Never Ride Alone

It wasn’t a fluke. While cycling down Veteran’s Drive recently, four – count ‘em – four drivers of pick-up trucks honked at me. Honked! As my future daughter-in-law asked that night at dinner, “Why would they honk at YOU?” Her question, however intended, doesn’t bother me. I am serene in the knowledge that guys driving pick-up trucks have either: #1) great taste in women or #2) really bad eyesight.

But, seriously, let’s talk about daily cycling. Author Jeff Galloway, in his book, “Marathon” writes that athletes have to balance the angel on one shoulder, (who urges them out of bed on early mornings and encourages them to continue running despite leg cramps, shin splints, and blisters), with the devil on the opposite shoulder, (who points out every ache and pain and says “just one day off won’t hurt”). Frankly, I don’t have an angel or a devil on either shoulder.

No. I have a pair of siblings. On my left shoulder is a 6-year-old with attention-deficit-disorder. You know, he’s full of misplaced energy, talkative, and annoying. The kind of kid who would kick the back of your airline seat all the way from Nashville to….oh…Yugoslavia. On my right shoulder is a 13 year-old with PMS and a serious attitude issue. She is armed with an iPod and a cell phone.

On a recent late afternoon ride I had barely left the neighborhood when ADD speaks up, “Are we there yet?”

“Of course we’re not there yet, stupid,” PMS answers. “She peddles so slow, we’ll never get there. Have we EVER gotten there?” PMS continues, “I don’t think she even knows where there is – we just go, go, go and eventually end up right back where we started.” I mentally tell them both to pipe down and enjoy the scenery. It’s not a full minute before I hear a whiny voice say, “I’m boooor-red. There’s nothing to see, except people and cars. I could do that at home and watch TV too.” I ignore ADD and pedal on, after all, soon we’ll be out in the peaceful countryside and there will be cows, corn, and roadkill for entertainment.

Now PMS has turned up the iPod so loud I can not only hear the music but feel the bass vibration. Mentally I say, “Turn it down, Toots.” Seconds later a modified low-slung Honda Civic passes me, the driver practically laying flat in his driving position and thumping music blaring from the car stereo. “See,” says PMS, “You always blame me for everything. I don’t know why I have to go along on these stupid rides. You are so lame. No one else’s Mom decides that menopause is the time to ride a bike. Couldn’t you just get a hybrid car for your mid-life crisis? I want to go home, RIGHT NOW.” I hear her dial the cell phone.

I can’t make out much of PMS’s phone call, although I hear the words “road hostage” and “prisoner”. The reason that I can’t hear is because ADD has decided to entertain himself by playing the alphabet game, you know: “A, my name is Adam and I have an apple.” Except ADD has decided to use body parts in his song: “’A’ my name is Adam and I have an aching ass. ‘B’ my name is Bob and I have a big butt. ‘C’ my name is Calvin and …” I try to tune them both out by counting cadence.

My ride continues. ADD has to use the restroom, needs a snack, has loose shoes, learns how to make fart noises with his hands, and asks “are we there yet” approximately once a minute. PMS pouts, picks fights, criticizes my cycling clothes, helmet, gloves, and camelback, and threatens to call Child Protection Services if we don’t “go home right now.” I feel a bit like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, except I know these kids aren’t real, they are creations of my fat cells desperately trying to avoid eradication.

So, I never really cycle alone. I have a group ride even when I’m all by myself. Who rides with you?