Context
Once upon a time, I was a brand-ambassador for Trek Bicycles. Basically, I spent a lot of time riding bikes with women, taking pictures and using hashtags.
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(Driggs Idaho, 2017)
I do not know the temperature today, I can feel how close we are to the sun. Dust is coating the inside of my nostrils and throat, my eyelids are sticky. I think I am having fun.
We have been pedaling for three hours, I look at my watch, no not even one. Ahead of me five women are waiting on the ridge. A few panting dogs are draped over the ground resting in their owners’ shadows. The cyclists are mostly still straddling their bikes, and I hope they haven’t waited too long. Another two women trail behind me, politely chatting. I stand on my pedals for the last few feet of ascending, tipping my handle bars side to side in what I hope looks like an exaggerated effort, in earnest it’s all I can do to stay on my rig. I laugh at myself audibly.
We are all together now, on the ridge. I want to lie down and pant with the dogs, I want to take off my shirt and dump my water over my head, I want to hear the jingling song of an ice cream truck and suddenly remember I have loose change in my pocket. None of those things happen.
I am trying to breathe through my nose. I coach myself, this was my idea, say something leader-ish. Then I tell them a joke, the women all laugh, or at least chuckle. I am better at comedy than mountain biking, why didn’t I invite them all over for charades and tequila, I make a mental note to do that instead next time. Impulsively I finish my water bottle (orally), I consider regretting this and choose not to. Instead I am suddenly overwhelmed with shame about my outfit choice, purple shorts with a brown shirt. I want to go home.
We all point our bicycles downhill and I coach myself, be cool, be cool. I remind everyone else to meet up at the next trail junction. We whoop and holler and yahoo for miles descending into the canyon. We giggle like children, laughing when corners are blown, yelling expletives when the more advanced riders set their bikes loose in the air. We relentlessly compliment and encourage each other. Someone says they like my outfit, and I think it is the most fun I have ever had. I want to climb back up and do it again. Everyone is happy, and dusty.
None of the cyclists seem to have noticed or cared that I worked so hard to get up that hill. At the bottom I have mostly forgotten the labor. I conclude, being slow and doing it anyway is cool, I decide I am cool. I resolve to go home and eat ice cream.