To be fair to me, I was tired before the ride started. And this week is the anniversary of my dad's death (17 years goes quickly). But it was also just a physically HARD training ride, for me. It was the first time I rode two hours on an outdoor course of rollers without stopping this year.
While I was suffering, I knew that the route would be much easier the next time I did it, but even so, there was very little joy. It wasn't until I bribed myself with a recovery beer on the last bit that I vaguely started to be happy I was on my bike. I looked forward to the prospect of cheers-ing me for not quitting the ride, Patrick for his encouragement, and my dad for all he did for us so that I could be here, in Colorado, riding my bike in the foothills of the Rockies. It only took me twenty-five of the thirty miles to concede that yes, I was happy, and happier still that this particular ride was almost over.
Joy is a choice and I fully acknowledge the fire of joy is hard to come by, at times. But I'm thankful that in my misery, I was able to look for the sparks. Patrick riding silently by me, willing me up that last hill. Pockets of sun shining on the snow-covered foothills. Sweeping views of the Rocky Mountains. Smooth pavement on the downhills. Cars that moved over well beyond the requested 3-feet. Signage to alert drivers that cyclists will be merging to turn left. Recognition that my dad wasn't perfect, but who is, and forgiving him, anyways. And, of course, the recovery beer. We can look for the joy that is not yet there. We can create our own tiny sparks and have faith that the fire is coming.
Today is Palm Sunday. We slept in and made pancakes. My legs and my heart are looking forward to a long recovery walk with my Doggie Love. I'm happy we did that ride. I'm happy for the training coming up this week. Race season is approaching and I'm happy to train for it. There may yet be some tears to follow, but they will likely include tears of joy.
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