In Which *Motherf**ker* is an Adjective

My wife is guest posting again today - about the ride we had this past weekend. I'm sure you'll enjoy her take on the less than desirable wind we experienced.

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I'm guest posting again because it was, quite literally, the only thing that got me through my first ride of the season. I just kept thinking make it through this ride so you can bitch at your husband on his blog.

This past Sunday I went on my inaugural ride of the year. Last year I ended the season averaging between 40-55 miles per ride. I felt pretty damn good about myself, considering it was first season ON a road bike. So when I was told we were riding 45 miles on Sunday, I felt like that was something I could legitimately handle.

We headed out and I was soon finding my stride. The motion quickly came back to me. The changing of gears quickly came back to me. The realization that my tax dollars most certainly do NOT go towards filling potholes, came back to me.

I rode with my husband - my normal riding partner - and his two Team Mocha teammates.

The first half of our trip was relatively calm. Our pace was about 18 mph - it was tough for me holding that pace being that it was my first ride out but I maintained it. Make no mistake - I am a runner, I am not a biker. I trained the entire winter on the treadmill, running between 5-9 miles per day. My goal is to run a marathon. My love is running.

It is here that I think I should acknowledge the devastating events at the Boston Marathon. I am typing this post out as I watch the news conference of the days events. These athletes have trained, sacrificed and devoted their lives to the goal of running a Marathon and not just any Marathon, the Boston Marathon. I hold them and their loved ones up in prayer. My heart hurts as I see runners turn and run away from their goal - from THEIR finish line.

Being a runner and holding an 18 mph pace didn't hurt my legs, they are used to the punishment. Although it was trying, I felt like I could finish our ride out. I felt comfortable but I also felt like I was pushing myself - it was good.

And then we made the turn to head back home. This was the part of the trip that I began mother**kering everything that I either felt, that moved or that I laid my eyes upon. The bike, the road, the water bottle, the twig in the road, the roadkill, my husband, my helmet - but mostly, I mother**kered the wind. I cursed my way through 20 miles. As I headed up mother**king mountainsides hills, headed straight into a headwind, I begged my bike to have more lower gears. With each click of my gear shift I was disheartened when no relief came. At one point I even gave thought to unclipping and walking my mother**king bike up.

I was falling behind the group and I was doing the one thing I never want to do - I was slowing my husband down. I was the only girl in the group and I couldn't hold the pace. I was pissed. I was motherf**king pissed.

I gave serious thought to stopping at a coffee shop, a church, a park bench, a rock, a cemetery - you name it, I looked at it and thought *this* is where my motherf**king husband can come back and pick my ass up.

Finally, FIN-A-LLY, I caught sight of home in the distance. My mind was telling me to just. keep. pedaling even though my body was begging me to stop. I was pretty sure at that point if I stopped, I wouldn't ever get going again.

And through all of that motherf**kering, I can honestly say I am glad to have gotten my first ride out of the way. I was also glad to get my first saddle ass of the season out of the way. It may or may not still be mother**king sore.