You've Come A Long Way, Baby

So, in case you hadn't heard, I'm going to do a triathlon next year. (That's sarcasm. I haven't shut up about it on this blog.)

One reason I'm talking/blogging about tri training so much is because my substantial Leo pride will not allow me to back out of something if I tell the whole world I'm going to do it. But let me be honest--I'm terrified. The what-ifs and the hows and the what-am-I-even-doing-heres are still roaring through my head every time I struggle to put my swim cap on (there has to be an easy way to do this. I haven't figured it out yet).

Anyway, the point here is, I'm having weekly crises of confidence. It's a Big Deal, going from 220 pounds to 130-something. It's an Even Bigger Deal to then say, "Yeah, no problem, I'll do a triathlon next year!" Thing is, I know I can do it--I can get out there and finish a race. I don't even care where I finish, I just want to finish, and be that woman who goes from obese and unable to run half a mile to healthy and finishing a sprint tri.

I've come such a long way.

That's why I've been a bit baffled with myself of late, thinking about how scared I am to get out on a bike again. I grew up racing around the neighborhood on my bike. I know how to do it. What in the world is so scary to me about doing it again?

Then, a day or two ago, a memory came roaring back at me from some deep recess in my brain. I had a bike in my first couple of years at college, but I never really used it. My freshman year, I lived on campus and everything I needed was on campus, so I walked everywhere because you couldn't ride bikes on the walkways.  My second year, I lived off campus, but the walk wasn't that bad and I just didn't bother with the bike.

One weekend, the boy I had a crush on at the time suggested a bike ride. He rode his bike all over the place and was dismayed that mine was collecting a fine layer of dust outside my apartment. Thinking it would be fun to go out for a day, I eagerly agreed and saddled up.

I guess Boy thought we'd ride for a while, but after a mile, maybe two tops, the long-unused muscles started whining, then screaming at me. I was tired. I wasn't having any fun. I wanted to go home. In retrospect, I think it's reasonable, seeing as how it had been a while since I'd ridden and I wasn't in the best shape anyway. But Boy got a little bent out of shape, and was a little pissy with me about the whole thing. I was embarrassed, and felt like I must be really awful, being so out of shape that I couldn't go more than a couple of miles on a bicycle on a Saturday afternoon.

I never rode that bike again.

It's funny how we let people make us feel bad. I don't blame Boy--he was immature and sometimes unreasonable, but I allowed his displeasure to make me feel inadequate. It was reactions like this to events in my life that led me to gain weight later in my 20s. I have to own that. But as the memory of that afternoon came back to me this weekend, I felt a moment of belated anger at those two silly kids.

And then I had a revelation: That's not how it's going to be this time.

In a few weeks, when I buy my bike, I'll be a little apprehensive about balance and controlling a fancy racing bike, but I know that as I get out there, I'll gain confidence. No one expects me to ride five miles the first time out, but rather to just ride a bit, getting a feel for the bike and getting to know it. Stopping when my legs tell me it's time, and letting my body work its way up to being able to ride longer distances.

Funny how remembering a moment that ruined biking for me for over a decade allowed me to finally process what happened that afternoon and...get over it. To realize that I have, indeed, come so far that riding a bicycle will be like, well, riding a bicycle. I can do this.

Now, if I can just get over my fear of open water.