Charlie dragged me into the garden to teach me, again, how to change the tubes on my road bike. I had the best of intentions of getting back on the roadie at some point. I lugged it from Arizona on the back of my car, after all. And yes, I knew it was sitting in the garage with flats, like it had sat in my storage closet with flats for years prior to the move. I tried explaining, “I am simply much more comfortable on my commuter bike. Wider tires, basket, much less risk of falling off because I’m not clipped into pedals.”
His response? “Tough. Let’s fix the tires. We are going for a ride.”
I had a crash that shook me up four years ago. Four years and I’m still not over it. Even though, I’ve competed in triathlons and I’ve put hundreds of miles on my commuter bike since — I can still hear the noise of hitting the ground, flailing as I’m attached to my bike. My finger is still crooked.
Of course changing the tires took all of 15 minutes — a chore I’d put off for far too long. It was a good reminder of the process and doing it myself felt good. (I’d gotten into the habit of taking it to the local bike shop for $12 fixes in lieu of just getting my own hands dirty.)
Helmet fastened, I’ll be going out for an afternoon ride with the gang. Nothing like taking those fears by the horns — and by horns, I mean the foothills of the Rockies.