I have been postulating over the last couple of weeks. Just how long had I been swept away in the tsunami of blood, sweat and tears that is learning to ride a bike? While the exact time frame is neither here nor there out in the real world, in my sphere of existence this question became a little consuming and embarrassingly so obsessive. Broadly speaking I know that my poor little bike was introduced to me in lock down last year, somewhere between my birthday and May. I vividly remember it leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen wall and various boxes of sensors and clothing strewn on the floor. It was a warm sunny day and we were all enjoying the enforced home detention, and as long as no one mentioned on line school work there was a good chance that no one will lose the plot.
Staring at myself in the mirror wearing bibs for the first time I observed that I looked like an over stuffed sausage in blue lycra. But when exactly was that day? I needed to know the exact moment in time my life spun on its head and lurched off in a new direction spluttering and choking to where I am at this present moment. I could have asked BT, I am sure his record keeping is way more efficient than mine, but that would make me look like a dork. I do that on a daily basis as it is. After a few days of racking my mind how I could actually nail down the specific date it dawned on me to trawl through old messages. At 3.30pm on 13 April 2020 I sent an untitled picture to Sal, my sister in law. Little did poor Sal know is that she was destined to spend many hours of the following months waiting for my over stuffed, wheezing, cursing self to catch up to her wheel as I lumbered around the roads of Cambridge. So now I know. I have a date to celebrate. 13 April is the anniversary of my journey. It has been exactly one year. And I will be honest that I have developed an emotional attachment to poor Minty. Every scrape and chunk of missing paint has a story to tell. Luckily for me, Minty is a mute. She has witnessed and endured the most horrific of experiences any self respecting bike could think of. She and I have this bond, an understanding that as long as I promise to be less clumsy and try to do her brand and image no further harm we can still be friends. She will have a safe home in retirement, I don't think I could part with her now, even if I decide to inflict myself on some other poor unsuspecting machine.
With celebrating anniversaries in any relationship, it often brings waves of reflection and appreciation. And sitting here at this moment in a phase of limbo, having to rest before THE race next weekend (6 more sleeps) it does give me the head space to look back of the challenge so far. And if I do say so myself, I am shocked and surprised to think of where I started and where I find myself now. This time last year I didn't know how to put the shoes on, and 25km/h felt like warp factor 10. I have no natural talent at any thing other than opening my mouth to change feet when I say something ridiculous and accumulating bruises with no explanation of what I did to earn them. And chain ring tattoos. That, I have a natural gift in. Yet I have improved myself in ways I did not know was possible. And for this reflection alone, I implore every single person out there to push themselves and face the fear. Whatever that fear is. But it all starts with ourselves. We are self limiting. Maybe it is a form of self protection. I am not sure. But being protected from fear also robs us from opportunity. My fear was, and still is to a degree, failure. If I never started riding, I would have never felt the anguish and despair of failure, for time and time again I failed. Yet concealed in each and every one of those failures was a lesson.
The elephant in my room at the moment is that I now have no more time to escape having to face my fear of failure on 18 April. No more opportunities to get that last train in in a bid to somehow find the extra bit of something that will protect me. Nothing can. It will be just me in my mind. The body is what it is. The only thing I have any control over from this point is the grey matter. My stomach feels a little queasy when I think of it.
We have been to see the course in Rotorua, and ridden it. Set in a pretty valley south west of the town itself, the rural community is preparing for an invasion of colourfully dressed athletes with hopes and dreams of national glory. As Gary and I were exploring the route last weekend, I was trying to take mental snap shots of what was where, climbs, cambers or gravel that had been dragged to the road side by milk tankers and tractors. This is the scene for my battle, this quiet country road out the back of beyond. This is actually real. And when push comes to shove I won't recall much of the exploratory rides. Other than that the last hill is a cruel finale. When I feel there is nothing left in me, I must at all costs find more. But that's OK. The edge of the planet is just at the finish line. That is the end. And if that finish is a distant last in my race or being competitive, it doesn't really matter. Because what I have taken from this whole experience is priceless and irreplaceable.
At the risk of sounding like a stuck record, I want to thank every one who has been a part of this journey of mine. A year which has developed from the most modest of beginnings, surrounded by people who every day inspire and encourage. A brother(sister)hood of like minded people where there is an unspoken acknowledgement of respect for every one at every level, even mine. For every person who is participating in a group ride, race or training session understands what has been endured to get to that particular moment in time. A ramshackle collection of people from all walks of life who share one common interest. That is a powerful thing, and I am blessed and grateful that I have had the opportunity to contribute, even if it is to challenge my fellow riders' patience with me and my glaring ineptitude. And a final heartfelt thank you to my incredible husband who every day puts my needs ahead of his own, with the tireless support and coaching. After I have stomped through his territory after insisting that I only wanted to be able to ride for coffee, that turned out to be a big fat lie. Without Gary I could never have learned what I have learned nor managed to pull this off. For next weekend I am off to the races, and what will be will be. If I document this day, that is a reasonably good indication that I managed to not kill myself. I hope I get to write next week.
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