Firsts

Last Wednesday, I finished my first year of a 2-year dietetics program at Community College of Allegheny County. I have never, ever felt so relieved to finish something in my life. Not even after delivering my kids after 13 hours of labor or reaching goal after losing a million pounds have I felt so glad something was done.

When I applied to CCAC last year, I thought, ‘It’s community college. Please. How hard can it be? I’ve got a BA already. I know a thing or two about nutrition. This’ll be a cinch!’

Nine months later? Ms. Academic Snob has been silenced. Nutrition assessment, medical terminology, medical nutrition therapy, and their accompanying sidekicks – chemistry, math, and killer case studies – kicked my liberal arts ass. I may know where my arachnoid membrane is (I didn’t even know I had one!) and feel certain my ex needs a palatopharyngoplasty, but my head hurts just writing those words.

While all the sweat and mind bleeds will be worth it in the end, for another year and a half I’ll be offering anyone my right kidney for a left brain. A year and a half, you say? What happened to the 2-year program? Well…shockingly…British Literature and Feminist Theology do not fulfill my chemistry and algebra requirements, and I can’t take advanced algebra or bio/organic chemistry until I know the basics. Considering my algebra knowledge is 30 years old and I got through the chemistry parts of my classes this year thanks only to the graces of my ex husband, I had to add a half year to my program.

Community College: 1
Ms. Academic Snob: 0

But life is good! This old dog needed the challenge of new firsts! A few years ago I was morphing into Bartleby the Scrivener, preferring to do nothing more than wonder what it was I should do with my life. And if I’ve learned this lesson once, I’ve learned it a hundred times:  Wondering and hoping get you nowhere. Getting off your rear end and DOING something nets results. 

Ergo…I will learn chemistry despite my propensity for Jane Austen. It’s a first for me.

Another woman who knows about firsts is my daughter Cassandre. She ran her first (and she swears her last, but that was just her thighs talking) marathon on Sunday.

In April, I posted a link to her blog entry called “My Body,” in which she wrote about why she was training for the Pittsburgh Marathon: “Someone once told me I can’t.”

“My body has survived cutting and neglect, pain and loss, change and change and more change.”

Cassie lives her life with respect for, but above the shadows of, her cutting and neglectful past. She has a clear understanding of her pain and understands the possibility of future pain, but right here, right now, she wanted to run a marathon. And she could and so she did.

Like many of us who blog about what we strive to do and what we accomplish, Cassie was overwhelmed by the support she received from so many people who’d never met her or read her blog before, including someone called “itsjustme”:

“I am a 54 year old woman, in SC, who started running inspired, in large part, by you. So, when you are thinking of people each mile of your marathon, as suggested by Tracy, think of me for a few minutes, even though you don’t know me. You inspired me to become a better, stronger person. Thank you.”

She knows about firsts.

After the race, I posted her marathon results on my Lynn’s Weigh Facebook page because I was so darn proud of her. She wrote to me later that night: “I appreciated every single one of their comments and well wishes. I'm still so humbled by it! I thought of all the people who supported me when I felt tired and found that extra push to finish. I truly appreciated it all. I still can't believe I ran a marathon, Mom. That's a shit ton of running. I'm so proud of us!!!” Us being Cassie and her husband, who ran every mile with her, danced with her in Homewood, and held her hand across the finish line.

Go Cass! Go me! Go any one of you who aspire to reach beyond some comfort zone or false belief that all you are right now is all you can be! Even if you don’t make it all the way right away or at all, the fact that you tried sets you apart from the people who think that the way things are are the only way things can be.

----------------------
 A few other fun "firsts" from the marathon weekend:

Maintaining Diva Sondra came to Pittsburgh for the first time. She ran the half marathon (not her first, but her first one over five bridges!). She also met baby Mae for the first time.

Claire's first time driving. ...sigh...

“What I Did On My Summer Vacation”

In grade school, we referred to the time between grades as “summer vacation.” It wasn’t defined by travel. It was simply time away from book learning.

I’m many years removed from 6^th grade, but next week at this time – god willing and the creek don’t rise and I pass my finals – I will be on “summer vacation.”

In grade school, my only summer vacation plans were to sleep late and play flashlight tag as late as my parents would allow. My dad owned a grocery store, so of course I had to work, too. But it was a good gig and earned me enough money to afford as many Trixie Belden books and “Teen” and “Tiger Beat” magazines as I could read in three months.

This year’s summer vacation plans are a bit different. I won’t be tearing out posters of Shaun Cassidy and hanging them on my bedroom wall, but I will still read as much as I can. I will also work in the soup kitchen, blog more regularly, help my daughter plan her wedding, and take my grandkids to the park. A LOT.

I will also…..RIDE MY BIKE!

I know. Shocking. But it’s something I get so dang excited about, it’s hard to explain. I know many of you know what I mean. You’ve found your “thing.” That something you never dreamed you’d love to do, let alone get all mentally wrapped up in.

Biking is my thing, and every spring since discovering my love for biking, I get this angst of “What if?” I could never articulate it until I read “My Journey To Fit: A Forty-Something’s Weight Loss Journey” blog post yesterday. Shelley nailed my thoughts. I just substituted “bike” for “run.”

Here’s what she wrote: "Run the mile you are in"- Runner's World posted that on their Facebook page yesterday, and it struck me: I seem to spend so much of my runs worrying about what's around the corner - the hill (ugh, so high!), the distance (ugh, so far!),the wind (ugh, so strong!), the heat and humidity (ugh, TEXAS!)that I tend to not focus on and better still, enjoy the moment.  Because I really DO love to run. I think it's just in my nature to want the circumstances to be perfect and easy...and we all know that doesn't happen very often when it comes to running! But I am going to work harder on the mental aspect of it, and just BE a runner and stop fighting everything else that comes with it.”

What I will do on my summer vacation is all I noted before, PLUS, I will “just BE a biker and stop fighting everything else that comes with it” and bike the mile I’m in. There will be hills I’ll be slow to climb. There will be heat and humidity and I’ll smell bad and my hair will suck. There will be people on the path who don’t respect the rules. (Texting and biking? Seriously?) There will be flat tires.

But there will also be birds and trees and the rich smells of the forest floor. Most important, there will be freedom. That’s why I love to ride my bike. When I ride, I’m free – for an hour or two – from the everyday minutia. I am focused only on me. Just me. Am I hydrated? Do I need to stop and stretch that muscle? Spit out a bug? That’s freedom, my friends. That’s quality “me time.”

And speaking of “me time,” this weekend is the Pittsburgh Marathon. There will be thousands of folks out there concentrating on themselves for 3, 13 and 26 miles (plus a few yards), including my daughter Cassie, her husband Matt, Maintaining Diva Sondra, and my friends Jim and Kara. Good luck to them and to all of you doing your “thing” this weekend and every opportunity you have ! May you always live the mile you’re in.

“Nothing” Food

Here’s what’s in my fridge as of this morning, April 25, 2012: 3 packages of Shiritaki Noodles, a quarter-full bag of shredded carrots, a half-full bag of spinach, a container of grape tomatoes, five crimini mushrooms, a near-full container of Daisy Light sour cream, half a bottle of shiraz (it’s one red wine I like chilled), leftover tofu and veggies from yesterday’s Mad Mex fajitas, a couple bottles of salad dressing, some light string cheese, condiments (the holy trinity: ketchup, mustard and light Miracle Whip), a container of light butter, and a half dozen eggs. And a jar of horseradish and some tahini. There might also be some strawberry jelly and maple syrup in there, too, now that I think about it.

Clearly I need to go to the grocery store, but – along with some cupboard staples and a few things in the freezer – I have food enough for me for a day or two. Seven years ago, if I opened my fridge and saw Shiritaki noodles, spinach, mushrooms, carrots and tomatoes, I’d have said, “There’s nothing to eat in here!” and promptly picked up the phone and ordered what constituted real food at the time: pizza and cheese bread sticks.

Old Me didn’t completely avoid “nothing” foods. I’d eat fruit. I loved strawberries, blueberries, and apples, especially when they were surrounded by a pastry shell or sat atop a big bowl of Neapolitan and covered in fudge sauce. I liked veggies, too, but their little tiny portions got shoved to the side of the plate, nearly buried under a mound of cheese potatoes or some breaded chicken or pasta monstrosity. Eat a salad for dinner? Sure! As long as there were plenty of French fries, shredded cheddar, and ranch dressing on top!

Sometimes Old Me pops in for a visit, and for a moment, I see the world through her eyes. This morning, when I opened my fridge, the first thing I thought was, ‘There’s nothing in here.’ But as quickly as that thought came, that thought dissolved, and I saw the eggs and cheese and I imagined an omelet. Old Me would have been halfway to Eat ‘n Park for pancakes. I saw the spinach and tomatoes and planned lunch. Old Me would have debated whether to drive through McDonald’s or Wendy’s for lunch on her way to the grocery store. I saw veggie soup and one lone veggie burger in my freezer and that will be dinner. Old Me would have bought all the fixings for manicotti and garlic bread.

I’m not dissin’ Old Me. I give Old Me a lot of credit. Sure, she can be annoying sometimes, especially when she whispers, “What’s one more piece of chocolate? Go ahead, Lynn, you deserve it.” But even though she put away a lot of chicken nuggets back in the day, she eventually took off her blinders and saw the contents of the fridge and gave “nothing” food a chance. So later, in her honor, I’ll raise a glass of shiraz and thank her for making me who I am today.

Cheers!

I’m Here! (And I brought along a “60 Minutes Australia” link)

I apologize for my absence. Clearly, I can’t blog and learn medical terminology, medical nutrition therapy, employment law, and the names of bacteria, viruses and tapeworms that cause food borne illnesses (which I can thank for my newly acquired hand washing compulsion) at the same time.
I feel like I’m in boot camp for the left-brain inept. Geez-oh-man… Summer offers no breaks, either. I just registered for five weeks of chemistry and lab and 10 weeks of algebra. And as if THAT won’t be enough fun, I’m registered for biochemistry and advanced algebra in the fall. Like my advisor said, “You know how to party.”

So if I’m not here much between now and winter break, I’m probably drooling in a corner somewhere begging to read Jane Austen.

Oh, I kid! Life’s not been all work and no “weigh.” My jeans are looser and my legs are stronger. I’m still committed to my food plan, exercise, meditation, and the people who keep me sane.

Here’s a bit of a summary:

Daughter Carlene and Boyfriend Ben got engaged! (No, it’s not a shotgun wedding. Carlene’s holding baby Mae in that picture.) Wedding date TBD, but next April seems likely.

Grandbaby Mae rode in my Jeep for the first time since being able to legally sit facing forward.

My stepson Andrew moved into his dorm. He’s studying filmmaking at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. It’s good to have the boy so close.

Claire helped.

Andrew’s brain food. When he was younger, we called him “Cereal Boy.”

I ate at bd’s Mongolian Grill with BF and his son a few weeks ago for the first time. Yum!  

Got the bike in to the shop for a much needed tune up. I upgraded her seat and pack, too. Comfy seat means longer rides. Longer rides means I have to pack more stuff than just a cell phone and Kleenex.

I also went to see the Moody Blues with Larry (my ex-husband, for those of you who aren’t familiar with his name). Larry and I have seen the Moodies 9 times in 15 years, and it was at one of their concerts that I felt the weight of my 300 pounds more profoundly than ever before, and that feeling contributed to my decision to finally lose weight for the last time.

It was 2003. The Moodies were playing a concert in a casino in West Virginia. Larry and I checked into the hotel, played a few slots, had dinner, and then about an hour before the show, went to the lobby to wait for the shuttle that would take us to the concert venue. A few other concert goers began to gather, too, when Larry nudged me and whispered, “Look to your left.”

Standing next to me was Moody’s front man Justin Hayward, whose music is the soundtrack of my life. I don’t remember a time I didn’t know “Nights In White Satin,” “Tuesday Afternoon,” or “Question.” When I need to remember to believe in myself, I listen to “The Voice.” And the song “Forever Autumn”… Gets me every time.

Justin’s shoulder was no further than a foot from mine. I wanted to say hello and to thank him for the gift his music had been to my life. Then I remembered I had  57-inch hips and I said nothing. 

At the concert, I sat in the second row, regretting all the choices that had brought me to such disappointment in myself. Disappointment not only in my size, but disappointment for feeling so unworthy as to not thank someone who’d contributed such depth of feeling to my life. 

I recall that unworthiness every time I see the Moody Blues, and each time, I vow that if I ever stand next to Justin Hayward again, I will tell him – no matter what I look like – “Thank you.”

My former body and the me who occupied it continue to be the source of my determination. I would dishonor she who was me by giving up the fight, because she is the one who thought enough about herself to start that march down the scale. 

David Ballment, Richard Malone, me, Howard Sacre, Liam Bartlett

Which leads me to the “60 Minutes Australia” piece I participated in. It aired last weekend and I just now had the courage to watch it. I’m OK with my part in it, but what surprised me was the almost defeatist attitude of the Australian researcher, Professor Joe Proietto. (Liam Bartlett is the “60 Minutes” correspondent.)

LIAM BARTLETT: So if we’re not completely obsessive, we’re just leading a normal life, we’ll probably put the weight back on?

JOE: Yep, yep. And that certainly explains the experience of all of us who treat obesity – that it’s a difficult thing. Not so much to get the weight off but the failure rate after a few years is very, very high. 

Thank goodness for, Dr. Rena Wing from Brown University, one of the researchers at the Weight Control Registry, of which I and many maintainers are a part.  

RENA: The Melbourne study was a very small study and I think that’s a very pessimistic message for viewers and listeners to hear because we know that many people are able to be successful at weight loss and so…

LIAM BARTLETT: It may be pessimistic but is it reality?

RENA: Ah, I don’t think it is. On average they’ve lost about 30 kilograms and they’ve kept it off about six years. One of the interesting things is that they report that they have tried many times before to lose weight unsuccessfully but this time they got it right okay.

LIAM BARTLETT: So what was the difference?

RENA: What they say is “this time I was more committed to behaviour change and this time physical activity was a bigger part of my regimen than it was in other approaches.”

I’ll shut up now and let you read the transcript or watch the piece yourself. I’d like to hear what YOU have to say about it. 

"I did 'dit'!"

It started with, “Do you see that cleavage, Marge?” and ended with, “I’ll be walking up your fire escape in a minute!”

I volunteer for a non-profit agency that, among a lot of other things, runs a food pantry and soup kitchen, and prepares and delivers meals for Meals-On-Wheels (MOW). Hunger services is run out of a beautiful gothic church in the heart of an inner city neighborhood. I’ve been working there for three months, and what I’ve learned working in all three areas is more than anything I ever learned in college.

When I do a MOW route, I’m always a visitor, never a driver, because I get all turned around in the neighborhoods we service. Yesterday, I was teamed up with driver Deacon Smith, a retired postal worker, who’s been with MOW for 20 years. He’s the sweetest, most laid-back man I’ve met in a long time. Knows Route 3 like the back of his hand.

Our first stop was an apartment complex where two clients live. The instruction is that if we didn’t reach one in her apartment, she was likely at the other’s. When I rang the lobby buzzer for one and didn’t get an answer, I rang the buzzer for the other and was let in and got on the elevator.

Knock, knock, knock. “Meals On Wheels!” I said, in my sing-songy voice.

“Come on in! Door’s unlocked!” said the voice inside.

I walked in, and sitting at a table were two 80-something-year-old women in short-sleeved housecoats, drinking coffee and listening to music.

“Honey, just set those down here,” said the woman to my left.

I took the food out of my basket and cautioned them about the sweet potatoes wrapped in tin foil.

“They’re still pretty warm. Be careful when you pick them up.” I set my basket down and leaned over to take out their meals.

“Do you see that cleavage, Marge?” said the woman across from me.

I was wearing a grey t-shirt and a thin white jacket. It’s been unusually warm in Pittsburgh, so a winter coat isn’t warranted. My shirt wasn’t low cut by any means, but apparently when I leaned over…well…the Canal of Boobage was front and center.

“Make sure you’re not leaning over when you deliver meals to men!” the women advised. Embarrassed, I smiled and said I’d be careful.

And I was. The girls were tucked and out of sight the rest of the route.

Deacon and I talked about grandchildren and the craziness that is Pittsburgh’s streets during our route. On our last visit, the instruction on the clipboard was to call the client, who is wheelchair bound, and let him know we were there so he could throw down the keys to the front door. Deacon asked me if I would be OK with climbing the fire escape to deliver the client’s meal. I thought about it for a second and said, “Sure!” So I called the client and said something I’ve never said in my life: “I’ll be walking up your fire escape in a few minutes!”

While Deacon parked, I eyed the fire escape. It was steep and narrow and it reminded me of the steps outside the apartment I lived in when I weighed 300 pounds. It was on the top floor of a 19^th-century two-story building, which is more like the height of three stories today. The stairs were narrow and steep, and when I lived there, I had many anxious moments about the “what ifs” of those steps.

What if I got hurt and needed to be brought to the hospital in an ambulance? What if there was a fire and I needed help out? How would EMTs haul me down on a gurney? Would I fit in an ambulance? How would I escape the flames in a fire? Those thoughts haunted me. I know professionals are trained to handle these situations, but to be the source of someone’s potential physical distress really bothered me.

I got out of Deacon’s car with my basket and crossed the street. I looked up and saw the client opening the window at the top of the fire escape. I grabbed the handrail and started my ascent. But what I thought as I climbed was not what I thought I thought I’d think.

‘I’m climbing a fire escape! And I can!’

300-pound me hated the struggle with those apartment steps, and she was the one who said, “Enough!” on January 1, 2005, and began losing weight. She didn’t anymore want to experience that out-of-breath feeling from walking up a flight of narrow stairs. She no longer wanted to have to sit in a chair to catch her breath the second she walked in the door before carrying on with her life. She wanted walking up stairs to be as natural as…breathing.

At the top of the fire escape, I handed the client his meal and cautioned him about the sweet potato. He smiled and thanked me and I did a quick look down my shirt to make sure the girls weren’t exposed. They weren’t. Everything was properly copacetic.

When my 3-year-old grandson accomplishes something, he exclaims, “I did dit!” As I walked down the fire escape, I high-fived my 300-pound self. I did “dit”.

I got in Deacon’s car and we drove back to the church. I thought about my goal anniversary the day before (March 12, 2007) and the fleeting moments of movement I’ve taken for granted since reaching goal: taking the stairs in a parking garage rather than the elevator, walking the dog around the block, putting my bike on the bike rack, taking my bike off the bike rack, standing for an hour cutting vegetables for dinner. As I lost weight, I stayed focused on the big stuff: Can I walk 6, 10, 20 miles? Can I bike 15, 20 miles? Can I crank the elliptical to high for 30 minutes?

I’d lost sight of the little things. Walking, climbing stairs, standing… things that hurt before but don’t anymore.

What I realize is, how cool is it to change the way you eat and move for no other reason than to eventually climb stairs without feeling depleted? What an honorable goal! I admire folks who want to lose weight to climb mountains and run for hours. I sincerely do. But if you can climb stairs and walk around the block? Man…you did “dit.” 

Blackbird Revisited

This blog is dedicated to my oldest daughter, who turns 29 tomorrow. I, of course, am still 29 *grin*

You were 16, I think, the day you told me I was your best friend.

“Well, thank you, honey,” I replied.

“But…” I continued, taking a few seconds to prepare for your response. “…you’re not my friend.”

You did what I thought you’d do. You gave me that look. You know the one where you lower your chin and scrunch up your eyebrows and blow out a sharp, short breath through your nose? No one does that look like you do.

“I don’t tell my friends when to come home at night," I explained, "and I don’t ground them when they’ve done something wrong. I don’t buy them food or wash their clothes, either. I’m glad you think of me as a friend, but I’d rather be your mom.”

Thirteen years later, I’m still your mom. But a funny thing happened on the way to this eve of your 29^th birthday.

You became my friend.

Remember the time we drove home from D.C. via I-68 because your sister and you had never been to West Virginia? We sang Chrissie Hynde songs and talked and laughed and didn’t notice we were climbing a mountain, even though our ears were popping. That’s how this daughterfriend thing developed: slowly and steadily, year after year, built unassumingly on the foundation of the amazingality that is you. (I made up a word for you for your birthday! Don’t worry, though, there’s another gift *grin*)

You’ve always spoken with the wisdom of someone older, no matter your age. This has served our relationship well.

As you know, I was not trained to speak my truth as I grew up, so I was always a little intimidated and awed when you did.

Something I did made no sense to you when you were 3 years old, and when you ran up the stairs yelling, “Mommy! You piss me off!” I was stunned. But I smiled and shook my head and thought, ‘I’m doing something right.’

Then there was the time when you were 10 and your stepfather and I had a fight on the phone. After I hung up, I smacked the phone into the cradle until it broke. I probably swore some, too. You walked up to me and (speaking for your sister as well) said calmly, “Mom, when you get mad and yell like that, it scares us.”

That simple statement of fact, and the calmly passionate way in which you said it, gave rise to one of the greatest challenges of my life. I may not always hold my tongue, but your words started me on a path to a greater awareness of my expression of anger.

I know you aren’t comfortable defending yourself to others who have wronged you, and so your voice of truth is often limited to our family. However, rather than seek revenge, you plot forgiveness. That is a gift from your father, whom you’ve never known, but are. When someone asks me to describe your father, I tell them, “He was a lot like Carlene.” Anyone who believes nurture determines a child’s destiny hasn’t watched you grow up within the nature of your father. I nurtured you, but you are not me. At least, not the restless, wandering, quick-tempered me.

You at age 29 are far different than me at 29. When I turned 29, you were 9 and your sister was 7. I’d been married three times and was dating someone seven years younger than me. On my 29^th birthday, I got a tattoo.

You have a clean marital record and no tattoos. (Not that there’s anything wrong with tattoos. But there was that tongue piercing you got that I never understood. Seemed like something I’d do, not something you’d do.)

You’re with a man I couldn’t have handpicked any better. You also inherited your great-grandmother’s table, buffet and dishes much sooner than I did because you didn’t spend years drifting from apartment to apartment. Nice dishes and buffets require commitment, and – as you know – that’s never my strong suit, but it’s something I admire in you.

I don’t write these things with regret. I wouldn’t change the path I chose. Like you, I chose what suited me. Your path suits your laid back demeanor, as mine suits my uncertainty. Where I am impulsive, you are contemplative. Where I am quick to anger, you are cautiously optimistic. I love to compete; you love to knit. I have blue eyes and yours are brown. I wouldn’t wish it any other way.

When you left home, I slowly let go, much the same way I did when I taught you to ride your bike. You rode, white-knuckled as I ran alongside, my hand resting on the back of the seat. You thought I was keeping you steady, but you were doing all the work. You didn’t want me to let go, but you wanted me to let go. You saw what was ahead, with the wind blowing across your face, the freedom you wanted and feared. The decision was yours, and after days of practice, you yelled “Let go!” and you sped up as I slowed down.

But as you pedaled off, you didn't leave me behind.

In the years since you’ve become an adult, you’ve talked me down and talked me up. We’ve shared millions of words over gallons of coffee and wine. We’ve rolled our eyes and cried over copious amounts of breakfast foods and salads. You helped me through my greatest physical pain (and I’m not talking the 13 hours of labor I went through to birth you), and I trusted you implicitly when you said, “It will be OK, Mommy.”

Thank you for helping me make lefse, even though you don’t like it much. Thank you for staying open minded when I haven’t always made the best decisions. You and your sister are my favorite people in the whole world.

Happy birthday, my daughterfriend, my snarksister, my confidant, my go-to. I love you more than you can ever know.  

(To read the original “Blackbird Fly” column I wrote in 2001, click here.)

Hello Bike Path!

This morning, I took one helluva test in Medical Nutrition Therapy. 100 points. Math was involved. Yuck. And it was timed. Afterwards, I was shaking and second guessing myself. ‘Dammmit, I should have answered that question another way. Wait…was she asking about PPN or TPN? Ugh! I’m stupid. I’ll never pass.’

It was 60-something degrees outside. Sunny, but a bit windy…25 mph gusts. I’d been up studying since 6 a.m. I watched the sun rise, I checked the weather a million times on my phone, and I thought about Bike. I’ve been eyeing her every time I pull in my garage the last few weeks, wondering if she misses me as much as I miss her. Bike needs a tune up, no doubt. But did she have enough oomph from last year to get me through a late winter ride?

Hmmmm…..

My mind was making me nuts. I had to get OUT of the house, and the only place to go that made sense was the Butler-Freeport Community Trail:  21 miles of personal peace. I worked out a whole lot of arthritis angst there last year. It was the place I said no to sciatica and yes to my thighs when they said, ‘Are you sure?’ while pedaling up a 2-mile incline along the outer edge of a gun range.  

I had to go there. So I slathered Vaseline on my face to protect it from the wind, and dressed in two layers of shirts, a jacket, leggings, and tennis shoes. I backed the car out of the garage and loaded up my bike on the rack. I felt strong and in control, even though it had been five months since I’d engaged in the bungee cords and straps ritual.

My body felt good hugged in form-fitting clothes. The snugness reminded me that I had one. A body, that is. It wasn’t lost in the perpetual layers of winter. And while I’ve gained 20 pounds since my lowest weight, my body feels stronger than it did at 125 pounds. I’m no longer afraid I’ll break. I felt so fragile back then.

With the sunroof open and the tunes cranked, I drove to the trailhead, wondering if I’d be the only car in the parking lot. I didn’t think so, but since I didn’t know the answer to question 17 of my MNT test, I figured what the heck did I know about anything?

But when I pulled into the lot, I discovered several people felt the same way I did. 

Fortunately, Creepy House Owner, who lives in the house at the entrance of the parking lot, was not outside. (For more info on him, read “ItSeemed Like A Good Idea: The Best Worst Bike Ride Ever.” More on him later.)

I took my bike off the rack and examined it. It was encrusted in last year’s mud and I wondered if it would carry me for the simple 40 minute ride I had in mind. I’d pumped up the tires before I left, and I had a tube and tire levers in my pack along with a pump attached under my seat, but it had been a year since I learned how to use them. What if I got a flat?

I stood there with my right hand on the saddle and my left hand on the left handle bar. The sun was warming my back, the air smelled so spring-like, and…ahhh!! I figured I’d walk the damn bike back if I had to. Nothing was going to stop me from riding. I had to. It was calling me. It’s like my body and the weather and the trail were a holy trinity offering salvation. Not riding was not an option.

I hopped on Bike my favorite way: with my left foot on the pedal and my right leg swinging over the seat like it was the back of a horse.

Hello picnic table! Hello campsite across the creek! Hello shelter that kept me and another biker I’d never met before and haven’t seen since dry in a torrential thunderstorm last year!

Hello ice and mud and the bug that just flew into my eye! Hello rapids!

Hello really tall bridge across Route 28 whose foundations are built like the legs of the Empire’s Imperial Walkers and scare me every time I ride under them!

Hello mile markers that remind me how far I’ve gone and challenge me to decide how far I’ll go! Hello Monroe Road that I pedal like hell across because people drive around the bend like they’re racing in the Daytona 500! Hello couple walking their dog off leash! Not cool, by the way!

Hello wind and sun and 65 degrees! Hello faint smell of woodsy western Pennsylvania! You’ll be in full smell soon.

I rode 20 minutes and turned around. While I wanted to go further, I knew my body and Bike needed time to "tune up" into the regular summer rides. I loaded my bike on the rack and drove home in the closest thing to a perfect state of mind I could achieve: Whatever happens, happens. School, weight, relationships, life. I'll figure it out. Maybe not on the trail right now. After all, it’s early. It will rain and it will not doubt snow. But I rode Bike in western Pennsylvania on March 7, 2012 with no repercussion or consequence other than a lot of mud sprayed on my backside.

Bike will be going in for a tune-up next week. She deserves it and needs it. We have a lot of stuff to figure out this year!