This morning, I was feeling incredibly motivated. So –despite the habit I’d fallen into the past few weeks– I jumped on my stationary bike before 9am. I started my audible.com book (“The Cruel Sea” for anyone interested … not something you might first consider to be good bike-riding listening, but I’ve been enjoying it very much). I settled in for a long ride.
But … Something was off. I’d noticed it yesterday, but thought it was just my foot slipping on the pedal. This morning, it was different. Very rhythmic. Very disruptive. Around 30 minutes into my ride, I picked up my phone and messaged John. I told him something was wrong — he’d need to look at the left pedal when he got home. I was going to power through my ride.
Only, I wasn’t.
At 32 minutes, the pedal fell off. I scrunched down, I looked at each piece — the fallen off pedal and the mechanism on the bike. Things were wobbling. I sent John a picture. I told him I’d broken the bike.
He was wonderful. He asked for more pictures. He started googling new bikes. Within three hours, we’d checked “Best of” lists and ordered a new stationary bike as well as a trainer to put our outdoor bikes on. I maniacally checked the shipping info.
I have become so used to riding my bike every day, sweating out the sorrows, the woes, the frustrations, the sadness and the fears. Working through problems. That when the pedal fell off, I felt even more adrift than I had when I left my job. I felt terrified. How would I get through the seven days it would take for my new bike to arrive? How would I survive? More importantly, how would I sweat?
I fretted about it all day. While I took Lucy to the vet, went clothing shopping with John, waited for take-out burgers. I tried to calm myself with the knowledge that help was on its way. But it didn’t make me feel better. Smaller bumps than this had disrupted better men. How would I stay focused and motivated with a seven-day gap? I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust my resolve. Thirteen months, and this could be the end. I was despondent.
John and I got home. We put on comfy clothes. I spread out our food booty on a TV tray. Burgers, and french fries and blue cheese dipping sauce with a small cup of root beer. He said he was just going to check out the bike. Minutes ticked by. I paced. I fretted more. I poured two glasses of wine and walked downstairs.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” There was laughter under his words, but ironic laughter, disillusioned laugher. Not funny laughter.
“It can be fixed? But not today?” I guessed.
“Ha!” This time he did laugh. “No. It’s fixed. But we just spent a ton of money replacing it.”
“It’s fixed?” My voice was filled with both delight and the underlying fear that he was lying.
“It’s fixed.” He stood up, his hands on the console. He spoke with finality.
My whole world lightened. I smiled, stupidly, childishly. I positively beamed. He shook his head.
“I can ride it tomorrow?”
“I wish I’d looked at it tomorrow. Because now I have to ride it tonight!” He words were heavy but lined with amusement. He caught my expression. “You can ride it tomorrow.”
We climbed the stairs back to our living room and settled in for burgers and sitcoms. We toasted our glasses, and I thanked him for fixing my bicycle. He smiled sadly.
“I’ve counted on it for thirteen months,” I began, feeling guilty.
“I know. I’m glad it was an easy fix.” He kissed my forehead and took my hand. We curled into the couch. “I just don’t know where I’m going to put the second bike.”