Written Sept. 1 – posted Sept. 2 – because – job.
They say when you fall off a horse you have to get back on. Oh they, the mysterious and universal arbiters of all that is good and recommended. As a youngin’ growing up on and around horses I adhered literally to this old adage. I fell off a lot. I even practiced falling off to hammer the tuck and roll into my instincts. I started riding at the age of three and rode every single day with only a handful of exceptions until my twenties. Being on a horse was so second-nature that getting back on was never scary, even after my worst falls.
As a kid riding (and doing stupid things while straddling a 2 ton animal) I sustained four concussions, a broken arm, broken rib, broken nose, I once hit my head so hard I bit halfway through my lower lip and swallowed half a tooth – ever had an exposed nerve? It sucks – and over the years I broke every toe at least once and a handful of fingers. I fell off in the show ring and got back on in front of pitying spectators to finish my rounds; I fell off in the woods on fox hunts and got back on in front of impatient huntmasters (no easy feat when I was rocking less than four vertical feet ); and when my right arm was in a cast I rode one-handed or sans reins for months till it healed.
All this is to say that getting back on the horse has never been a challenge for me.
Getting back on the bike has been a different story. Clearly not all saddles are created equal in my psyche.
Today was my first ride since the crash. I’ve been hammering out miles on my trainer and teaching 3-4 spin classes a week, but so far I’d chickened out on actual rides. With Nations Tri looming large six days away today seemed like just the day to egg up and take Koopa Troop back out.
I recruited Scott (he said I can use his real name in this blog – it’s Scott!) to chaperone the first date back with Koopa Troop because I was terrified to be left alone with my dear new tri bike. (What would we talk about?!) After a shamefully late wake up which I rationalized to myself as my body still recovering from Mountain Time, scapegoating the weekend spent in New Mexico (more on that another time) I was able to procrastinate the ride further with three hours of our new TV addiction, The Strain. (You may think we don’t need another zombie show, but you’d be wrong.) Finally Scott gently but firmly said it was time to face the asphalt. I pissed and moaned as I pulled on some chamois, filled up water bottles, and superstitiously moved all my bike gear from the bag I’d used on crash day to a new bag.
When we got out to Yoshi the sky was hinting none-too-subtly at its intention to rupture and I took this foreboding shade of grey as an opportunity to rain more excuses down on poor, totally suspecting Scott. He deflected expertly suggesting we at least drive down to Hains Point to see if the skies would clear up. Begrudgingly grateful for his unyielding loyalty to my ambitions we loaded up Yosh and arrived at Hains Point just as the sky made good on its promise to open.
Sitting in the parking lot of the HP golf course we cranked up NPR and waited it out. The storm wore itself out furiously and quickly and moved on. Under the promise of a rainbow – I shit you not, a freaking rainbow – I got back in the saddle again.
My heart was racing as I swung my leg over and stepped down on the right peddle for the first time. I’m sure I looked like a wobbly child who’d moved from training wheels to very expensive real bike way too quickly as I literally practiced starting and stopping.
Scott and Birk trotted behind me the first slow, spasmodic mile. Once I felt a dash more secure (more secure, not actually secure secure, mind you) I headed off around the three mile loop on my own. I was embarrassed each time I glanced down at my bike computer clocking me at a blistering 12-13 mph. But I told myself just being on the bike was the first step (rotation).
I did three loops and change for a ten mile ride. After the first few miles I kicked it up and played with different gears (HP is pancake flat so the shifting was completely optional) and cranked the speed up a bit. I had a few miles that were back in my 17-19 mph wheelhouse. (A wheelhouse that is shockingly easy to hit on my sweet, sick Koopa Troop.)
What I did not do was clip in or ride out on my aeros. This presented some challenges as the shifters are at the end of the aeros, so I had to constantly reach out and back to change gears. Even those brief instances taking my hands off the bars were enough to ratchet up the heart rate though so I left it at that.
After I rejoined the dudes where they were sunning themselves in the golf course parking lot, I ran a quick mile to jog my legs’ memory of the bike-to-run transition. The busted ankle (more on that another time too) squawked a bit but in the 90+ degree heat I was able to put in an 8:07 mile and satisfy myself that of all the things that can and probably will suck on Sunday, hopefully the run will be a little bit of redemption.
Scott then took his turn to run while I hung out with KT and Birk. I did push-ups and tricep dips honoring the weirdo that I am while Birkin found something smelly to roll in as we waited for our better third. Then we three rank musketeers (ranketeers? musky-teers?) loaded back into poor Yoshi and headed home where we each had much needed bath time. (Each except Yoshi, I’m sorry dear lil green dinosaur! Your time is coming, I swear!)
In bed now I feel pretty good about the day, just in that it happened and that I put in a decent brick workout and forced myself back on the bike. But I’m also really sad about how scared I am, and shocked by that fear. Last night I lay awake anxious as hell to be riding again, and today I had to order myself out of my own head with every slow, passing mile. Before the crash I loved to ride, and now that joy has been replaced with near-paralyzing fear. I learned to ride a bike as a kid from my dad (seriously more about THAT one day) but really I picked up cycling as an adult, so that second nature instinct thing that led me easily back into the saddle every time I fell off my horse just isn’t there.
This crippling hesitation to cycle again is new to me, but I think it’s maybe a big part of what triathlon, and ultimately completing Ironman, is all about: obviously it’s a physically demanding sport but it’s the mental game that’s hardest. It’s finding ways not to let yourself off the hook; finding that one fiber that wants to go on when every other fiber of your being shrieks to go to brunch. I’m still developing and honing my tricks and tools to keep pushing it. One such trick/tool I employed today and have to my embarrassment been caught using in races past is singing showtunes while I bike. (Today’s tour included selections from In the Heights – homage to my Washington Heights-born pops perhaps?) This is actually a trick I used to keep my horse in high school calm in the show ring. (He was as afraid of squirrels as I now am of biking, much to the detriment of my physical well-being.)
As great and mortifying as my singing may be, the more important and foolproof trick or tool is a support system. Be it two or four-legged I’ve got that in spades. Scott and I started dating as I was discovering this silly, wonderful, stupid sport and both my dude and my races challenge and nurture me in a pretty phenomenal way. Now I’m waxing wa-ha-hayyy more sentimental than I ever meant to on this blog, but it’s been a humbling part of this journey, and I know I won’t make it to the M-Dot finish line sometime next year without that support. So here’s to regrowing that strength and joy on the bike, and to never forgetting that there’s a really hot guy (and adorable dog!) who keeps picking me up when I fall. No matter how bad I smell.