After completing 36 sun salutes on Thursday night and 24 the night before to celebrate summer solstice, thanks to the three-minute plank-off queen Rosemary Cross, I got back in the saddle yesterday to stave off the calf muscle cramps I’ve woken up to lately. My body’s getting stronger, right?
I marvel at a passing neighbor and how she keeps such superhuman pace. By all appearances she seems better than the lukewarm response at my inquiry into her morning so far. She replies, “I’m moving along. What else can we do?” I hope to do half as well as her octogenarian self at that age.
Three little birds on a telephone wire spy on me from above, as if Bob Marley’s prediction comes to life, and I scold a previous me having tossed cans out the car window in a seeming previous life in hope Lake Ozark aluminum recyclers might benefit at my delinquency. Bemoaning that mistake in the last half of my life is weak penance for all the aluminum I now see strewn along the roadside.
Beyond all I notice on my bike “training” route, I still flinch at the thought of attempting 150 miles this autumn. My stretch up and down this trek remains arduous as well as my attitude toward it.
I see you smiling at me, woman at the crossroad stop sign … is that derision or is my face as red as it feels? Let’s both hope it’s only oxygen rushing to my brain, and first responders don’t find your mini-van’s tire tracks across my mangled remains in the ditch some future day. That’s why I’m on the county highway, not only tracking my so-called mileage progress but making sure my mangled carcass is found so my family can claim it at the morgue. Gallows humor does little to help lighten the current mood. And Bob Seger’s chorus resounding in my head reminds me running against the wind is likely prescient for our future team route.
The universe continues teaching its lessons. I now realize first-hand what the saying “kick it into high gear” really means though I’m not great at doing so. Staying visible in the curves is tantamount to keeping the legs in motion, though I’ve yet to actually “clip in,” still scared to make that pedal commitment.
Yet each time the fly-catcher stays empty is a successful ride indeed.