Redemption looks like a red tricycle...

I lie in bed and all I can think about is cycling again.
I know I should be thinking about work. I know I should be sleeping. I know I should be contemplating many things that are more significant than my butt on a bike saddle. But I can't.
I imagine the Arizona sun playing hide and seek among the jagged mountains at South Mountain Park at the end of the day and zooming down San Juan Road toward the ramada.
I think of the group riding up to telegraph pass in Ahwatukee, many of us mashing as the sinewy men careen past us yelling GOOD JOB!
I remember the morning chill and the site of my friend's blinking light slowly heading toward me at our regular meeting spot for our morning 17 miles and I can think of nothing else.

It was these seductive thoughts that lured me to the garage a few days ago to pump the tires on my Trek hybrid and open the garage, strap on my old helmet and think to myself, it's time.

The air was cool and the neighborhood was quiet. I swung my battered left leg over the saddle and stood for a moment. What I imagined would be perfectly natural, felt foreign to me. My "Fresh and Easy" bike as I had named it with it's black canvas pannier on the back for shopping at the neighborhood grocery felt awkward, heavy and, well, frightening.

I took a deep breath and slid onto the seat. Instead of feeling like I had slipped on a comfortable familiar glove, I felt shaky, wobbly and scared. At the end of the driveway, I nearly fell and slammed down the wrong foot and felt lucky to be upright. Feeling so foolish, I swung my leg over again and dejectedly walked the bike back to its spot in the garage. I could swear the bike was sulking in shame over having caused the whole disaster.

At first, I didn't want to tell anyone what I had done. With so many well-wishers offering encouragement, I didn't want to broadcast what a dismal failure this first endeavor on a bike had been. But, I did share it with a friend who had, herself, been in two accidents, each time breaking her pelvis and also her wrist the second time. She assured me that this was a natural feeling and that it wouldn't last. Her encouragement went one step further, she offered me a loaner red trike that her significant other had in his shop.

The very next day, I was at the shop plopped atop the vintage 70s adult tricycle. Although it presents its own set of challenges of turning and managing it, the red tricycle is just what I needed. Riding the wind trainer is amazing because it feels real and spinning on the stationary bike helps me work up a sweat, but this is real outdoor movement. I felt alive as I wound around the parking area.

Belief is back and my failure, redeemed. I can hardly wait to ride it tomorrow...

I know it's only a matter of time before I can feel the feeling of clipped in feet and wind whooshing by me at 18 mph. But until then, my borrowed red trike will give me the exercise and the confidence I need to move in that direction.