One summer evening (pre-trainer days), my husband Kent asked if I wanted to take a ride through the neighboorhood.
“Am I ready for that?” I asked, thinking of roads, curbs, cars, etc.
“You’ll be fine,” he said with his typical confidence.
So far, we’d ridden on rail trails, and not always with a lot of success. Like, the time I was riding and some little 4 or 5 year old kid kept riding circles around me. Or, the time I fell sideways into a bush, and an old man rode by and rang his bell. Yep. I was not certain I was ready for graduation from rail trails. Plus, I always thought that Kent had a tendency to think I could do more than I was actually ready for. Eventually, I learned that this wasn’t necessarily the case, and had a lot to do with my own fears and anxieties, but sometimes things he suggested made me NERVOUS.
So I said ok, we got ready, and set out. I’m on a mountain bike, flat pedals, sneakers, helmet. He’s very casual for just a ride around the block, nothing special, no helmet. He sets off ahead of me, setting the pace.
“SLOW DOWN!” I’m yelling, feeling like we’re going at breakneck speed as I wobble from one side of the sidewalk to the other.
“You’re fine!” he yells back.
I continue on, white-knuckling the handlebars, whole body completely stiff. We cross streets and navigate curbs. I am ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED. He decides riding would be easier in the street, so now I’m trying not to hit parked cars; god forbid should a moving car come into play. We come to a slight incline that I just can’t make, and I come to a stop. I have about 6 false starts before he tells me to just walk my bike up the hill to where it’s flat. About 3 more false starts and we’re on our way again.
It’s getting darker, which is also making me anxious. Kent says we’re going to have to pick up the pace to get home before dark. Pick up the pace?? I’m already going (what I feel to be) warp speed, and cannot imagine going any faster. But, being terrified, it getting darker and darker, and not being entirely sure where I was in my own neighborhood (I know, I know, it’s a real problem), I didn’t want to lose him, so against my better judgement, I picked it up a bit.
We’re back on the sidewalk, and lucky for me, it was trash night. Seeing as how I’d only ridden on flat, straight rail trails thus far, I’d really not had to worry much about obstacles. Suddenly, I’m FLYING towards a trash can, situated right next to a mailbox. Considering I’d not put in a whole lot of time on bike handling skills, I panicked and resorted to the only thing I knew: jerking my handlebars and swerving hard. As I went down to greet the sidewalk, I felt/heard something in my foot or ankle crack. Things hurt. I was terrified and crying.
Kent heard the ruckus and came back to see if I was ok. I told him I thought maybe I broke my ankle!
“Can you move it?” he asked.
I moved it around; guess it’s not broken.
“Yeah,” I sniffled.
It started to rain – of course it did. This was turning into the worst ride around the neighborhood ever. Shook up from my near-death experience, I said, “I’m walking back.” Kent said we still had a ways to go, and considering it was raining, it would be much faster to get back on and ride back.
The last thing I wanted was get back on that BEAST; but everything hurt, it was getting dark, and I was getting wet. All I wanted was to get the hell home. So I got back on the bike (my future would require a lot of getting back on the bike). We’re taking shortcuts through alleys now. Alleys are dark. Many are gravel; paved ones are chipped. Out of control at this point, I finally get off and walk through our alley and back to the house. I was never so happy to see my house.
Once home, I assessed the situation. A little blood, some bruises, some foot pain – nothing major. I immediately laid on the couch in all my misery. I acted like I was dying. It was all very dramatic.
TWO WHOLE MONTHS later, the foot pain wasn’t going away, and wasn’t getting any better. I went to the doctor and told them my harrowing tale. They laughed. I kinda laughed. I wasn’t yet at the point where I found it humorous, but it all sounded pretty ridiculous.
All this drama and several x-rays later showed nothing, so they sent me to a specialist. A bruised tendon was the diagnosis, and it wasn’t getting any better because of my sedentary desk job… I mean, from walking on it. I came home in a boot, specifically a rocker boot. You want to play a dirty trick – give someone with clearly no signs of balance a boot that rocks (but I digress). I had to wear this fashionable boot for two weeks, taking it off only to shower and to drive. Once again, if I remember correctly, this ended my outdoor cycling for some time. I was absolutely positive that this sport WAS NOT for me…
