Getting to Know You

Getting to know all about you.
Getting to like you,
Getting to hope you like me.

OK, so I gave "The King and I" a negative review. Doesn't mean I can't steal a few lyrics to suit my blogging purpose. Here's the deal: I bought a new road bike, a KHS Flite 232 to be exact. This was leap for me. There was nothing wrong with my trusty Specialized Rockhopper that I picked up at a yard sale for a mere $150. Talk about love at first ride. I've written about it before, that immediate connection, a sense of freedom and fun. It pays off in joy to be ignorant of what a bike is "supposed" feel like. My green mountain beauty was a bit big for my size, her nubby tires, great on gravel and dirt, were slower on the pavement where I usually rode. And I had no idea, nor did I care. Back to that question of when do we simply feel content with the life we're living? I started thinking about things like aerodynamics and speed. I started watching road bike cyclists out there on the streets, calf muscles bulging with each back pedal, sleek bodies streaking along with traffic. I thought about taking longer rides, rides beyond the potential of my beloved cycle. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind the notion of a century ride holds powerful sway. I started saving my pennies from teaching yoga toward the investment that a road bike would be.

A few weeks ago, after some searching, I found a decent little road bike at Urban Downfall, a local bike shop run by a handful of friendly college dudes who were friendly enough to answer my questions and adapt this lovely lady to fit my body. I'll go back in a few weeks, most likely, to get the pedals switched over to clipless with cleats, but even as I write this I wonder what I'm getting myself into. I didn't anticipate the ambivalence I'd feel riding this new velocipede home. First there was the learning curve--new shifting and braking mechanisms, lower handlebars, a distinct lack of shock absorption. Then, strangely, a feeling of guilt arose over betraying my perfectly good cycle sitting at home in the garage. I took her out on shy little rides at first, awkwardly attuning to the feel of the ride. Like a contact lens wearer sliding a finger up the bridge of her nose to push up non-existent glasses, I'd reach for brakes that weren't where I expected them to be. I found this bike had expectations, demanded a little more of me that my carefree, easy rider.

Ah, but we had a sweet canyon ride yesterday morning, and the relationship's on! The launch was a little slow, and my legs resisted and whined until we found ourselves, bicycle, legs, and me, all synched up on the Provo River Trail. That's when things started to get good. Transitions between gears were smooth; we had a rhythm going. The water in the river was high, birds sang or screamed everywhere, and we climbed our way gradually through the mouth of the canyon. Gliding through Nun's Park and an easy switch of gears to a very efficient ascent up the only steep section of the road--about 10 feet--until we were sailing along under the canopy of overgrown scrub oak. No crowds thronging around the base of Bridal Veil Falls, no barefoot babies or folks with cameras snapping shots of their kids wading in the water. I ignored the pedestrian only signs and breathed by to the park. There I took in three steady breaths, knowing this good, blood pulsing endorphin rush was temporary, but enjoying it all the same.

There are probably thousands of life lesson type things I could dream up and work into this blog, but I'm gonna resist the temptation to try to appear wise and let this simple ride be just what it is and nothing more. That's good enough.