My Back Yard

Iggy pulled onto the shoulder of the road. “Keep going,” he yelled at me. “I’m fixing my chain. I’ll catch up with you. You can go on to the ice cream stand, if you want.”

We were biking uphill and Iggy knows I don’t like losing my momentum. So I kept on going until the crest of the hill. I pulled over to wait. Iggy’s still mad at me for the time I left him behind on the Cape Cod Rail Trail, so I wasn’t going to do that again. Anyway, what if Great Brook Farm with its made-on-the-premises ice cream wasn’t as close as he thought or if I overshot the entrance?

The ground was uneven, so I held my bike upright, figuring Iggy would join me in minutes. And within minutes I heard a bike clattering, then stop.

I looked down the hill to see a flash of neon yellow Lycra–Iggy pulling over to tinker again. I laid my bike down and then plopped myself on a grassy spot to wait. This was going to take longer than I’d hoped. Ten minutes passed. His bike’s derailleur was shot. It was time to pass my bike to Iggy so he could ride back to the car since I couldn’t remember where it was and I’m not as fast as him.

I crossed the street so I could wait on broad shoulder where Iggy would have plenty of room to pull over safely upon his return. Plus, a waist-high stone wall offered a flat surface where I could wait in relative comfort.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” said Iggy, as he wheeled away. I hopped up on the wall and looked around. A white house sat at the end of wall with a flourish of orange day lilies nearby. Elsewhere, everything was green.

Except, what was that? Something fluttered on the bag fastened around my waist. A fiery orange and black butterfly.

It flew away, but lit on the lip of my insulated water bottle. Maybe it was thirsty. But it stayed there no longer than it had on my waist, moving quickly to the yellow-taped ends of Iggy’s handlebars close to my feet.

Its wings pulsed back and forth as if they moved with every breath. Then its wings closed tightly for several seconds. It looked as if it had disappeared, replaced by a dried out oak leaf on its edge. Then it opened and walked higher on the yellow tape. Then it twirled clockwise, reminding me of the whirling dervishes I’d seen in Turkey. It moved in tiny steps on legs the same thickness as its wiry antennae. I was fascinated.

Doing research later on the Massachusetts Audubon’s “Find a Butterfly” page, the creature most closely resembled an Eastern Comma.

Anyway, time passed much faster than I expected. Iggy also made better time on my bike, returning in just 45 minutes. He loaded the bike onto his car, and then I got my cone at Great Brook Farm after all.

Iggy and I enjoyed a 28.6 mile ride from East Providence to Bristol, RI and back on the East Bay Trail. I kept up with Iggy the whole way. But things might change once we tackle rides that aren’t flat.

We saw and heard lots of birds. Ducks, Canadian geese, robins, sparrows, red-winged blackbirds, a blue jay, and a small bird with a long upturned tail.

Enjoyed dinner on Federal Hill at Casa Christine and yummy brownies–especially the chocolate peanut butter brownie–from Pastiche.

“Go! You can see the finish line. Go!”

I struggled to push one foot in front of the other, with Kelly’s words spurring me on.

It was Patriot’s Day in Massachusetts. So you might have thought I was running the Boston Marathon.

But, no, I was in spinning class. Every class is a challenge, even though I ratchet down the tension to make my ride bearable.

I managed to bike 12 miles on my first outdoor foray today. Biked the Minuteman Trail and part of the Bay Circuit Trail.

“…and I need you, like the desert needs the rain.”

Funny how the songs in spinning class set my mind off. Returning to spinning class after almost a three-month break, I felt like the desert soaking up the rain atop my two-wheeled apparatus.

Who sings this song? What’s it called? I’m visiting some lyrics websites: http://music.yahoo.com/lyrics and http://FindMeATune.com. They’re yielding conflicting suggestions.

Update on Feb. 23
The verdict is in. It’s “Missing” by Everything But the Girl. You can hear it on a video clip.

My spinning instructor made me sweat more than usual today with a strength training regime. I had to work most of the class at a higher resistance, though I could slow down to compensate.

It was a good workout!

Earlier this week I got on this model of stairclimber for the first time since August. Back then I could barely last 10 minutes at level 5. This week I reached my goal of 30 minutes, climbing more than 100 floors.

Whoo hoo!

First position. Second position. Third. You might think I’m taking ballet. But this is the vocabulary of spinning. Exercising on specially built stationary bikes.

First means I’m seated on the bike, neck and shoulders relaxed, hands on the closest part of the handlebar. 

Second: I’m standing up straight over my seat, hands still on same part of the handlebar. 

Third: Lean over and grasp the handles three inches in front of the primary handlebar. Stick my butt out over the seat without touching it. 

I sit like a normal human being for warm-up, but with my hands floating free. Exhale, inhale. Loosen those muscles in the arms, shoulders, neck. 

Next, I lower my arms to the handlebar and start pedaling. My feet should be flat–not pointed–at the bottom of their circles. 

Now’s when things start to get complicated. I’m learning to take hills like serious bicyclists. Do NOT take it easy after reaching the top. Instead, power through.

Gradually, I add resistance by turning a knob counterclockwise.

"Keep your cadence steady," says the instructor. 

Oof. I’m trying. I’d like to develop more endurance for when I bicycle with my husband. Too often on our bike rides he stops at the top of a hill and looks pityingly at me as I bonk my way up the hill. Or, even worse, I dismount and walk my bike beside me.

However, the beauty of spinning, is that I can dial back the resistance to make my climb easier. Too bad I can’t do that to the hills of Route 16. Sure, I can adjust the gears so they climb more per rotation of the wheel. But the gears can’t ensure that I can force the dratted wheel to move.

"Take me to the promised land," roars from the sound system. Yes, yes. Get me up the imaginary hill.

I make it there, but I’m not supposed to ease up. "Keep going, you can do it," says the twenty-something instructor. 

I force my feet to continue.

Finally, I’m there. Only five minutes have elapsed. But a hill pushes me against my limits.

Now it’s cool-down. "Take the tension off." I rush to comply.

About four minutes of relief follow. Then it’s time for a different kind of challenge: jumps.

You might wonder how you jump a bike that’s weighted to stay on the ground. It’s a figurative, not a literal, jump. A shifting of weight from being seated in first position to leaning forward in third position, but with my rump pushed back over the seat, so my weight is evenly distributed. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Jump forward. Eight more counts, back in my seat.

I can do this, I think. Then it’s time for another challenge: Sprints. Twenty seconds at a reasonable resistance. Then another 20 with resistance ratcheted up.

I’m breathing heavily. My face emits sweat at a genteel pace. My glasses start to slide down the bridge of my nose. 

The teacher has us switch between base speed and sprint speed. "Add a little more resistance each time," she says. 

I ratchet up the resistance in tiny increments. Perhaps one-eighth of a turn instead of the one-half or full turns that I imagine my classmates are making.

Still, I’m pumping away, exploring the limits of my ability.

"Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth." This reminds me of yoga. I start to float away.  

Then it’s over. All that’s left is a cool-down and some stretching. And what do you know? I’m disappointed the class has ended.

The accent sounded familiar. When the sleek brunette ended her sentence with "hey," I had to ask "Where are you from?"

She’s from Johannesburg, South Africa, which I visited recently. But she has lived here fifteen years since following her sister, so the U.S. feels like home to her. This nice woman whom I’d never talked to before said, "If I’d known you were going, I would have had you meet my father." 

This happened at spinning class, which I revisited after a break of almost two months. I managed to get through the entire 45-minute class. The insider’s trick is to keep the bike’s resistance low. Also, I don’t always spin as rapidly as the teacher. Frankly, I don’t think my legs are capable of it.

Spinning teachers tend to be very upbeat. That helps, too. 

In bicyclese, a century is a 100-mile ride completed in one day.

No way I’ll achieve that this year. But how about making a half-century my goal for September?

Yesterday we rode 27 miles along the East Bay Bike Trail. If I could make 35 miles by the end of June, 42 by the end of July, and 49 by the end of August, I’d just be tacking on 7 miles per month.

Doesn’t sound too bad. But today’s 27 miles were flat. I don’t know of any flat half-centuries. So hitting half a century wouldn’t be that easy. I struggle with what bike clubs and books call "gently rolling" terrain. But it wouldn’t hurt to try.

What might motivate me is going on some "group" bike rides, so we get a tip sheet that directs us on a ride of a specified length.

I put "group" in quotes because whenever Iggy and I have gone on group rides, we fall behind the pack within the first two miles.

If, at the end, we roll into the parking lost the same time as other folks it’s only because they didn the 45-mile version of our 22-mile ride.