Life Cycle

The road wound relentlessly up. Pine-scented air burned my lungs. In the distance, to my right, the sapphire waters of Lake Tahoe glinted in the afternoon glare.

I was on my bicycle, trying to make it up a 700-foot climb in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. At the top, a road junction near the 7,000-foot elevation mark, I’d still have more than 10 miles to go to the end of my ride—that was 10 miles in a 100-mile bicycle ride that, at this exhausted, demoralized moment, seemed like one of the dumbest things I had ever agreed to do.

I forced my aching legs against the pedals. I gasped for air. I can’t do it, I kept thinking. I can’t do this on my own.

I looked down. Gray, sun-baked pavement rolled past in agonizing slow motion. The Lycra on my cycling shorts bit into my none-too-svelte, 44-year-old thighs. Three colored plastic bracelets stood out against my sweaty arm. There was hardly a sound, just wind sighing in the pines and the vague noise of people cheering far ahead. No other riders on this short stretch of curvy road.

I was way, way in the back of the ride’s 3,000-strong pack. I’d already dismounted and walked part of the way. Should I get off again? Maybe sit down at the side of the road and let one of the support cars pick me up? A drumbeat of give up seemed to sound in my head, in rhythm with each painful stroke of the pedals. I slowed. It would be so easy to stop. End this misery. Right here.

I thought back wonderingly to the day six months before when I’d happened upon a triathlon on TV one lazy weekend afternoon. I was taking a break from school work—I’m a biology professor at Missouri State University.

The sight of all those toned, fit bodies made me suddenly, painfully aware of just how un-toned and unfit my own body was. I could have easily stood to lose 60, 70 pounds.

Watching the cycling portion of the race took me back to one childhood Christmas, when my dad, who never made loads of money, gave me a used bike he’d lovingly restored, complete with a banana seat, butterfly handlebars and a fresh coat of blue paint. What freedom I’d found on that bike, riding all over town with my friends! I miss that, I thought. I miss being active, in shape. That’s it. I’m getting back on a bike. Heck, I’m going to do a bike race!

Okay, I didn’t get on a bike that afternoon. Nor the next day, when I walked into my office and told my colleague Kathy about my new resolution.