As I ice my plantar fasciitis, I’m thinking about the hilarity that is me on a bike. I’ve got my Superfeet, and I’ve done as I’ve promised so far this week (granted, it’s only Tuesday) and stayed off my feet. No running and very little walking. It’s harder than I thought it would be. In order to get exercise, I broke out my bike on Sunday for a 1.5 hour ride. Today I rode for another hour.
Here’s the thing about my bike-riding skills: They are severely lacking. I like to blame this on my brothers, though it may not be fair. The way I remember it, when I was a kid, every time I got a new bicycle, my younger brothers took it apart as soon I spent the night with a friend. As a result, I never really got over that wobbly stage that children go through when they first learn to ride.
Neither my husband, Bill, nor my dear friend, Jack, will ride with me without personally fitting my helmet for me. If you add this unsteadiness to my dismal sense of direction, you’ve got a disaster on wheels. Tonight I decided that I would ride to Fairhaven to meet Bill, and he could drive me home with my bike in the back of his truck. What should have been a 35 minute ride took me an hour of weaving between streets as I lost my way in a city I’ve lived in for 15 years and nearly fell over every time I had to stop at a light.
I finally made it to Fairhaven, grateful and tired. Can’t wait to run again.