My Husband Is Trying to Kill Me

Yesterday I went on my first road bike ride in over 6 months. Though I lived through the experience - with very little complaining on my part - I was reminded of the first time my husband and I rode our new bikes.  I wrote a blog about that experience and re-read it yesterday.  It was such a fun read, I've decided to re-post it.  I hope you all enjoy My Husband Is Trying to Kill Me.

Yes. The title isn't lying. My husband is trying to kill me. Three weeks ago we bought two road bikes. If you want to know what type of bike, you're asking the wrong person. My husband can tell you the make, model, style, what the name of our special gear shifters are, the type of seat, blah, blah, blah. I just know my bike is blue, has two drink bottle holders, and has a nifty computer that not only tells me what time it is, it also tells me how far I've ridden and the total time my ass has been in the seat. I find this much more important than what type of bike I'm riding, but that's just how I roll.

The first day we had the bikes my husband showed me the app he downloaded onto his I-Phone. The app allows him to plot out a bike route, the mileage of the route, and the elevation of the entire route. Yes. He's a freak. The app also shows how many calories we burned after we finished our run. That's what I'm interested in. Now if there was only an app that could show how many margaritas I could consume to equal the number of calories I burned. That's the kind of app I'd like.

So, off we roll on our first ride. The ride starts out fine - pretty much downhill. Definitely my kind of ride so far. Then we hit our first hill. We live in the hill country, so I kinda expect a hill or two. But before our first ride ends, we've climbed what seems like the equivalent of Kilimanjaro. I think I'm going to die. One particularly threatening "hill" has me off of my seat and pushing my bike most of the way to the top. I say a less than kind word or two when my new hilltop view only shows my next "hill." Frickin' hill country!

This all takes place on a Sunday. By Tuesday night hubby tells me he's signed us up for a ride with a bike club that's, "only 33 miles." I want to look at him cross eyed and ask if he's lost his ever-lovin' mind. Thirty three miles!?! We've had the bikes less than a week and you want me to sit on that brick of a bike seat and climb mountains for 33 miles? But, I also want to be supportive. He's digging the bikes. He's digging the whole bike scene. Being the wet blanket of reason would only A) disappoint him and B) make me look like the biggest wuss since Scooby Do met a zombie. (Yes, I've dated myself there. I'm in my 40's. But I look good for being in my 40's. Really. No. Really.) 

We start our ride near Canyon Lake dam. The trip will take us to Wimberly, Texas and back. After only 15 minutes one of the crew on the ride, a 14 year old boy starts to complain at how slow we're going. Said 14 year old is lucky I was well enough behind him to not accidently place a stick in his spokes. But the 14 year old did slip off his bike and land in a river as we rode through a "water bridge" in which the water of a slow moving stream covered the bridge. The kid was absolutely fine, though his ego was considerably brused. From that moment on there was no discussion about how fast or slow we all were going.

Here's the long story short. I made the entire 33 mile ride without killing my husband, my husband killing me, or anyone killing the 14 year old kid. My ass was so sore I couldn't sleep that night. The top parts of my legs ached as though they'd been lashed by some Scot on a whipping spree. And I only needed to get off my bike twice to push it up a "hill." I'm proud.

Now if I can only come up with some romance story I can write about a cyclist who falls in love with.... I'll get to that. Really.

Ciao - Brenna