I Am Afraid Of My Road Bike.
Two months off with That Cold That's Been Going Around has led to lung of mouse and leg of crane-fly, but I'm more than ready now, and gagging, to go for a ride. But if I venture out on the road bike I know I'm going to get far too excited about being out in the fresh air, become giddy with the speed, and giggly at the mere sheer joy of being on a bike again, go too far and too fast. And die.
Compromise/ wimp out - crack the rusty lungs and remind the legs that they *should* have muscles in with a half-and-half ride on the cyclo-cross bike. Choose a route with multiple escape shutes home.
Incentivise - head out that way to the bike shop I haven't been to in ages just to say hello, turn up to the hills and skip (ahem) along the tops with the ultimate aim of a rewarding hot-chocolate back in town.
10 miles west into not really the teeth, but at least the sticky gums of a stiff breeze, procrastinate for too long in the bike shop, chatting, hoping that if I hang around long enough it will be darkness and not feeble of leg that will see me home. Eventually strike out into the where-did-that-come-from mizzle and up into the hills.
We shall gloss over the next few miles, suffice to say that it was an absolute soul-massaging painful ecstasy. I'd forgotten how much I loved this, how much I missed this, and how much I need this release. Surprisingly the legs make it back into town without taking any short-cuts for a hot-chocolate well earned.
And yes, I grovel home, but in that good happy-tired way.
I am still afraid of my road bike.