "I'm not living strong", I thought to myself. "I don't belong here. I have no business calling myself a cyclist. I'm a fraud. I'm not real." Then the sun came out.
Throughout the next 8 or so hours, Staci and I had the time of our lives. We talked and laughed. I didn't obsess over mph or how many miles we had left. We stayed together some miles and rode apart others. But as much fun as I was having, my evil inner voice kept taunting me. "You don't belong here. Everyone else is way ahead. Those are the real cyclists. The ones who know how to properly wear leg warmers and ride in a paceline and draft. Those are the ones who deserve to wear that yellow bracelet." At first I agreed with this voice. "I know I'm not a real cyclist. But maybe no one will notice."
Then I got angry. At first I was angry at everyone else who was so far ahead of me. The bike riders that were doing this century ride as part of their bi-weekly training regimen. But the more I obsessed over it, I realized that no one person had made me feel this way. I had been treated more than kindly by every bike rider I had ever encountered. I was making myself feel this way. As soon as I realized that I was the snotty elitist holding myself to some unattainable standard, I began firing back.
"Let's see.....", I thought (or I may have even said it out loud, it's possible), "Which rider is raising two fantastic children practically on her own? Which rider works 40+ hours a week, teaches 5 spin classes a week, comes home makes dinner, does laundry, homework, reads and prays with her kids every night and still was up at 6am on a Saturday to accomplish this unbelievable daunting task? Hmmmmm?". That shut up the evil voice (for a while). But every time those thoughts crept in my head, I pushed them down and rode over them. I'm living strong. Not just on this ride today - but every day. Those roads became my roads. The cars were invading my space, not the other way around.
So, how do you become a real cyclist? Get on your bike and ride as hard and long as you can. Then next time, do a little better. I have become real. Maybe one day I'll be able to ride within an inch of another bike. Maybe not. Maybe I'll have that pink and black Diva. Maybe not. But you know what? I'm still a real cyclist.