I'm an out of shape, recent non-smoker*, stretching her arms one last time before straddling her bike and advancing to the starting line. Other athletes take their places looking much more prepared than me.
Exhilaration, excitement, I can't wait to get started!
The finish line is ahead and though I don't know the route, I'll follow the signs as they appear and will mimmic the motions of the other bicyclists, certainly I can't get lost if I follow what they're doing, right?
The gun goes off and my legs are flailing, I'm pushing myself forward without training wheels. While trying to regain my balance I wonder: "When was the last time I was on a bike anyway?" Balance is back and I press on, full speed ahead. A mile into the ride, I'm feeling great. By the second mile I'm cramping up. I'm doubting myself, back peddling: "What on earth possessed me to do this?"
A tire pops and I dismount to repair it. I want to give up. There's no reason for me to continue now that I'm so far behind everyone else. I should just quit. I fix the tire. I get back on and continue to ride. I run out of water. I'm dying. The summer heat surrounds and suffocates me. "Air, where are you?"
I can't handle it. I slam on the breaks, catapulting myself over the handlebars. This scrape on my chin will be a scar. I won't forget. I throw the bike aside, cursing it. "Why did I let you convince me I could do this?"
And I abandon the bike and sit under a shady tree for awhile.
And a few years later I suddenly have the desire to ride again, hoping it's a different course and the weather conditions have improved.
* I don't actually smoke, I never have and never will but the residual cough I have from being sick last week might raise eyebrows
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