BrandiBlog

In order to take my new “When In Rome” philosophy to the next level, I’ve decided to lose a big chunk of weight and get in better physical shape.  I have found the exercise part of my new routine to be the most difficult part–I mean, who really has a ton of extra time with a toddler to chase after every day from sunrise to sunset?  So I decided that I needed to start exercising smarter, not harder.  The solution?  A mountain bike and kid trailer so I could just take my little human tornado with me on my quest for a healthier body.

This seemed like the perfect idea and I dreamed about it for over a week.  How glorious it would be to ride for miles and miles with my tot in tow!  It seemed like the most brilliant idea in the world–until yesterday, my first ride.

I started off with the foolish optimism that one usually has on their first day at a new gym.  I happily tied my shoelaces, hooked up the trailer to my new bike, and filled the cargo area with my keys, cell phone, treats and juice for Ryan and water for me.  I strapped on his shiny new bike helmet and harnessed him into his seat.  As I swung my leg over the bike frame I thought to myself, “This is gonna be a piece of cake!”

And then I started to ride.  For the first few moments it didn’t seem too bad.  My heart rate went up, my legs started to tingle and Ryan began squealing in exhiliration.  “Hmmm, this might be a little tougher than I thought,” I told myself as I rounded the corner to the next street in my “Leave It to Beaver” neighborhood and saw that it had a bit of an incline.

Halfway up the street I realized I had made a mistake.  A terrible, foolish mistake.  It wasn’t going to be a piece of cake; it was going to be pure, unadulterated torture.  My thighs began to burn and sweat poured from every inch of my skin.  The 25 lb toddler and 20 lb trailer that I pulled behind me had suddenly tripled in weight.  My heart raced and I pondered calling my husband and having him bring the Highlander over to Songbird Lane to pick my sorry ass up.

But I persevered.  I continued to pedal (albeit, at a slower pace than I had started with) and focused on the joyful squeals erupting from the ridiculously heavy trailer containing my ecsatatic 20 month old.  As he clapped and cheered, I imagined myself nearing the Tour de France finish line with spectators crying out my name and words of encouragement.  I visualized overflowing bouquets of flowers, muticolored fireworks and a mountain of Godiva chocolates waiting for me on the other side of the ticker tape.  And I pushed on, despite the new physical pain of the bike seat tearing my ass in half.  Who knew that a bicycle seat could inflict such agony.

Now nearly 24 hours later I see that I have learned a valuable lesson.  Never underestimate the difficulty of towing a toddler with a mountain bike.  It’s way harder than it looks–and my aching nether region today proves it.  But more importantly, I learned to never underestimate myself.  With a little encouragement from my son you just never know–someday you may see me finishing the Tour de France.  I can only hope that you all will be there at the finish line with that mountain of Godiva chocolates.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, July 2nd, 2008 at 9:46 am and is filed under Music. You can follow responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your site.