I’ve had a three-wheeled bike for years. Mostly it’s been stored in the attic and periodically in the spring hubby will bring it down because I’ve decided once again that I will ride it.
And today is the day, it’s time to once again discover the joys of biking triking. He got it down from the attic, which was a total feat because it’s so bulky, aired up the tires, adjusted the seat and I was off.
Hey, it’s more fun than I remembered as I sailed down the drive. Oh, I had forgotten how freeing it is to ride, feel the wind in your face, it’s like I’m a kid again, riding the streets of Enfield.
Through the neighborhood I go, it’s a cool day, my hair is blowing in the breeze, the birds are singing. Boy Howdy, am I ever having fun riding down a hill. Then the return trip begins and I have to peddle uphill. It’s not so fun anymore, in fact it’s pure torture. OMG, this is why the damn thing is in the attic. My thighs are quivering, I’m panting like a racehorse, I ache all over. What made me think I wanted to ride this gadawful contraption in the first place.
It’s sitting in the garage now, glaring at me. Hubby suggested that I might want to take baby steps, just ride it for short distances until my muscles get used to it. Yeah right, in a pigs eye...
Egads, we don’t realize how out of shape we are until we do something like this. Whatever made me think that I would enjoy this again at my advanced age? Wicked contraption, that bicycle, I think it’s possessed by the devil!
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