Losing (and Finding) My Mojo
It was about three weeks ago when I lost my will to ride. I was in the middle of the 50-mile route of the YSC Tour de Pink. We’d started the ride around 8 in the morning, when the temperature was hovering around 45 degrees or so. My legs felt cold and heavy, like they were filled with lead. They never quite warmed up. The traffic was relentless and sometimes downright scary.
And then, around mile 38 or so, I bonked. No matter how many Clif Shots I slugged down or how much energy drink I chugged, I simply couldn’t jump start myself from the murderously slow pace to which I’d slowed. Every pedal stroke required all of my concentration and will power to complete. I dragged myself to the end of the ride, relieved to be done. I was exhausted and demoralized.
The memory of that miserable experience lingered with me, and try as I might, for the next couple of weeks, I just couldn’t get psyched up to go ride. It was certainly uncharacteristic of me, the girl who routinely put in hundred-plus-mile weeks over the summer. It was also supremely ironic – the fall weather and colors were at their peak, yet I was stuck in rut and couldn’t convince myself to get out there and take advantage of them.
Getting Back on the Saddle
I woke up this past Sunday morning and, after trying unsuccessfully to go back to sleep, decided to give it another try. Given the perfect forecast, I knew I needed to get out there. I got loaded my bike and drove up to one of my favorite places to ride, the Brewery.
The Brewery is somewhat of a cycling Mecca. It’s in the middle of nowhere, about 45 minutes from my house, and has well-marked routes for 15, 32, 48, 64 and 100 miles that are leftover from an annual charity ride each September. The climbs are challenging but not soul-sucking. There’s little traffic, and the cars you do encounter are usually courteous and often downright friendly. It’s the kind of ride where you can busy yourself with soaking in the lovely scenery as you pedal along, without having to worry about disgruntled drivers breathing down your neck.
It was chilly, but sunny. I cracked open a brand new jar of embrocation, and slid on a pair of leg warmers. I clipped in and headed out, with more than a little hesitation. I desperately needed a good ride to boost my cycling morale.
Sometimes, All It Takes is Letting Go
Immediately, I realized the sensor on the spoke for my computer had gotten knocked out of alignment. It registered a pathetic 2.3 mph, then 7.2 mph (and though I’m no speed demon, I know I was going much faster), and then just gave up altogether. I decided I didn’t feel like stopping to mess with it, and against all of my naturally-OCD impulses that need to know numbers! and figures! and averages!, I just kept going. I let go.
Without a computer, I had nothing to compete with, and focused on the scenery. The rhythmic turning of my pedals. The fall colors. The delightfully swoopy hills and turns and descents. The way my legs felt responsive and alive instead of sluggish and slow. The chunk-chunk-chunk sound of the chain on the cassette as I shifted. The crisp, chilly air reminiscent of the first bite of a really tart Granny Smith apple. The pristine miles of pavement that seemed to have been resurfaced just for me. The pastoral landscapes framed by miles of fences in the foreground, and the foothills of the mountains on the horizon.
Slowly, as the miles ticked away beneath me, I felt it return – the enthusiasm and love of riding that I’d temporarily forgotten, and the confidence I’d lost. And then I suddenly caught myself smiling as I encountered familiar hills, like long lost friends who’d been waiting patiently for me to return. As I slipped over their summits, I tucked down and flew away, promising not to let so much time pass between visits.
