Surviving my dream bike ride

As with all the lamebrained ideas in our family, I originated this one.
"Let's ride bikes to your office," I said. What I should have added was, "Sure, it's 10 miles, and hotter than heck out, and I'm miserably out of shape, but I have no common sense today."
John blanched. "From Boardman to Youngstown State University?" he said, envisioning a ride through auto exhaust fumes.
Ironically, it's usually John trying to persuade ME to join him on one of his regular marathon bike rides. I always decline, based on my lack of fitness and my unwillingness to explode the primary myth of women's liberation I have held since I was 16: "I am woman; I am strong; I am invincible." One never feels invincible riding 20 paces behind one's husband, or forcing him to "Slow down! I can't go that fast!"
But, this would be different. It would be fun! There was a destination involved, and I could focus on that. We could go up side streets, avoid traffic, have lunch at Winslow's in the Butler. It had a goal, and a delightful one at that.
Off we go
At 8:30 a.m., we took off. I had on a bright orange Nike shirt, blue shorts, white socks and sneakers. I ruminated that I looked fat in orange as I stared in the mirror before departure. I lifted the shirt slightly and confirmed I had ribs; I had no idea how many would be showing before my ride was over.
We hit the traffic on South Avenue and my heart drummed a bit. Twenty-five years ago, I fell off a moped after skidding through gravel, landed on my chin, got stitches, and still have the scar to show for it. Now, gravel makes my heart race. Cars do the same.
Riding with John is a Tarzan soundtrack in my breast. He rides protruding into the lane in what I deem a "DANGEROUS" fashion. In fact -- and this will be news to John, because I've never before told him -- I repeat to myself: "Well, if he gets hit, it was his decision. It's his concern."
Unable to convince myself, I periodically screech, "Car! Car! Move over." And you will hear John conversing merrily about the guy who "arrived at the ranch leading a goat on a string" without interruption. The car goes around and life goes on, as I discover the "guy drank so much the rancher wouldn't let him drive anything but the tractor to town."
My nerves were dancing as we headed down South Avenue to Midlothian, over gravel and with John protruding into a steady line of cars. Finally, on a side street, I relaxed. Then, we encountered our first hill. I stood up to add my weight to the pedaling and rode up next to John, who graciously "held back" -- ugggh! I am wo-man ..."
We went quite a bit out of our way to avoid traffic, but ultimately arrived at Bliss Hall on campus. All too soon, we took care of business, ate lunch, and headed back down Wick Avenue.
Return trip
This time, surprisingly, it was John whose reason vanished. "Let's go home through the park."
"OK," I said, and what little brains I had awakened with that morning, slid effortlessly onto the sidewalk beside my bicycle.
I do not know what it feels like when you put your leg into the microwave, but I have a pretty good idea it is something like the way the tops of my thighs felt as we past, not only Lanterman's Mill and the par 3 course, but the Old Log Cabin; Lake Glacier; Pioneer Pavilion; the Ford Nature Center; 8,435,000 trees; 17,000 ducks; four dozen geese; 1,500 hills, and absolutely no other cyclists.
I drained my water bottle, and rode on, managing to impair my tailbone to the point that I could only mount my men's bicycle by hoisting my bent knee over the front .
I had achieved my dream bike ride. It was completely goal-oriented: Survive. Get home. Home. Home. Twenty-five miles later, I pulled into our driveway, having walked up as many hills as I had ridden down, having lost a small child in water weight, and having saturated my garish orange shirt with sweat.
And now, I thought, I have a new goal -- to be able to walk in the morning.
murphy@vindy.com