Over the weekend, I bought a new bicycle. It’s shiny and orange-on-silver. There are many knobs and cables the purposes of which I have yet to fully understand. Also, I’ve smoked over a pack of cigarettes a day since I was seventeen.
I haven’t ridden a bike in ten years and I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually bought one. It was a strange experience buying something I never thought I’d use ever again in my life, at least until I moved into the assisted-living community. My experiences with bikes have not always been pleasant. I once had to ride about eleven miles round-trip to buy my mom a two-liter of Dr. Pepper…on my four-years-younger brother’s Power Rangers single-gear bike.
Today wasn’t much different: from my apartment to the training facility of my new job, it’s 4.01 miles. The trip there was interesting but not unpleasant. The return trip, on the other hand, has murdered my ass and back.
You see, San Marcos has many hills. Most of them are not steep or high, but a good many of them are long. It turns out that the way home from work is almost completely uphill. About three-quarters of the way home I just gave up and plopped down in someone’s yard. If I could have walked, I wouldn’t have been above drinking from their spigot.
I have at least two more days, or 32.08 miles, of bike riding left this week. If I can manage half of that without ending up hospitalized, it will be a goddamned miracle.
