Oh The Douchebaggery

My body got bitch-slapped by the East Bay bike trail today.
My thighs feel like a thousand mini-daggers are repeatedly stabbing them, my vajayjay is numb, and if my ass had tear ducts it would be sobbing like Kathy Lee Gifford in a televised visit to a sweat shop.

Fucking ow chihuahua!

The entire day unfolded the exact opposite of how I had planned it.

I lounged around for the better part of the morning and early afternoon until I had grown aggravated with my own sloth and decided that I hadn't properly sucked enough marrow out of the summer yet.
I'm thinking, I am going to sweat out some frustration on the bike path.

But first I need caffeine for reals!

I decide to go to Starbucks, and before you admonish my decision to offer up my patronage to the corporate gods, let me explain my rationale.

Starbucks has vanilla powder on their condiment counter.
It's free! I don't have to pay an extra 50 cents for a flavor shot.
Yes! Yes, I am that cheap.

It's around two so I figure the crowds would be to a minimum.
But Jesus H. People really love their Starbucks. Confounding!
I had to park down the street because the lot was full.

And there was a line.
It took me about twenty minutes to get my cappuccino (and I use the word cappuccino loosely, as there was a surprising lack of foam.) Bad, bad barista. I likes the foam!

So, by the time I get home, it's far later than I had projected for my departure time.

And now I had to deal with the tumult of getting my bike into my car.
Holy shit!
I must have broken some kind of Guinness record for dropping the f-bomb.

I am lowering the back seats of my car and wrangling with this bitch for like 30 minutes. I am sweating up a storm and I haven't even gotten to the exercise portion of my day yet.
Finally I get the thing in there and take off for my destination.

I get to the trail head at 3:30 and figure everything will be okay if I keep a steady pace.
All told, the trail is 30 miles round trip and going by my history with it, I should be back to the start in around three hours.

I'm good to go! A finishing time of 6:30 means there will be daylight still and just in case I have brought my handy dandy knife.

Mess with me and you'll get a good shanking, bitch!

Allow me a minute to remind all the girls and boys out there to ALWAYS wear a helmet.
Seriously, I once took a psychology class presided over by a professor whose specialty was in brain damage and I have heard some horror stories about bike-related head injuries.
A helmet might look stupid but nothing is more unsavory then a drooling head case who has lost all their basic capacities.

So I am wrestling with getting my bike out of the somewhat precarious position I have managed to have gotten it into.
Situation was ridiculously hard.
I am moaning and groaning like a porn star and feeling like I am birthing a whale, when finally I set my bike free.

I start pedaling when I realize I can't get the unruly whore out of first gear.
I'm pissed as hell 'cause it's a new bike and I am thinking that I want to feel the burn that only second and third gear afford me.
I recall that there is a smartly located bike shop right off the path and so figure, I'll just stop and get their expert advice.

An hour into my journey I am no longer concerned with down-shifting. The path seems more laborious than ever.
I am getting straight-up jelly legs.

I wasn't hungry before I left because I overdosed on some delish pad thai last night (thanks again, Leslie! You are such a catch, you don't even know!). So I took along only a dollar thinking that if I needed some substinence to fuel my adventure I could stop and get a bag of nuts.

Holy fuck! A dollar really doesn't get you anything anymore!
No nuts for me! Just pain and a grumbly belly.

So I get to Bristol and am psyched to have made it the distance but am now completely not okay with how I am feeling.
My body has never resisted the bike trail like this. I am confused.

Then I realize, It can't be me! I have not fallen that far out of shape since my last ride.
So what variable has changed?
Aha! The bike!

I opted for a smaller bike because I am clearly superficial and the twenty four inch bike came in the most pleasing shade of pink. The twenty-sixer only came in purple. Old people and transients like purple. Trust me,purple is not the color scheme of choice for someone young and vibrant like me.
Hand to the bible, I chose my ride based on it's color.

So here I am, proud owner of a pink bike and an even pinker skin tone.
I am huffing and puffing the last leg home.
Fuck all that, get me out of first gear business...at one point I get off to walk the bike but it's taunting me all the while. I'm channeling Lance Armstrong.
Throw me a bone, cycling god. I don't think I can make it.

I am sore and getting attacked by gnats all the while being passed by elderly people.
Senior citizens are whizzing by and smiling like the whole fucking ordeal is a walk in the park. Fuck you and your feel-good endorphins! My endorphins have failed me. I want out!

I finally get midway to the trail head and start chanting a little mantra.
The Little Engine that Could had "I know I can, I know I can..." I had "This fucking blows, this fucking blows"..I am literally saying it with every breath.

At this point I am no longer concerned about somebody coming at me all predator-style. Screw my knife, I could kill a bitch with my bare hands.

I come to within three miles of the end and the sights that had originally lured me to this path are now taunting me. Ooh, a pretty swan, just became "fucking glorified duck living a life of leisure". Sweet, sweet sea smells just became the funky aroma of a nasty yeast infection.

I am done! I want out.

I drag my numb ass along to the finish line and literally have to sit on the hood of my car for twenty minutes before passing go. I was still far too shaky to entrust my feet to maneuver a motor vehicle.

But I did. And I got home.
And for now I will bathe in the Epsom salts of futility because I know that tomorrow I am going to walk like I got fucked. And not in a good way.