Hauled my big-bike-ass out there last night for a spring romp on the back 9 over at Steve's place. After hill number 3 or so (unclear because everything quickly became a blur), I was knackered. Steve and Kristi waited atop the hill as I slowly wheezed the final yards up, and then dispensing with all pride began my annual whine-a-thon about how out of shape I am... That would have been enough, except I realized more would have to be said, or else I'd be wheeling away without giving time for the nausea and chest pains to pass.
So there I wobbled, atop my trusty dusty steed, waiting for my breathing to come back and for the nausea to settle. My friends looked on in pity as I gave it up, got off my bike, and sat in the dirt searching desperately for a power-bar in my Camelbak. I just needed to fight down the nausea, I'd forget about the chest pains. This logic could have led to a heart attack at the expense of vomiting, but pride will do funny things to you. After gobbling up a granola bar of some sort, I decided I could go on, and so we did, with them stopping frequently to let me catch up. It was all so very backwards from how it's supposed to be. I knew I had a fairly lazy winter, but sheesh, I really expected better.
My only consolation was "The Big Hill." This legendary hill was the one that Mighty Erkan was afraid to go down (the story goes that he giggled like a girl and refused), that Michel did, but was scared, and that it took Steve many times before he could go down it with confidence. I figured hell- going downhill is nothing, so however large this damn thing was, it wasn't going to stop me. After around an hour dragging my ass up and down all those hills, it was some job pushing my bike up (more shame, since Steve managed to ride it- twice), but I made it. I almost cried in relief when I saw it, (clutching my stomach that had gone into some mean-spirited cramp). It weren't nuthin!
I just had to catch my breath, and then without hesitation, I wheeled on down, with just the lightest brake control. HA! No, I can't go up, but that's what they make chairlifts for.
Ok, well I'll work on it. I made quite a bit of progress last year with grinding up those damn hills, and I'm not going lose it now. Just need a little warming up and a little shaping up, and I'll be leading the way again, consulting my trusty digital compass and heart-rate monitor with glee.
In other news- tomorrow we're doing this normally-I-would-think-it-lame thing, called Doors-Open Guelph. But what makes it cool is that I will see my great grandparents home, where my grandfather was born, and where my dad spent his weekends on the farm since he was 15. Of course now it's renovated, and the farm nothing but a suburban morass, but- something calls. I plan to bring the new owners a map that my dad made, and show them the places he advises against 'digging too deep.'
and on that cautionary note- here comes the weekend!
