Bike Hard

My chest burns, my muscles are tight. I breathe more heavily than John Smit after 80 minutes of hard rugby against the All Blacks - and this, at the first uphill, ten minutes into our bike ride at Seymour Demonstration Forest. Don't complain, I say to myself. You chose to do this instead of milling around at the PNE (similar to the Rand Show).

I surprised myself that I opted for a hard bike ride, to slough off sluggishness, over mini-donuts at the fair. In this moment of hard biking I try to convince myself that I made the right choice.

I catch up with M at the top of the hill. "Do you want to rest?" he asks. "Nah, I'll pedal slowly," is my sputtered reply. This is not the Steveston or Alouette River dykes, those nice pleasant introductory rides to summer. This bike ride calls for gear changes and less talking. Saddle soreness and stiffness are its rewards.

I know I'm going to regret my next words, the ones that say, "We should do this once a week until the rains come." M agrees. Neither of us is getting the type of exercise we should. Our plan to do Grouse Grind hasn't materialised this summer and we don't walk the seawall as often as we used to.

Our conversation stops. The next uphill is before us: the next huff and the next puff and the next 'I wish I hadn't just said that' thought. But each hill will get easier and each bike ride better than the one before - now just to follow through on it. We'll never compete in the Tour de France but I'll let you know how our Tour de Seymour goes.