“Ride Like A Girl” is the motto I have on my ankle id bracelet I wear when I ride on the road. Along with my name and in-case-of-emergency contact, I had space enough to choose an inspiring message. To me, road riding is a tough girl sport. I can be tough, but I also like to maintain my femininity. I wear a pink and white jersey paired with my pearl earrings. My cycling motto, celebrates both sides of me: the tough side and the girlie side.

Hubby bought a bike for me when he got into cycling years ago. He was going to make this expensive purchase equitable. Justifiable? He goes full throttle when he gets into a sport. He fully outfitted us from head to toe: helmet; photo-sensitive sun glasses; cushy black shorts—very, very important; bike top with short sleeves as sleeveless leads to road rash in a crash; bike socks-thin and breathable, bike shoes AND the ID bracelet.

My first ride was so embarrassing. I don’t know why my hubby didn’t take me out. I’ve never had clip-in shoes. I thought my right shoe was broken because I couldn’t get it to stick to the pedal. I sat on the ground and took off my shoe. I manually clipped it into place. Success! I just had to be patient and not think too hard.

Shifting was tricky business too. My fancy new bike changed gears by pushing the side of the hand breaks in and out. My last bike, the bright blue one I saved all my babysitting money for in 1978, shifted gears by moving sticks on the frame with one hand, the other hand stayed on the handle bar.

My inaugural ride was short, maybe ten miles. I recalled everything I learned in elementary school bike safety training, moving my right arm to indicate a left or right turn or a stop. When I got to the intersection, I stopped, got off my bike and WALKED my bike across the crosswalk—nice and safe. On my second ride, my friend Teresa, a very experienced rider and a saint for riding with a rookie, said, “WE DON’T WALK THE BIKE ACROSS THE ROAD. WE ARE VEHICLES.”

Now I know to ride in the road to make a left hand turn, like a car. When I look back, I laugh and wonder how my hubby ever let me out of the house so undertrained.

Fast forward a few years later, I’ve become an expert at spin class. I only hit the road with hubby on his slow days, as I don’t know many girls who ride. I love spin because the weight drops off in buckets, probably buckets of sweat. The teacher, Rodney, has a lot to do with my drippiness. He used to ride competitively so he trains us as if we are professionals too.

In class, the lights are on, doors shut, fans off. Most spin classes are the opposite to keep you cool. Rodney says, “I’ve got news for you. There aren’t any fans on Mt. Diablo. There aren’t any towels either but we’ll let that one go.” If you have never taken a spin class, a towel is a must like milk is in a “Got Milk” commercial.

In the middle of June I did my first tour, American bike talk for race only it’s not a race, just a ride. Ironically, I met a bike buddy in my Masters Swim class. She invited me to do the Tour de Mermaid, an organized ride broken into three levels. We agreed on the 30-mile ride from the San Francisco Presidio to Tiburon and back. I know I can ride 26 miles with hubby so I thought 30 sounded doable. My friend Julie told me the Mermaid events are the best because they are fully supported with lots of snack stops, flat-tire fixers, step-by-step laminated directions—not a map—I hate maps, and plenty of swag like necklaces and t-shirts.

I like the Mermaid events even though I’ve only done one. The premise behind this company is to welcome all level of female athletes to achieve their fitness goals. I have the most supportive hubby in the world; he slows WAY down to ride with me because he just wants to BE with me. I always feel a little guilty and a little inferior because even at my best I can’t keep up with him. Tour de Mermaid made me feel VERY successful, surrounded by the nicest ladies including my friend Julie.

Before Julie and I started the race, I warned her I needed to get my bearings with gear shifting. “It might take me a few minutes to get the hang of it,” I said.

“Oh I have to do that every time. No worries.”

“I don’t like to go too fast downhill,” I confessed.

“You are probably going to kill me going up hill. I’ll catch you on the downhill.” She put me at ease.

When I ride with Hubby, I know I can falter and he will love me anyway and still go with me again. You never know what you are going to get riding with a friend the first time. I knew Julie and I were going to get a long just fine.

Hubby offered to drive Julie and I to the race. “I never get to ride in Marin. Cycling is fantastic over there. I can do my own thing while you do yours.”

I know he wanted to ride in Marin. But truthfully, he could go anytime. Tour de Mermaid gave him a veiled excuse: To see his protégé off on her first organized bike tour. He was more excited for this event than me. He bought me new tires. He changed out my cassette, the cogs, so I could climb hills a little better. Apparently whatever I had was set for mostly flatlands. I didn’t worry about packing my helmet and shoes because he put everything in his swanky bike bag for both of us. He also gave me a little plastic sandwich bag to protect my phone from getting wet in the sweaty back pocket of my jersey. The blustery weather of the San Francisco Bay meant I had to wear Hubby’s bright red windbreaker over my pretty pink bike jersey. Warmth over fashion I guess.

Hubby loaded our bikes on to the rack and unloaded them when we got there. He pumped up our tires. Julie was soo happy for the service. When we got our race numbers for our jerseys and bikes, I noticed the bibs for the advanced riders were pink and ours were blue for intermediate. I immediately wanted a pink one because for one, it’s pink and for another, it’s for “stronger” riders. I want to be that, the advanced pink rider. Next time. And then we were off. Hubby watched us from the starting line like a parent sending his kindergartner off to class for the first time, grinning from ear to ear.

“We have to ‘WOO’ across the starting line,” Julie said.

“Wooooo! Wooo! Wooo!” we cried, along with the race officials.

Julie and I stayed together for the most part. We met up when the direction signs weren’t clear or there was a hydration station. Boy oh boy did the Mermaid people provide a well-stocked fare. We had a choice among orange slices, bananas, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Nutella and peanut butter sandwiches, trail mix, water, electrolyte drinks, AND boiled potatoes—just like a real rider like my hubby.

Julie said the only thing we couldn’t do was walk our bikes. No matter how tired we might get on a hill, no walking. We could stop to rest. That motto stayed in my head along with Rodney’s voice from spin class.

“You can do it! You can do it!”

“Fight, fight, fight! Fight, fight, fight!”

He says these words standing next to you because he wants every student to ride as hard as they can; there is no slacking in his class. Hubby has never met Rodney but he loves him too. “Everything he’s telling you is preparing you for the road.” I was VERY prepared.

We crossed the finish line like tough athletes: sweaty, wind-blown, pink-cheeked and clunky because of my flat. (I felt every concrete seam on the Golden Gate Bridge but kept going, as the flat-tire-fixers were nowhere in sight.) Giant medals in the shape of a bike cog in blue and red were draped over our heads. We were winners! We felt like it anyway even though it was just a “participation medal” as Julie’s kids call them. We got our shiny silver necklace, a mini cog with a blue “m” for mermaid in the middle. Sliders from a food truck awaited us for lunch. Fancy all the way.

We didn’t have any serious casualties. Aside from my flat, I bruised my knee and cut my leg on the sprockets when I tipped over on a wavy road, waiting for Julie; I couldn’t unclip my left foot in time. Julie’s phone dropped out of her pocket, cracking in a thousand places, narrowly missing the plunge into the Bay from the Golden Gate Bridge. We proved our toughness in more ways than finishing.

The best part, hubby’s facebook post under the finish-line photo, “You made me proud Wifey.” Brings a tear to my eye and maybe his too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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