In an effort to battle the "I've had three kids in four years" bulge around my middle, I bought a bicycle last summer. I did a fair amount of biking as a kid/teen, but hadn't sat my butt in a saddle in quite a few years (almost 7, to be exact). I loved the feeling if hurtling down a mountainside all those years ago, but not enough to actively pursue mountain biking as a form of fitness.
Instead, I ventured to our local bike shop, and spent some time with the owners (who happen to be wonderful people who I've known for most of my life!) and eventually came home with a new road bike. Where once I was seriously intimidated by the very skinny tires found on road bikes in general, I conquered that fear a few years back, when I participated in the seven day "Cops For Cancer" bike tour through Northern British Columbia. I figured that if those tiny, skinny tires were enough to keep me upright on the less-than-stellar rural BC roads, I had little to fear from them on our nice wide shoulders out here.
I logged quite a few miles in the months after picking up my bike, and each ride seemed to be better than the last (especially once my poor tush got accustomed to the feel of the saddle!). The pure exhilaration and intense freedom that I felt while cycling along the ocean was irreplaceable and indescribable. I had no idea that cycling would be such a stress-buster, that I would return after a 60 minute ride to find my head clearer, and my heart lighter. It was bliss, pure and simple. Finally, I had found my place. I was a cyclist.
Summer faded into fall, which brought the start of school and a return to the busy schedule that all that entails. Once we'd settled into our routine again, I found myself itching for that feeling of the wind in my face, the rush of adrenaline after a particularly fast descent down a steep hill, the pure release of tension and stress that I experience when I'm riding. My bike hung in the entrance way of our home, looking forlorn in it's upside down stance as it dangled from the coated hooks it calls "home". It seemed that every time I had a spare hour or so to ride, a big winter storm would blow across the straight, and I'd be dissuaded from riding by the arrival of yet another hurricane force gale. There were other, far hardier, cyclists out during the winter months, and I'd pass them in my cozy warm vehicle, with a little pang of guilt that I wasn't out there too, that I was somehow "less" of a real cyclist because I had retreated indoors when the north winds began to howl.
I occasionally managed to sneak out for a ride in between storm fronts, maybe averaging 2-3 rides per month, often while pulling my young son in our Chariot trailer. I found I didn't enjoy it as much when he accompanied me on my rides. It embarrasses me to admit, but I craved that "me" time, that solitude, that escape from the day to day responsibilities and realities of being a single parent to three small kids. In a small way, I resented the intrusion of that trailer behind me, the effect it had on how my bike handled, and detraction from feeling of solitude that I had loved so much in the summer months. It was in no way my son's fault, and I did enjoy chattering with him as I rode ("Mommy! You're slowing!" "Mommy, go faster, Mommy, faster" etc etc), but it just wasn't the same.
Now spring is here again, with summer hopefully not far behind it, and my bike is once again calling to me from it's alcove. I've been able to squeeze in more rides this month than the last three combined, I think. It has been wonderful. There is very little that makes me feel as good, as relaxed, as stress free, as an afternoon spent pedalling alongside the Pacific Ocean.
I realized that in order to ride as often as I want and need to, I would have to rearrange the way I think about riding while pulling the trailer. Perhaps I need to look at it from my son's perspective, as an adventure he gets to have with his Mama. He is always eager to join me on my rides, and is often ready to go long before I am. He loads up the Chariot with his Thomas the Tank Engine trains, his favorite book, a sippy cup, and his "raffi" (giraffe) blanket on colder days. Instead of looking at my weekday rides as my temporary escape from the realities of motherhood, I have instead begun to see them as clarifying exactly what is most important about it.
Time. Time with my son, time to slow down (even if I'm speeding up) and look through his eyes, time to see the wonder that is held in the snapshot of any given day in my children's lives. For those couple of hours, he has my sole attention, and I see the world around us through his eyes, from the splash of the seals in the surf, to the rapid croaking of the frogs in the swampy ditch. On days when he falls asleep, lulled into a nap by the motion of the trailer, I find myself missing his little songs, his excited shouts when he spots a deer emerging from the forest, his giggling chant of "faster, Mama, faster!" when I'm slowly working my way up a hill.
So now I'm happily back on my bike, grateful and appreciative of the weekend rides that I get to enjoy in solitude, but also with a new found love and acceptance for those special rides during the week. And my son is once again enjoying our rides as well, safely buckled into his Chariot, with his little red helmet protecting his "bwains", simply happy to be counting down the miles with his Mama.
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