An anniversary of sorts
Two years ago I weighed 25 pounds more than I do today. Considering I’m 4’ 11”, that’s a lot of extra weight. While I knew my pants tightened with each passing year, I never felt fat … until I grew tired of shelling out cash for new bigger bottoms and then saw my chubby self in a picture. Who was that woman? How had I turned my once-athletic body into such a blob? Little did I know that cycling, not running would be my salvation.
History lesson
Long-story short, I ran track and cross-country in high school and even attempted college cross-country, which made me faster and leaner than ever — although I was a snail compared to the gazelles that ran on that team. Eventually a chronic knee injury influenced me to call it quits, and I moved along to focus on my studies and my social life.
Over the following years, my weight fluctuated plus or minus 10 pounds, and then things really spiraled downward after my wedding. Maybe I felt comfortable and just let it all go, or maybe the chronic clinical depression and its ravenous hunger and sloth-like existence finally won out.
Gaining momentum
The summer I saw the picture, I’d already dabbled in Weight Watchers with some level of success. I struggled with the exercise component. I forced myself to strap on my sneakers and get to it, and step after painful step crushed me. I doubted I could ever be fit again and nearly resigned myself to drinking water and eating lettuce to ward off the diabetes my mother endlessly warned me I’d get carrying all that extra weight around.
Chris and I had just moved back to Minneapolis from Chicago, and I was ready to take advantage of life in a less densely populated area. That meant dusting off my bikes and finally accompanying my gear-head husband on a few rides. My bike was heavy and I struggled to keep up, but I loved it. It felt like play, not work. It brought me back to childhood, when family bike rides post-dinner were the norm. As a kid, I had always loved my bicycle.
Soon the rides were plentiful and the extra pounds were an endangered species. Then July 12, 2007, happened.
One step forward, two steps back
I broke my leg while riding my mountain bike … in the parking lot at the trail. (Side note: This was around the time “The Secret” had been forced upon me, and I’d started to read through it. On this fateful day I was particularly negative – read: raging biatch – so I wondered if I brought the broken leg upon myself. I never finished the book.)
I needed knee surgery, and I had to give up riding for the remainder of the summer. I freaked. I’d started to lose some real weight and gain some real muscle, then this? I stuck with the healthy eating regiment and surprisingly kept it off. I picked up way more bike than I needed at a clearance sale. It became my carrot, and I set out to ride it well.
I spent the winter on the trainer in front of Tour de France footage, and by the time summer 2008 blossomed I was zipping around on my fancy new ride. I even competed in a mountain bike race that autumn.
Progress!
And now, here I am. I started competing on the track this year, and I want to try some road races and more off-road races. It sounds trite, but riding challenges me to be better. It offers respite from life. Whenever I clip in, it never feels like work. It feels like play. I feel drive, ambition and competitiveness returning to my psyche. And it feels good.
When I look in the mirror today, I notice muscle definition starting to show. Cycling not only diminished my weight, it helped diminish my depression. My skin glows. My eyes sparkle. I smile more. I just feel good. Something deep inside my soul got out of bed, stretched, yawned, saw the sun shining through the window and decided to dive back into the game. I’m beginning to re-experience hunger for something other than food. Once again, I’m a competitor. So what if I’m 30 years old? So what if I’m not the fastest one out there and will never be? I just keep striving for improvement.
I’m out there doing it, and I’ll reap the rewards with a fuller, healthier life.
