Running, Riding, and Little Powdered Donuts

Brendon's face was like that of a 5-year-old with a new toy. Huddled in the car, parked in the lot of the local high school, we anxiously awaited the start of our motorcycle licensing class.

I crunched into an apple. He was eating little powdered donuts.

Motorcycles and powdered sugar? Can there be such a combination of pleasure for one man? 

I eyed the donuts. Of course I wanted them, but I stuck with the apple and peanuts.

Why? Because I know myself.

While Brendon is content to have 2, maybe 3 of those sweet little snow-white breakfast bombs, I am not. I want all of them. Yes, the whole box. The only way to prevent a disgusting feeding frenzy is to choose to have zero donuts.

It's zero or twenty, and vary rarely is there middle ground.

Lately I'm beginning to wonder if I am like this with more than just little powdered donuts.

But back to the moto class. After about an hour of lesson, we actually got to get on the bikes and ride them. I and one other dude taking the course had never had the pleasure of sitting on a moving motorcycle, so we got high fives from everyone after our first little putter across the parking lot.

Brendon used to have a bike, so this was all a breeze for Stud Muffin.

But first I had to put the fear of God in our instructor.

This was right after I just about hurled myself across several parking spaces by grabbing at the brake--just like he had instructed us not to. Like, a hundred times he had instructed us not to. He looked at me and talked to me about the bike, and from his eyes I could see that it dawned on him just how confused and inexperienced and incapable I was.

For the next 20 minutes, there was no one in the class but me. He let everyone else putter back and forth and stood right by my bike, babysitting me like the ticking brake-grabbing time bomb I was. 

The clouds gathered ominously overhead, I stalled the bike out a few dozen times, and our teacher patiently repeated himself a few dozen more. My frustration mounted, the weather turned even blacker, and I considered leaving the class.

Even the sweet old man on his moped was faring better than I.

My 15 layers of clothes were bulky and making me feel even more uncomfortable and incompetent. Especially as the hot girl in our class zoomed by with ease, her fitted leather jacket and cool helmet showing off her sexy tangle of long hair. I didn't even try to be happy for her for having such great abs.

In that moment, I hated her, and I hated the rest of the class. Even the sweet old man. I hated the weather, the instructor, and the bike. I hated little powdered donuts, and I really really really hated that I was terrible at riding a motorcycle. 

I suffered and brooded through the next few exercises. I could not look my husband in the eye for the shame. I focused as hard as I could, and managed to get worse at what I was doing.

My mood must have touched the clouds, because suddenly it began to rain. First just a few drips, and then full-on rain with thunder and wind. The instructor kept us riding, and I struggled to see through my wet and fogging glasses. We were all shivering and soaked within a few minutes.

Suddenly I could ride. I opened up the throttle a little more, and I could feel how the clutch worked to get me there, and I shifted gears and accelerated through the turn and rode with ease through the icy rain and wind.

Oh sweet sweetness, IT FELT SO GOOD! I smiled through chattering teeth and through the next few exercises. My bike purred beneath me and obliged my every command.

Then the clouds broke, the sun came out, and I think the angels sang. My bike stalled a few more times, but only when I caught myself focusing too hard on what I was doing.

Roh-roh, I feel a lesson coming on. How old will I have to get before this quits happening?

The little powdered donuts. The bike. Could...could my all-or-nothing tendencies be...bad?

Sure, it may mean that when I want to clean the bathroom, the grout gets scrubbed with a toothbrush and the baseboards get wiped down.

But it also means that when I train for a marathon, I run so much I have to paint my toenails a dark red to conceal the sad purple tinge I earn from pounding that damn pavement.

I know, wahhh wahhh. Life is sooo hard when your toenails are ugly.

People who smoke, people who need alcohol (like to wash down their morning eggs kind of need), these are the people who get labeled as addicts. But when I look at the box of donuts and their 10 kinds of maltodextrins and partially hydrogenated ewok oil, when I look at my poor toes, I get that creepy feeling like maybe there are more addicts out there than we think.

I handed out beer at the Austin Marathon a couple of weeks ago. Mile 20 was down the street from my house, and I heard it was good karma to provide fizzy beverages to the runners.

Good Karma? Bah. The next week I spent with my knee elevated, compressed, and covered in ice. Occasionally I lit a candle (Catholic upbringing, couldn't help it). Running was too painful to even consider.

Still, I developed withdrawal symptoms and obsessed over whether I'd ever be able to so much as jog again.

Karma, shmarma. Cross-training was what I lacked. And a good sense of moderation.

So while a lot of the world gives stuff up for Lent, I'm endeavoring to find a middle ground. I wish all the smokers and drinkers and occasional eaters of brownies the best of luck with their 40 days of cold turkey (except on Fridays, ha ha).

Looks like my prescription is:

-Ride a motorcycle, and don't think too much.

-Eat only 1 or 2 donuts, and don't think too much. (Well, maybe not the ones with pantyhose and yellow #5 in the ingredients.)

-Run--sometimes. Don't think too much.