Just like what they warn you about, yes, I can verify first-hand that your metabolism slows down the minute you turn 25. Or, in my case, it's a result of a dangerous cocktail consisting of work-induced lethargy, not enough exercise, and too much drinking...all of which can spell metabolic catastrophe.
Which is why I bought myself a fancypants road bike when I started the downward slide toward 30. My goal then was to have an excuse to get outside and mooooove (read: I sure as hell am not getting any fitter by sitting on my duff and blogging about it). As luck of would have it, two years after that fateful purchase I have had an epiphany.
Cycling is more than exercise -- it gives you an amazing sense of place. Zipping around town on a bike exposes you to sights and sounds in a much more intimate way than you'd get by driving. You also learn to navigate the streets more quickly than you would by running them or using GPS. All of this combined creates a richer awareness of the present moment.
Many of my cycling moments in San Francisco were both chaotic and somewhere on the periphery of peaceful. Surprisingly, I've come to find those moments here in Wyoming are a different version of the same. Here's why:
I'm not a morning person. Plain and simple. The four-mile morning commute to work in San Francisco was my way of waking up and easing into the day (albeit begrudgingly). I can distinctly remember the fog on my face as I skid past the gaggle of bums every morning on McAllister and Market (all before a single cup of coffee, mind you!). The buildings were pink in the morning sun, and there was usually the smell of jasmine lingering in the air that was followed by the smell of farts emanating from the sewer. I also distinctly remember the instant regret after I groggily tried to beat a bus around a corner and my tires got stuck in the Muni tracks. Nothing beats flipping ass-over-tea kettle in front of an entire busload of morning commuters.
The morning bike ride to work here in Cheyenne is my wake up routine too. Only now the most formidable opponents aren't bums or Muni buses; they're giant trucks and semis with no regard for puny cyclists like me. They rage past and blow nasty exhaust directly into my face. But as soon as they are gone I can smell the willow in the breeze and watch the clouds follow overhead as I make my way down the road to the Herschler Building. It's glorious. Sometimes I don't even need the coffee after rides like this <gasp!>.
Similarly, longer bike rides prove to be an intimate sensory experience. Northern California is sensory overload actually, with its sights, sounds, smells, cars, people, other cyclists, and constantly changing viewscapes. The freezing trek across the Golden Gate is worth it in and of itself.
Wyoming, on the other hand, stretches infinitely into the horizon. The wind blows at exactly the angle that goes against your trajectory so that you have to exert all of your strength just to avoid screeching to a halt. But when you stop to catch your breath there is always the magic song of a solitary bird or the hush of nothing but silence and grass and road that goes on for miles and miles. If it weren't for the altitude I'd continue riding forever.
That is, except for when the bike route on Google Maps sends you down a gravel road and you end up walking your bike for 3 miles to get to the next stretch of pavement. Not cool, Google. Not cool.
At any rate, if it weren't already taken by surfing and motorcycle maintenance I'd rename this blog post as "Zen and the art of cycling." I'm having a blast exploring Cheyenne and its surrounding parts, and Denver too when I go visit my parents. All of this has made a mediocre summer into a peaceful, mindful and calorie-burning experience that my buns of steel will thank me for.
PS- True to my last post, I'm already a quarter of the way through reading that hunting memoir "Call of the Mild." You may be talking to a future huntress...we shall see.
Which is why I bought myself a fancypants road bike when I started the downward slide toward 30. My goal then was to have an excuse to get outside and mooooove (read: I sure as hell am not getting any fitter by sitting on my duff and blogging about it). As luck of would have it, two years after that fateful purchase I have had an epiphany.
Cycling is more than exercise -- it gives you an amazing sense of place. Zipping around town on a bike exposes you to sights and sounds in a much more intimate way than you'd get by driving. You also learn to navigate the streets more quickly than you would by running them or using GPS. All of this combined creates a richer awareness of the present moment.
Many of my cycling moments in San Francisco were both chaotic and somewhere on the periphery of peaceful. Surprisingly, I've come to find those moments here in Wyoming are a different version of the same. Here's why:
I'm not a morning person. Plain and simple. The four-mile morning commute to work in San Francisco was my way of waking up and easing into the day (albeit begrudgingly). I can distinctly remember the fog on my face as I skid past the gaggle of bums every morning on McAllister and Market (all before a single cup of coffee, mind you!). The buildings were pink in the morning sun, and there was usually the smell of jasmine lingering in the air that was followed by the smell of farts emanating from the sewer. I also distinctly remember the instant regret after I groggily tried to beat a bus around a corner and my tires got stuck in the Muni tracks. Nothing beats flipping ass-over-tea kettle in front of an entire busload of morning commuters.
The morning bike ride to work here in Cheyenne is my wake up routine too. Only now the most formidable opponents aren't bums or Muni buses; they're giant trucks and semis with no regard for puny cyclists like me. They rage past and blow nasty exhaust directly into my face. But as soon as they are gone I can smell the willow in the breeze and watch the clouds follow overhead as I make my way down the road to the Herschler Building. It's glorious. Sometimes I don't even need the coffee after rides like this <gasp!>.
Similarly, longer bike rides prove to be an intimate sensory experience. Northern California is sensory overload actually, with its sights, sounds, smells, cars, people, other cyclists, and constantly changing viewscapes. The freezing trek across the Golden Gate is worth it in and of itself.
All I could think in this moment was, "Weee!"
Wyoming, on the other hand, stretches infinitely into the horizon. The wind blows at exactly the angle that goes against your trajectory so that you have to exert all of your strength just to avoid screeching to a halt. But when you stop to catch your breath there is always the magic song of a solitary bird or the hush of nothing but silence and grass and road that goes on for miles and miles. If it weren't for the altitude I'd continue riding forever.
That is, except for when the bike route on Google Maps sends you down a gravel road and you end up walking your bike for 3 miles to get to the next stretch of pavement. Not cool, Google. Not cool.
Looking back on that gravel road to nowhere
At any rate, if it weren't already taken by surfing and motorcycle maintenance I'd rename this blog post as "Zen and the art of cycling." I'm having a blast exploring Cheyenne and its surrounding parts, and Denver too when I go visit my parents. All of this has made a mediocre summer into a peaceful, mindful and calorie-burning experience that my buns of steel will thank me for.
PS- True to my last post, I'm already a quarter of the way through reading that hunting memoir "Call of the Mild." You may be talking to a future huntress...we shall see.
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