Well over a month ago, I did a “Century Ride”. 100 mile bike excursion through the wine country of Solvang (“Where ‘Sideways’ was filmed!”, I was told well over a hundred times). In the spirit of my post-race stories, I figured before I did the ride that I would certainly write about it – maybe break it up into ten ten-mile segments, tell the story of my ride and my mind and my train of thoughts. Maybe tie it into the movie Sideways! It would be great fun – both the ride and the blog post afterwards.

Then this is what happened: I drove to Solvang with my sister, after getting a crappy palm reading where we were both told exactly the same things about our lives (side note: my sister and I are very different, so even if there are CERTAIN circumstances of our lives that might be similar, you can trust the resulting experience of these circumstances is very different). My sister’s phone rang about 182 times during the three hour trip, which would be more than a ring per minute for anyone decent at math. Mine did not. She videochatted with a guy in St. Louis who was outside a club and, despite it being dark both in St. Louis and in Santa Barbara, and despite that it was loud where he was at and I was in a car and have trouble hearing when not on speaker phone and not in a car, I told him a story of a friend of a friend who had his 32-year-old Tinder date dropped off at his house, very very drunk, by her mother. (I don’t have rights to tell the rest of the story right now, but it. is. one. of. the. best. stories. ever. Suffice it to say my friend of a friend is not on Tinder anymore.) We arrived in Solvang. We went to dinner with my friends. We went to the hotel bar after dinner, for a drink. And another and another and, oh my god, even shots after the bartender had called last call four times. This is not a way to prepare for a 100 mile bike ride. Plus, who am I? I barely drink.

Nevertheless I woke up at 6:30am to get ready for the ride. I was quiet, but woke my sister up inadvertantly and she thought I was just getting home from my night. Which is ridiculous — but to be honest would have been more logical than getting up and ready to go ride 100 miles after four hours sleep. I went down to the start line to meet my fellow riders, Brian, Craig and Russell. They missed our 6:45am meet up time and showed up at 7:30. It was cold – we all had on gloves and sleeves. Craig just had on one sleeve because he had already lost one somewhere along the way. Without the visual, and likely without knowing Craig, this isn’t as funny as it really should be. And, then we were off! Over the start line and on our way……

The first few miles were pretty – through town and some rolling hills. Then to some false flats that made you angry because they should be easy (it looked flat!) but you had to work hard up an invisible incline. And the roads had potholes and bumps and were uneven and by mile 10, mile 15 max, my butt hurt. The rolling scenic hills and llamas and horses and donkeys and wineries we were passing really had nothing on the fact that my butt hurt on my seat and my legs were already having to work a little too hard. Which pretty much sums up the entire first 50 miles, which took way too long and was way too hard. Russell seemed happy, chatting it up with his energetic English accent. Brian seemed happy, listening to Russell and laughing. I fooled everyone into thinking I was happy (even myself occasionally) because I’m good at the quiet smile. Craig was not happy. He was more miserable than me, likely because he did exactly 4 training rides in prep for this that might have totaled 100 miles all combined. There was an aid station at Mile 50 that was down a ridiculously treacherous hill. We (barely) survived and geared up for our last 50 miles. I thought I’d get into a good zone, knowing I had less than 50 to do and had done 50 miles more times than I ever needed to. Not so. Around mile 65 Brian asked if I was okay. I said — No. I’m not. I took a deep breath which signalled to him that I really was not okay. “But I think I just need to work through the next 10 miles or so.” I thought — if a coyote jumps out at me, and attacks, there will be no shame in stopping and I will gladly get stitches up and down my left side to be able to stop. I kept praying for coyotes to jump out. Then Russell cornered me in with his English accent and riding skills and pulled me along a bit, then I saw a huge climb – meaning a mountain! – at mile 70. Why start the real climbs at mile 70?? What race organizer in his/her right mind does that?? I stopped.

I stopped and unclipped my shoes. “I’m done. My legs have nothing left in them. Nothing.” Drink water, eat gel, these three jokesters of cycling buddies told me. “No, that won’t help. They are done. My legs are done. I am done.” I was done. I couldn’t use the word DONE enough. I was on the verge of real tears and then thought — wait! No one can see you cry from physical pain. Stop! You can quit – but don’t cry. Somehow the tears stayed back. But I accepted the fact that I “bonked” and was done. Bonk meaning hit my rock bottom and had absolutely nothing left in this body whatsoever. I was reminded that Russell explained before the race that “bonk” was also an old English slang term for having sex, and I thought how totally inappropriate and nearly sacreligious that the word should be used for two such extremely different physical experiences. Russell sung in his English accent, “Legal, I have good news and bad news for you. The bad news is you’re too far along to quit. And the good news is, you’re too far along to quit. So I’m getting you up this hill and you’ll get a second wind.” [Side note: I used to hate the nickname Legal. I haven’t had great nicknames in my life, but Nik and Hart and even just Nikki Hart, the full name, have always rung sweet in my ear. But after riding with Russell, I now like it when he calls me Legal.]

So Russell coached me up the 5 mile hill. We passed some riders and each time we did, he’d say in encouragement, “See, you think those legs are done. But your ‘done’ legs are better than most people’s good legs. You got legs, Legal. You’re getting up this hill.” An aid station was at top, and Brian and Craig got me water and PB&J and some nuts and more water and rubbed my shoulders out a bit and had entirely too much energy compared to me. Then we went down the hill, I felt a bit better, we had two more huge hills to climb, and I was more than respectable on them both even though I fantacized of getting off my bike and walking up the hills, and before the very last one we stopped to get a Coca-Cola and a Snickers bar. I went from bonking to feeling like I might have a diabetic seizure except for the fact that my body processed each ounce of sugar before I actually swallowed it. I thought I was going to die (literally) on the down hill after the very last hill which was essentially steep off-roading and because the bike was in the air more than on the ground the breaks I was gripping onto really didn’t really slow down the bike. And did I say I thought I was going to die? Toward the last 5 miles we finally had smooth, even concrete to ride on. And 8 hours after we started we crossed the finish line. I couldn’t get off my bike seat fast enough. I would have left my bike behind had it not been Lauren’s bike. I can think of so many things I’d rather do for 8 hours than ride a bike, uphill, on bad roads. I won’t sign up for another Century Ride ever again.

[Note about the image — we are at finish line, and I’m already the only one off the bike!]

Meanwhile, my sister had slept until 11 and barely left the hotel premises. She was sitting with my friend Lisa and talking with two guys who had done the ride in about 5 1/2 hours. This made one of the guys think he was not just Jesus, but Hot Jesus, when meanwhile he was a stereotypical Type A unattractive regimented cycling geek. Which made me mad at myself that I even did the same race as him……Get me out of here!, was all I could think. [Sorry to any friend that might be reading this who comes remotely close to being a real cyclist. Maybe I’m just jealous.]

We spent the night in Santa Barbara, soaking in a hot tub, eating good food, having good drinks and enjoying some well deserved fun to counter the torture that was the Century Ride. I thought I’d be able to craft some good story in the days, weeks, that followed. We did laugh along the way — I could focus on those moments. But each time I thought of the ride and how I could tell the story — my mind just stopped in protest. It was like my body and mind begged me not to take them back there.

So now it’s Thanksgiving eve and I’m writing a very bad summary of the Century Ride with no point and no emotion. How can I fix this? I’ve been thinking of this all day……I want to write, but what’s the story I want to tell? That I detested the ride? No. That I made totally inappropriate imbibing decisions the night before despite the fact that I’m a just-turned-40-actually-41-year-old mother of three who barely drinks? No. That while I like to ride I don’t really like other cyclists? No. All so negative! I need to keep those negative thoughts to myself, at risk for bursting the rosy coloring through which most people see me.

I can’t really think of my slant. But even though I put off writing about the ride since October 18th, I feel I need to write about it today. Why? Why now, at Thanksgiving? Maybe the obvious, the cliche. There’s got to be some message of thanks in here somewhere…

And sure enough, it comes back to my legs. I am thankful for my legs. MY LEGS. For obvious reasons — despite me giving up on them during the Century Ride, they didn’t give up on me. My legs got me through the most painful 100 miles of my life. [Side note: Think of this. 100 miles. Think how far of a drive that is! Why did I ride my bike that far?] And, despite the negative tone of my download – they weren’t even sore the next day. A little tired that night, but not sore. I’m biased, but I think that’s incredible.

And then I think back over this past year (plus) that I’ve been in Los Angeles. The things that have helped me adjust and keep peace of mind. By and large, it’s been long runs and bike rides. Alone or with Brian or Craig or even new friends, male and female, that I’ve met along the way. I’ve never said no to an invite to run/ride somewhere out of fear I couldn’t do it — I’ve always had faith that my legs could get me where I needed to go, could hang with the best of them. And they have. And along the way, while my legs were working hard, I had time to foster friendships and make friends. I’m thankful for that.

And I’ve walked to some of the best restaurants and best lunches in downtown LA. Areas and spots that make me feel a tiny bit of the energy I miss from NYC. I’ve walked to Q Sushi to spend way too much money on an indulgent lunch, and Baco Mercat for Valentine’s Day on a 90 degree day to dine just two seats down from Joel from Parenthood. I’ve walked to Grand Central Market more than a handful of times — further from my office than most Los Angeleans walk but I’m always happy to do it. And I’ve walked through the Market, checking out each booth. The diversity of food. Of smells. Of options. The buzz of people and energy and grit. I haven’t repeated a booth yet, and look forward to walking back over and over again for some of the best lunches I can have. It’s never just about the food, and I’m grateful my legs get me there.

And dating! I actually think I owe my legs thanks for that too. After Derek and I agreed to separate, and filed for divorce, and he moved out, and the kids were settled into their schedules, the time came for me to put myself out there in the dating world. I was never scared of this — with all due respect, was in fact a bit eager for it by this point. But really had no clue how it would work. And when I think back over the experiences (and the fun!) — my legs have played no small role! I was asked out on a date after a guy watched me run around and play basketball with Kai. I’ve gone on runs as second or third dates, and brought my A game each time. I’ve gone on hikes and been able to weed out whose tough enough to hang with me. And – figuring I had to try it given the limited number of people I know in LA and it being 2014 — in the world of online dating, it has been my legs that have gotten me the first hook each time. I had no idea when I added my profile pics that the majority of men (and the one woman, despite that my profile indicated she’d be turned down) who reached out to me would say “Nice legs” – but that’s been the case. My only goal had been to show more sides of me than a selfie with makeup, and I didn’t want anyone not knowing exactly what I would look like the first time he met me.

[Profile pics chosen to show me without makeup, after a workout and that I have at least a minimal eye for photo-journalism].

Despite not lacking in confidence, I hadn’t really thought of them as assets beyond my amateur athletic lifestyle. Sure enough, I see them differently now. They haven’t failed me — be it on the basketball court at the playground while I unknowingly had an interested spectator, on my two party runs, as I walk into the restaurant or bar in the first nerve-wracking moment. They’ve performed well, both to keep me standing, keep me moving, and apparently looking good enough. Except for the time I ran through the Las Vegas airport to try to board a plane on time to come home from a date … there was a fail then, I didn’t make the plane …. but that’s a story for another day! And maybe not the fault of my very able legs, the same ones that didn’t let me bonk at mile 70 of my Century Ride.