I pulled my bike out of the closet last night. It was literally in the closet, where it's been sitting for four-and-a-half months. Before that, it sat in a hallway for seven months. And before that? Decorated a garage for a year. But before that, I swear to God, I took it out for a 30-mile ride.
I feel quite badly about that. It's a fabulous road bike. All red and shiny. With complicated accessories, that I'm not quite sure how to use, but feel cool, anyway. But I got into the whole running idea, and completely neglected that fine piece of machinery. Plus, it needed air in its tires, and like I have any idea how to do that. That's why I'm getting married. Because he's pretty good about all that.
So I got my bike out, and rode a rather large loop out to the next town and back. Twenty-five miles, which is pretty far, especially since it now feels as though I have a bike seat permanently wedged between my butt cheeks. I'm not going to lie, it was pretty magical, that bike ride. The birds were chirping, the sun was out, the frogs were frogging. (Ribbit?) And I may have only screamed six or 13 times as semis flew past at a healthy 62 miles per hour.
So that's what I did last night. And my legs are pretty happy today because they were getting pretty much bored with running. And when they get bored, they get injured. And when they get injured, I freak the Hell out. So really, this was a win-win situation for us all. Except for my butt. Who asked me to please remove the baseball bat from it's orifice when I woke up this morning. And I would've obliged, had there been a baseball bat protruding from my rear, but alas, no such thing. Just a bad case of Bike Butt.