So the other day I said this after riding my bike to work for the first time this year:
. . . it was a lot harder than I remember it being. I was puffing and heaving and generally dying and trying to hold back the vomit that threatened to spill out over the handlebars. It's a good thing the way home is a bit more downhillish. And it's a comfort to know that in a couple more weeks of this I will be a true hardbody.
I didn't mention the part where I considered just hopping off and walking the &^*% thing. Or throwing myself and the bike into a ditch (sorry, barrow pit) and letting sweet death take us. And the bit where my rear was so sore afterwards that I couldn't sit down without yelping for the next 18 hours.
Turns out there was a reason why it was so hard. Spitfire's friend, who is a bike enthusiast, was visiting and asked how things are going with the bike. I told him how hard yesterday's ride had been and he quickly discovered the problem:
My tires were flat.
Instead of possessing the recommended 50 pounds of air, mine were at about 6. So, yeah. I biked 8 miles on flat tires. Which would have been difficult for anyone. He very nicely pumped up my tires while Spitfire laughed herself into an exhausted heap on my front porch, stopping every now and then to point at me and and shake her head and then laugh some more.
Even with the mocking, I feel ridiculously pleased to know that I'm actually not out of shape like I thought I was yesterday. I mean, it is too bad that I'm stupid. But that's a trade off that other people make every day. If they can live with it, so can I.
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