Triathalete or Maple Man?
I think I might die. Martin says he feels soooo good but I feel so bad. In the shower, I applied my conditioner and it smelled like a donut. I wanted to eat it. I started fantasizing about the row of giant Maple Men down at the Norwegian bakery. A big, sticky Maple Man in my hand. First I will eat his fat leg. Then the other fat leg. I will lick the glaze from his smiling face. . .
These can't be good signs.
Let me tell you two things: My bottom has not known a bicycle seat intimately since college. And two: I have not played tennis since high school (and never with a crazed man who slaps the ball like he's in a racquetball court). Let me add, too, that the hills here in western Washington are merciless slopes that stretch out in front of you, unyielding for miles. In Poulsbo, there are no switchbacks that will gently ease you downtown. There is a break-neck descent into a picturesque, seal-splashing harbor, but you know while you're enjoying the boardwalk and the bakeries and coffee shops that home is some miles above you. . . .
This morning, as we sped down the two-mile hill toward down-town, the sparkling harbor, and the tennis courts,this thought hit me as hard as the 60 degree wind: We will pay for this. We will pay one-hundred fold.
And we did. An hour and a half of clumsy play that bloomed a blister on my right hand, it was time to book it back up the hill so we could pick up Bea at preschool. Tennis rackets strapped to the back of his bike, Martin pedalled like a good boyscout all the way up the hill. I watched his impressive khaki backside and counted the seconds until my imminent death.
I have no pride. As I pushed my bike up the hill, panting and begging for the pain to end, I remembered a day some ten years ago in Montana, when I scooted down a ski slope on my well-insulated behind, oblivious to the seven-year and eighty-year olds whizzing by me, knees bent, sunglasses reflecting the craggy panorama. Then, as it was this morning, my choice was: pride, or my life. That has always been an easy choice for me.
Sure there were hills in Pennsylvania. But with enormous gas and coal mine trucks bungling up and down narrow tarmac roads, whom with children and a hope to grow old would blithely strap on a helmet and traverse a commute? Here, they make it look easy. They give you clean air and water, an abundance of healthy food, motorists who stop for you, and nice, wide bike lanes. There are no excuses.
"My kingdom for a switchback!" I gasped as I finally crested the mother-hill. But gosh if there weren't two more hills before we reached home.
"I feel great!" Martin beamed as he bounded into our little house. "I haven't felt this healthy in years!"
"Me, either," I said. "But I feel AWFUL." I pulled my sorry carcass up the stairs and into the shower.
Here, people with cheeks glowing with daily exercise and a diet of nuts, berries and salmon, tell me that it gets better. The hills will fall behind your muscular calves as easily as. . .well, as easily as a Maple Man disappears--chomp--an arm decapitated--and MUNCH--the torso ripped in half.
Delicioso.
These can't be good signs.
Let me tell you two things: My bottom has not known a bicycle seat intimately since college. And two: I have not played tennis since high school (and never with a crazed man who slaps the ball like he's in a racquetball court). Let me add, too, that the hills here in western Washington are merciless slopes that stretch out in front of you, unyielding for miles. In Poulsbo, there are no switchbacks that will gently ease you downtown. There is a break-neck descent into a picturesque, seal-splashing harbor, but you know while you're enjoying the boardwalk and the bakeries and coffee shops that home is some miles above you. . . .
This morning, as we sped down the two-mile hill toward down-town, the sparkling harbor, and the tennis courts,this thought hit me as hard as the 60 degree wind: We will pay for this. We will pay one-hundred fold.
And we did. An hour and a half of clumsy play that bloomed a blister on my right hand, it was time to book it back up the hill so we could pick up Bea at preschool. Tennis rackets strapped to the back of his bike, Martin pedalled like a good boyscout all the way up the hill. I watched his impressive khaki backside and counted the seconds until my imminent death.
I have no pride. As I pushed my bike up the hill, panting and begging for the pain to end, I remembered a day some ten years ago in Montana, when I scooted down a ski slope on my well-insulated behind, oblivious to the seven-year and eighty-year olds whizzing by me, knees bent, sunglasses reflecting the craggy panorama. Then, as it was this morning, my choice was: pride, or my life. That has always been an easy choice for me.
Sure there were hills in Pennsylvania. But with enormous gas and coal mine trucks bungling up and down narrow tarmac roads, whom with children and a hope to grow old would blithely strap on a helmet and traverse a commute? Here, they make it look easy. They give you clean air and water, an abundance of healthy food, motorists who stop for you, and nice, wide bike lanes. There are no excuses.
"My kingdom for a switchback!" I gasped as I finally crested the mother-hill. But gosh if there weren't two more hills before we reached home.
"I feel great!" Martin beamed as he bounded into our little house. "I haven't felt this healthy in years!"
"Me, either," I said. "But I feel AWFUL." I pulled my sorry carcass up the stairs and into the shower.
Here, people with cheeks glowing with daily exercise and a diet of nuts, berries and salmon, tell me that it gets better. The hills will fall behind your muscular calves as easily as. . .well, as easily as a Maple Man disappears--chomp--an arm decapitated--and MUNCH--the torso ripped in half.
Delicioso.
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