Just an Armchair Centurion?

In my youth I loved to read about mountain climbing, and when I lived midst the bluffs and buttes of western Nebraska I put myself at moderate risk on various limestone and clay outcroppings, including Chimney Rock. And I like to read about Arctic expeditions, though I'd rather eat worms than be cold. An armchair adventurer, I guess.

I sometimes wonder if that's the case with this upcoming century. As I set out on each ride I am struck by the difference between me the rider, with legs that hurt a bit until I get warmed up, and the pictures on the cover of Bicycling magazine -- those annoyingly-smily thin persons on expensive bikes, who look like they never suffer (though I read how that's their professional veneer, which doesn't reflect the hours of pain and struggle). Still, I invariably wonder what the H*ll I'm getting into. Especially when I read about the route with its rippling hills and demanding ascents. And I'm faced with the question of whether I'd just as soon read about it as do it. Should I really go through with this? Who am I fooling? Why not just go over to Mickie's Dairy Bar and have a plate of eggs and hashbrowns, read the paper, and age gracefully?

Today I resolved the question. I will go. I will do it or fail, but I will try; I will be one of 3,000 riders in a rare event. I will train religiously, even on Sundays, and maybe even work out on some of the actual route beforehand.

So I set out on a brisk 10-mile ride, aiming for hills, including another ascent of Mt. Nemesis. Not at first, though. This being the actual day I turned 60, I was faced with my first dilemma -- should I do something I like, or should I make myself ride (funny how unfun that becomes the moment it can be viewed as "training"). I convinced myself I wanted to ride, but the radio said it was 38 degrees. So I stalled -- first I cleaned my chain (recalling with a bit of chagrin the time Paul S. scolded me for the greasy buildup) and found the leak in the tube I had changed, then began to prepare to ride. Still too brisk. So I hauled some mulch for the front garden, watching the steam rise from the huge pile dumped by the city. Until the temp reached the upper 40s and I had no more excuse.

Even so, the air was brisk as I started. And my legs hurt. But I got better. Took a side road through the cemetery -- a good uphill -- and followed the bike trail back to Mt. Nemeis, who haunted the last, otherwise lovely spring day, part of my ride. And up I went, still sliding into granny halfway up, but never losing speed and never losing hope. Then to home, amazed at how easy the last half-mile seems now, even though a month earlier twas a bit of a challenge. There is hope.