After a couple of months of no running, I bought a bike — meet Gazza:
I took the bike on a couple of my usual running routes in what I assumed would be an easy transition back to sweaty guilt-ridding exercise.
The five–kilometre clover–leaf route on asphalt should’ve been a doddle on a bike. Except I’d forgotten that:
- it had been a long couple of months since I’d had any aerobic exercise; and
- the terrain around Fortress Mamea is a bit hilly — good for virtuous hill-climbing but not so good when going downhill and flashing on a down–hill biking accident I had when I was younger (and lighter) (and fitter).
Undeterred, I thought the local forest trail — a not–quite–eight–kilometre return route — would be pretty straight–forward.
Ah, no.
If I thought going downhill on asphalt was retraumatising, going downhill over gravel the size of my fists was — there are no other words for it — fucking terrifying. After the first moderate hill decline, I walked the bike down the long steep portions and, due to my lack of fitness, pushed the bike up those same long steep portions.
I was so grateful to be alive I took a selfie on the way back:
I’d like to resume running now, please.
