Diary of a Mad Flabby Man

Sunday, 7:28AM – Trial Run

After approximately twenty minutes of preparation, I’m finally ready for my first go at riding a bicycle to work.  A one-way trial run.

I step outside, into the brisk morning air. Just minutes before I had been assured by the local news that I would enjoy a comfortable sixty-four degree start to my day. The sting of the wind’s chill against my bare arms reminds me that I am too much of a wimp to brave such Siberianesque temperatures.

I go back inside.

Sunday, 7:36AM – Trial Run 2.0

After approximately twenty-eight minutes of preparation, I am finally, finally ready for my first go at riding a bicycle to work. A one-way trial run.

I step outside into the brisk morning air. Just minutes before I had been assured by the local news that I would enjoy a comfortable sixty-four degree start to my day. Immune to the wind’s chilling advances, I feel confident the tired long-sleeved t-shirt Traci had been wanting me to get rid of for years would provide adequate protection against such Siberianesque temperatures.

Before climbing aboard the bike borrowed from my father-in-law, I fight with the helmet’s straps as they stubbornly require a certain degree of fiddle-farting with. It seems the previous user preferred to wear the helmet in Strangulation Mode.

Three minutes later I’m riding a real bicycle for the first time in over a decade.

Sunday, 7:43AM

My thighs begin to burn as I slow down to turn left onto what will be my longest single stretch of road between home and work.

The encouraging words of Co-worker #1 echo through my mind as I push through the pain. “Yeah, riding a recumbent bike is not like riding a real bike. You should probably try riding a real bike first.”

The more I pedal to forget, the more I remember parts of various conversations or input from other concerned co-workers regarding how good or bad of an idea riding a bicycle thirteen miles to work really is.

Co-worker #2: Isn’t thirteen miles a little too far?

Co-worker #3: Your butt’s gonna be sore.

Co-worker #2: Aren’t you too out of shape to do something like that?

Co-worker #4: Won’t you smell?

Co-worker #1: You should probably get a tube repair kit.

Co-worker #3: What if it rains?

Co-worker #2: That’s where we come into play, Co-worker #3.

Co-worker #3: Really though. What if it starts raining on you at like mile three?

Co-worker #1: You should probably get a poncho too.

Co-worker #2: Can I have your cubicle if you die?

Co-worker #3 (disapprovingly): Co-worker #2…

Co-worker #4: Are you sure you won’t smell?

Even the woman who brought me into the world finds humor in all of this. She’d sent an email that read “Ouch. The family is being cruel. If you’re gonna do it, may as well do it in style.” Attached was a picture of a four-wheeled bicycle - which I guess makes it a quadricycle - with a roof. Seriously, Mom...e tu? Brutal.

I’ve basically started telling anyone I come into contact with that they have the right to remain silent and that everything they say can and most likely will be used against them in a court of blog.

Unsure if I’ll be able to start after stopping, my mind barks out orders for my legs to keep pedaling, knowing that if they don’t mind at this moment, it won’t matter what my mind tells them in the future. My legs obey. Reluctantly.

I shoot left through the red light and survey my surroundings for any signs of 5-0. Nothing. Good. I don’t have the energy to take the initiative in starting a three-hour chase through the neighborhoods of Frisco.

Sunday, 7:47AM

My thighs are killing me. They’re disco infernos. Nothing more than unwilling participants in my efforts to make whatever statement it is I’m trying to make.

It’s much lighter outside now than it will be when I do this for real, considering I’ll be leaving for work around 5AM on biking days. I’m still not too keen on that idea. At least the cover of darkness will have my back should I need to stop and take a leak somewhere along the way.

A Chevy Tahoe blows by me, serving notice that the road is not mine. Not even a little bit. Rush hour should be interesting.

The sixty-four ounce bladder tucked inside the single strap miniature backpack serves as my only source of hydration during this trek. I worry if it’s enough water, especially since the mouthpiece draped over my right shoulder is leaking profusely, seeping through the green outer layer of my long-sleeved t-shirt.

I run through a mental checklist of items I’ll need to purchase if this idea turns into reality: Reflective vest. Repair kit with pump. Helmet – sans strangulation feature. Cargo rack. A real hydration kit, preferably one that doesn’t leak.

Traci had once asked if instead of a buying a cargo rack if I would be willing to put a basket on the front since we already had one that Kacie was no longer using. She’d said it was just sitting in our storage shed, taking up space. I asked if she was trying to make me look like Pee-wee Herman.

In can see my final destination in the near distance. Without being instructed to, my legs pedal harder. Faster. The pain no longer distracts them. I hope it’s not a mirage.

I take one long, last drag of water from the rubber mouthpiece nestled against my chest. The water no longer tastes cold and refreshing as it had when I’d first sipped at the start of the morning. Instead it reminds of how most everything in my life starts out with the best intentions but rarely finishes with anything other than a lackluster bang. The water tastes dry and does nothing to quench my thirst.

One last left and this part of my day will be over.

Sunday, 7:52AM

I fight to get the bike back into the already crowded storage shed. So much crap in here – crap we’ll probably never use again but can’t ever seem to let go of – like the basket Kacie no longer uses on her own bike. This storage shed really isn’t so different from my mind.

Sixteen minutes after my second attempt at a first trial run began, I say goodbye to the bicycle that’s caused me so much pain in such a short amount of time. I turn the key in the doorknob, locking the bicycle in the dungeon where it will stay until I am finally ready to release it again.

Before climbing the three flights of stairs to our apartment, I walk across the parking lot to the Mustang. I really need to wash her, but not today. It’ll take every bit of energy I have left just to wash my own body.

I run my hand along her metal curves, tracing each number of the faded 289 chrome emblem on the front left fender with my middle finger. What would she say if she could talk? Would she too regret certain roads she’d traveled down?

A muted chuckle, only audible to myself and the Mustang, escapes from within me. I pat the car on its hood, much like I've done countless times before with the kids when they've done something good.

It’s funny how I’m going to spend so much time over the next three years reviving this car for Kacie in the hopes that the process will somehow bring us closer together, when it’s the very thing that will one day drive us farther apart.

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