My stomach is full of snakes, reeling and lunging dramatically from my throat down to my bowels. I haven't raced since May of 2014. I've become a different person since. I no longer run and I no longer try to unless I'm careening down a steep hill chasing after my kids. In little more than a year I've tried desperately to reignite my passion and see myself at the starting line once more. Every ounce of my energy focused around that moment when I could run again for so long. When I realized it wasn't going to happen, I couldn't run without extreme pain, I begrudgingly decided to take a break. I no longer wanted to heal for
running. I wanted to heal for
me.
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| The only time I run anymore is when I take my boys mountain biking. I run beside them while they pound the roots. |
This April my husband bought me a mountain bike for my birthday. I also invested in a used road bike. Four months now I've devoted my energy to those two sets of wheels. It is the antithesis of running. In fact, most runners can't stand cyclists, and especially mountain bikers. I've been glared at by more trail runners in the last few months than my seven-year-old has rolled his eyes at me in his entire life. "I'm one of you!" I always want to scream at them. I'm no dirty biker. I get over politely. I smile, I wave. "Enjoy your run!" I always share enthusiastically. But it doesn't help, I've crossed sides and today I am going to prove how far I've come.
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| My husband's first race. |
I entered a local mountain bike series. A couple weeks ago, I watched as my husband rode a race as my guinea pig. Standing on the side of the mountain cheering, I could only think, "These people are BAD ASS!" I've never seen so many crashes, bloody knees, pounding muscles, and smiles of pure grit. It scares the hell out of me, but I want to try it. The races are held in the evenings during 90 degree heat. There aren't any water stations and only a medical crew at the finish line. There are no t-shirts, goody bags, or other prized materials. I will earn a beer at the finish line and nothing more.
Approaching the starting line is a celebration. I've learned in the past year that I'm strong and adaptable. I love competition. It's that competition that has my stomach flexing and turning. I'm excited, nervous, curious, and want to throw up. I don't just want to survive the race, I want to thrive in it. This isn't the outcome I pictured for myself a year ago, but I am proud of becoming a Bad Ass.
~Roadburner
