At 7 a.m. I clicked into the pedals on my dark blue Specialized Allez road bike and pushed off toward my friend Ed’s house. I looked up at the cloudless pastel blue sky with yellows and reds radiating from the east. Goosebumps appeared on my bare arms, not so much from the beauty of the morning, but from the surprisingly chilly 68 degrees for August 3.
We were riding in a Bike to Beat Cancer training ride (I’m training to ride 100 miles in September), but I was wearing my grey “Stop Diabetes” jersey, shorts, and socks. I ride to stop diabetes as someone who has lived with the disease for more than 42 years. I’m riding to beat cancer because my mom and many friends have been impacted by it. Our friend Carol just lost her long battle last month.
As Ed and I rode the 17 miles to the meetup, where we’d start the 30-mile training ride, we were happily amazed that we hit every green light for the first 15 miles. As we approached one red light, I joked that I had a preemption emitter (the device emergency vehicles use to change red lights to green) in my helmet. As soon as I said it, the light turned green.
We met up with 20 or so other cyclists and then rolled through the quiet small town at the beginning of the ride–the streets were ours this early Sunday morning. Then we spun along the Ohio River for miles. The pace was even, slow enough for cyclists to talk and point out views across the river and quick enough to feel the cool air in our faces. Just as the sun began to warm up the atmosphere, we glided into a park for a long but gentle climb, the overarching trees providing the shade needed to prolong the crispness of the air for a few more much-appreciated minutes.
At one brief stop I looked around and saw nothing but smiles. This ride didn’t feel much like training.
We picked up the pace on the ride back home as both the traffic and the temperature intensified. I registered a personal best on the steep climb from River Road to SR 42, and we were just 10 miles from home. I rolled down my driveway at 67.5 miles, feeling as if I had another 10-20 in me.
This is when I read the text from my wife telling me she had a story to tell me.
She had left the house shortly after I had that morning, driving my daughter to work. On her way back home, she saw a cyclist wearing grey “Stop Diabetes” jersey, shorts, and socks. So she rode behind the bike for a while and then pulled up alongside, yelling out the window, “Hey, Sexy!” The cyclist in grey Lycra looked over at her and said, “Excuse me?” The two pulled off the side of the road where my precious wife tried to explain to the stranger that she thought he was me.
Turns out the “other man” in the grey jersey is involved in the American Diabetes Association and the Tour de Cure in Louisville as well. And apparently … from the rear … he looks like me.
I’m not exactly sure how I am supposed to feel about my wife’s case of mistaken identity. I’m honored she thinks I’m sexy in Spandex. That is, if she had actually yelled it at me. To this point, no woman has ever pulled alongside me and said, “Hey, Sexy!” and now I’m wishing someone would. I’m also miffed that my wife hasn’t paid enough attention to differentiate me from some random cyclist. Afterall, his bike was red.
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