by Bettina Freese

I hate my bike. I don’t care if I ever ride it again. I’m probably going to sell it on e-Bay. E-mail me if you want it.

There I was, riding three, four times a week, getting strong on the singlespeed, increasing my technical skills, and finally feeling a consistent flow on the downhills. I was looking forward to a fabulous summer of riding, beginning with a spring trip to Colorado and Utah.

Then I got sick.

I ignored it at first, considering it a slight tickle in my throat. Instead, it developed into bacteria-infested lungs with a cough reminiscent of the TB sanitariums. I stayed off my bike for five days before I couldn’t take it anymore and jumped in the car with my friends when they showed up that Saturday.” I’ll take it easy,” I told myself. “I’ll spin on the climbs and just enjoy the woods.” What I really thought was, “No way am I going to lose everything I just worked for by being off my bike for ten days for some stupid cold.”

We climbed Pilot Rock and descended Laurel Mountain-wicked climbing, but phenomenal downhill. I climbed as much as I could and pushed the rest. It was painful, and I forgot about my sick body. Instead, I pushed it as hard as it would go so that it would be over quicker. My lack of energy got the best of me. I had nothing left for the downhill, despite the sport gels, and crashed hard on…well, I don’t really know how I crashed. I just did. I bashed my knee so hard the tibia dislocated due to my lack of proper ligaments.

My mates caught up with me just in time for the tears. It wasn’t the physical pain that got me. It was the frustration with my body. It was that moment that I hated my bike. It was that moment that I wanted to fling it down the mountain and walk back to the car. What in the hell was I doing? Who did I think I am, risking my business, which relies on me having healthy limbs with which to massage people? Why, at this age, am I still craving dangerous, adrenalin-pumping sports that could kill me? My poor parents. They deserve for their children to outlive them.

I pouted for two weeks, icing my knee and eating Ibuprofen like candy. My cough lingered for two weeks. I hid my bike in the basement where it couldn’t taunt me. My boyfriend gave me the “I told you so…” lecture I don’t know how many times. I felt weak, stupid, and pathetic. I knew I had to ride to heal and strengthen my knee, but I really didn’t care. When the atrophy became visible, I forced myself back in my road saddle.

The first ten minutes tasted like burning, and I could tell my quads were not responding yet. It made me mad. That’s when I realized how silly this was. I mean, what am I doing on my bike and being mad at the same time? I used to enjoy this. Deep down I craved the burn and knew it would evolve into a sweet numb in another 20 minutes. I felt the lovely sun warming my shoulders and the thick scent of spring flowers heavy in the air after the rain. Mad? I pushed harder and felt the spin, choosing a flat road that would keep my legs working. The breeze picked up, flapping my braids against my chest, and my lungs filled with huge gulps of air. I maneuvered through traffic and flew past a guy on his three-speed, a six-pack tucked under his arm, his mullet flapping in the wind behind him. He shouted in glee, “Go Girl!” as puffs of dirt clouded up behind my wheel. The light turned red, so I rested, and just as I clipped in again for the green, I heard a loud whirring approach me from behind. I turned to see my beer-toting friend whooping with delight as he flew past me like a rocket, his face grimacing forward in a crazy grin, cigarette streaming smoke behind him. I laughed out loud and yelled, “Yeeeeeahhhhh, Boyeeee!!” We screeched through the intersection and he cut into a side street for his victory circles, cheering like the Tour de France, his fist pumping in the air, me blowing him kisses.

Yes. Yes. It is this that makes me love my bike.

Big fat baby Bettina wants you to share your pathetic stories at lulafree@aol.com.