Fiona in Training

Well…the time has come.  It’s the dreaded time of year when I decide it’s time to lose the winter pelt I’ve managed to create and get back on that bike.  Forget bike, get back on the train.  That’s more like it. 

So, it usually works like this—I try to ride about 50 miles a week during the dark, winter months, just so that I don’t forget how to ride a bike—because I hear you actually can do that, but come March, it’s on!  I need to get about 125 miles in saddle (yes I just said that) if I expect to ride 100 miles in one day, several times during the course of the summer.  It’s borderline a sick infatuation I have, but I’ve come to realize that my time being part of a “team” sport is over and I’m not going to the Olympics in 2012, so a bike race or two will have to do…and it usually does. 

I train.

I ride.

I finish.

Success.

And that’s really all I need.

I go to my makeshift spin class—not only am I in the basement—but the storage room in the basement—so like the dungeon of the dungeon.  I keep the lights off and it’s cool and I turn on my best hater music, and I turn it up loud.  I get on my bike, situated on the trainer (I like to think just like Lance—because in this moment, I actually am Lance) and I just start pedaling.  And then I pedal some more.  And then I pretend to go up hills.  And practice shifting.  And I’m sweating like crazy.  And I actually am crazy. 

And this is when they call me Fiona.  When I’m down in the dungeon for hours on end, in the dark, forcing myself into some sort of sick pain.  There you have it.

This is instead of spin class—because as much as I love, love, love spin class, I do not need some 98-pounder with her hair looking all cute counting to ten for me while my quads burn—I can actually do that myself without feeling like I want to get off my bike, walk over, and kick her in the shins.  I don’t need the men in the back whooping and hollering, either.  In a perfect world, I’d teach a spin class in a dark room, with really loud music, but you’re just on your own. I have no microphone on, and when the hour is up, I’ll turn on the lights.  No, it’s probably not the same workout, but let’s be honest, the second that snow melts, I’m going outside anyway, and I guarantee there’s no man screaming in my ear, counting down as I make it back up the hill to my house. I actually will make it back up the hill, thank you very much.

Fiona.

So day one is great and I’m feeling the love again, and then day two comes…and actually sitting in the sorry excuse for a saddle—it’s more like sitting on a really sharp triangle—

Actually, it’s like sitting on the head of a golf tee—

And the first 5 miles I’m just praying that I don’t actually touch the seat because I’d rather actually stab myself in the eye with a dull object that sit down in that seat. 

And that’s day two.  And I’m still crazy. 

But come July when I’m ready to ride the Triple Bypass—120 miles from Evergreen to Avon—over 3 mountain passes—that golf tee will be my best friend and Fiona will finish. 

I love crazy.