I like bikes. It's very likely that you've gotten that impression already, what with me toting my kids around on my steed, hosting a topless bike ride for my 30th birthday, and forever imprinting my green bean on my skin. I love my bike so much that on more than one occasion I have yelled at vehicular drivers putting me in danger or giving me dirty looks, made at least one otherwise normal conversation considerably more awkward by getting all advocate-y, spent hours practicing tricks in empty parking lots and ending up with skinned elbows and knees, and staying up way past my bedtime drinking beer and getting my hands greasy. I love all of it. Even biking in winter.

Riding a bike is different for everybody. Some people get pretty hardcore with their gear, some don't. Some people adhere to every single traffic rule promulgating automobile dominance, some don't. I like to keep it a healthy balance, and I think one of the fiercest manifestations of my love for biking is doing it year round in upstate New York. Wintertime biking is no joke, and while riding on two wheels anytime and anyplace is bound to provide a bounty of opportunities for growth, I feel like I learn some pretty important lessons when the temperatures drop and most people leave their bicycles in the basement. Here are the top five:

There is no doubt that I live in a special place. Ithaca is known for its bountiful agricultural land, serene Cayuga Lake, and of course, powerful waterfalls (Ithaca is gorges, ya know?). Summer in Ithaca is as utopic as Eden but with multiple universities to keep everybody on the up and up. Travelers flock to Ithaca when it's warm, and just as many locals flee for sunnier zip codes when it's cold. Sure, it gets chilly and wet, but my goodness, I'll never be willing to give up this view:

When I'm riding in the middle of the road with no cars in sight as snowflakes careen like meteor showers behind a screen door, the world feels like my oyster. If you don't appreciate a scene like this, I fear you aren't paying attention. I know that cruising down a Nicaraguan dirt road would provide infinite pleasantries compared to sloshing through sub zero temperatures and inches of snow, but as far as I'm concerned, nowhere else is as quiet and pure and playful as this place is on a cold, precipitous night. Unless I'm snowboarding, I wouldn't want to experience moving through winter any other way. 

I move pretty fast. In love, on the softball field, during an intense game of charades; I am a fast walking, faster talking speedster. I feel like life is too short to wait for things to happen, so I make them happen. I breathe deeply and do lunges regularly. I like to feel wind in my hair and movement in my feet. Obviously, biking provides an amazing outlet for me. Sometimes, when I'm riding on an open stretch, getting sweaty and out of breath, I feel the most at peace with the world as I ever do. 

That being said, I probably appear a little spastic to people at times, and I understand the deep value in slowing down and taking in the environment. There are definitely times when I choose to move at a more leisurely pace, like when I lounge on the beach or read a book in my hammock. But biking in the winter is one of the few things that forces me to slow down. Instead of only yielding at a stop sign so that I can beat a line of traffic, I am happy in the winter to slow my roll completely and wait for cars. This is a matter of safety when the roads are slippery and visibility is sub par, but I appreciate the impact reducing my speed has on my spirit. When I'm snailing through a slushy white road cover, I have a little time to contemplate exactly where it is that I'm going. It's worth it to take a moment to realize that external conditions cannot deter me from my destination but still that I must heed and respect the actuality of what is going on around me. Plus, I'm grateful for the meditative sounds of my wheels on the snow.

Unfortunately, there is no reduction in speed that can completely prevent wintertime crashing. It happens to all of us, or at least to those of us who don't spend our autumn evenings putting studded tires on our sexy frames in preparation for roads that will soon look like something from a Tolkein novel: we fall down. I have been upright one second and on the ground before the next, my shoulder crushed, knee on fire, and ankles tangled in a greasy, frozen chain. No amount of attention to black ice will prevent shelter from the inevitable tumble into a snowbank. When the roads are slick, sloshy, or covered in fierce winter sludge, bikes slip, and falling hurts. 

For better or worse, the only way to get where I am going, and hopefully even faster now that maybe my leg is bleeding under my pants and my wrist is feeling a little tingly in the not so scintillating way, is to keep biking. Many layers of clothing and freshly fallen snow provide a little padding. So, I stand up, make sure my pedals are intact, dust the snow off of my coat, and ride on. Falling off of a bike is like being bucked from a horse: I am left to wonder why my stallion has betrayed me. Truthfully, the only betrayal that could exist would be if I stopped riding because some part of it felt too hard. Aren't we all better than our challenges? There is a dignity in riding a bike with the snowy smear of failure on my clothes and the cringe of humility in my eyes. I do not mean to imply that the risk of serious injuries or even fatalities should be taken lightly, but I am still here to write about my accidents. My skin has been broken, but not my bike nor my desire to ride it, and in the end, I know how much there is to learn from lying on the ground.   

Have you ever been on a stationary bike and tried to stop the wheels on a dime? Not so easy, huh? Imagine riding a bike like that, a fixed gear, going 18 mph on an urban street, coming to a stop sign and trying to halt while weaving in and out of six inch weather rivets made by car tires and unplowed snow. All that I can say is that I have never rear ended a vehicle, and I would call such a feat a miracle if I didn't know how strong my legs have become. Riding a fixie means that all of the forward and backward momentum of my bike is controlled by my legs, and my outer thighs have become a spectacle worthy of fondling. In the moments when I could very easily lose control and skid along an icy or snowy road and I am able to make a deep connection with it and engage the powers of traction to come to a complete stop within two feet without the aid of a brake (I mean, I have one, but I hardly use it, so it doesn't make much difference when the pads are covered in ice and the cable is frozen in the housing anyway), I am reminded of the glory of having a human body. Frozen cheeks and sculpted quads can do a lot to make this girl feel really thankful for the gift of physical sensations. 

At the end of the day, I need to commute, and biking is my preferred method. I don't intend for my daily habits to turn me into a vigilante, but I also don't shy away from the self determined responsibility of educating people about bike culture. My passion exists regardless of the season. Winter simply brings with it a certain accountability. The precariousness of snow, the harshness of a wind chill, and the comfort of retreating from the world warrant that only the most resolute zealots are willing to marry their tires with the road. 

Few things are as satisfying as seeing the conviction of friends manifest itself in a radical devotion that might, at times, take priority over personal comfort. But I won't lie. Sometimes I put on my mittens and ride my bike in the winter because it actually feels good to me. 

Frozen or not, isn't feeling good even better with friends?

She and our friend Megan--who's completed a triathlon, a marathon, five halves, and more--were signing up for the "Rumspringa 13.1" in Lancaster County and thought I was ready to join them. It would be a lovely and challenging run through the rolling hills of Amish country. They encouraged traditional German dress; how fun! And the best part? The finish line was at a brewery.

My initial thought was absolutely not. I'd only been running for about two years and for the first several months, I couldn't do three miles without walking part of it. It had taken about a year just to build up to five miles. I was slow. Running was hard. Absolutely not.

I brought up the idea to my beau/running partner anyway. He'd been a runner for years, and had completed two 5Ks, one of which we'd run together about a month before. He'd never gone this distance, either (keep in mind a 5K is 3.1 miles; a half-marathon is 13.1), but by the end of the conversation, we'd talked ourselves into it. 

We began training right away, building on our standard 5-mile runs. We had five months, which experts say is plenty of time. Every Saturday we ran together, working up to 6 miles, then 7, then 8. Every new goal reached brought with it new levels of pain, both physical and mental. We kept each other going and often spit out, breathlessly, in our best JFK impression, "We do this not because it is easy, but because it is hard." We'd also sing, "Who in the world do you think you are? A superstar? Well, right you are!" On those post-run evenings, we would sit on his recliner sofa and moan a lot with every movement.

Despite the awful winter, which kept us from training as often as we should have, we ran every chance we could, eventually reaching 10 miles which, again the experts say, is all you have to do during training. Your adrenaline will keep you going those last three miles on race day. 
                          
           13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1

My beau and I made the lovely drive to the Lancaster countryside. We had our minds on the calories and the calories on our minds so we stopped at Five Guys for burgers. Holy moly, these things are huge! And a "hamburger" consists of two patties! What? Shouldn't that be called a double-something-or-other? 

I just looked up the nutritional information and I can't un-know this. I exceeded every daily limit for everything the body should ingest minimally in order to not have a heart attack and die. Holy Clogged Arteries! But, ding-dangit, was it awfully tasty.

We checked into our hotel and started the search for our next meal; a difficult task since we weren't hungry. We ended up at a quaint little place called the Black Horse Restaurant. The food was so good, we didn't really mind stuffing ourselves, but the best part was meeting two fellow runners. This wasn't the first race for either of these super cute sisters, so we listened to their advice and were made slightly less nervous by their encouragement. We were also looking forward to seeing them decked out in their dirndls. 

We went to bed and as the beau drifted off effortlessly, I lay there wide awake. I was thirsty. I got up for water. I had heartburn. I got up for Tums. I'd start to fall asleep and my ear would itch. I'd start again and I'd jolt awake with the need to roll over. I'd start again and it sounded like the hotel guest above us was moving furniture.

Seriously, I don't know what they were doing up there, but I considered calling the front desk to complain or stomp up there myself and pound loudly on the door. I shouted a curse at one point and the beau slept right through it. 

In the end, I got about three hours of sleep. I woke up angry, groggy, and with an icky tummy; not ideal conditions for tackling the biggest physical challenge of my life.

We made our way to Stoudtburg Village, an idyllic replica of a 17th Century Bavarian town. As we were getting ourselves together, we started talking to a race volunteer who showed the beau how to tie his car key in his shoelaces so it wouldn't get in the way. We noted how steep the surrounding hills looked but Eric, with his thick French accent, told us there was nothing to be nervous about. "I'm doing a 50-mile run soon. You'll be fine." We were like, okay, let's suck it up. This is nothing! Eric, who probably skis the Alps and climbs Mt. Everest, says we can do it, so we can do it!

We found Annie, who was also full of encouragement. Where was Megan, you might wonder? Oh, yeah, she never signed up for it after all. Hmm. It was a sunny, albeit chilly day (perfect for running) and we fed off the energy of the hundreds of participants. We found the sisters from the Black Horse Restaurant, who looked adorable in their German dresses.

We crossed the start line at the end of the pack knowing we were as ready as we'd ever be. The first six miles felt great! I know that sounds unbelievable to non-runners, but it's true. Running is so much a head game. Often, when I go for a 3-mile run, it sucks the whole time. When I go for an 8-miler, the first half feels great and then it starts to suck. I wish I could trick myself into thinking a 3-miler is an 8-miler, because it would be easy the whole way. Unfortunately, the brain always knows. 

We felt joyful with every mile marker we passed. Woo hoo, we're doing it!  We were energized by the water stations and all the volunteers cheering us on. If only we had that every time we ran! The countryside was absolutely gorgeous and the only people out and about that early on a Sunday morning were the Amish. We passed a church where all their buggies were parked. Then, like a mirage, a huge group of Amish boys and teenagers streamed past us on their bicycles. It was a surreal, bizarre, and rejuvenating sight. 

Around mile 4 was the first real challenge; a hill bigger than I'd ever run before. My theory on hills is to really push as hard and fast as I can, then relax coming down. At the start of the hill was Eric, our Rumspringa spirit guide, so I attacked that mother like a champ. The hill, not Eric.

The beau and I were happy to see the mile-7 marker--half way, baby!--but that was the last time we were happy for the next hour or so. By mile 8, we weren't talking. I think that's when I started making deals with myself, with God, and with the Universe. At mile 9, there was a bit of a reprieve. I remember saying to the beau: I hate 8 but 9 is fine! We hit mile 10. Wow! So close! Almost done!  We even saw Eric again, whose idea of encouragement was something like, "Come on, my grandma can run faster than you!"

Shortly thereafter, I realized I'd never run this far before. I also remembered, having studied the course online, that the last three miles would be uphill. But the adrenaline will keep me going. With each step, it was getting worse, and at mile 11, I hit a wall. 

This is a phrase we've all heard and I thought I'd hit walls before, but I didn't know what a wall was. 

The beau and I were now grunting and groaning and spitting and wiping snot on our sleeves. We no longer cared how crazy we sounded or looked. It didn't matter anyway since the pack we'd been running with had surpassed us long ago. We seemed to be the only ones on the road. I wanted to stop and lay down on the ground. A little boy wearing huge Mickey Mouse hands cheered us on and gave us high fives as we passed and I started crying.

"Hold it together, woman!" I yelled to myself. I mean, I didn't think it, I yelled it. I couldn't waste any energy crying or I wouldn't make it. At every station, volunteers kept telling us, "you're doing great! You're almost there!" I tried to smile and say thanks, but my face grimaced and tears started filling my eyes. We weren't doing great and we weren't almost there. We would never be there.

At the last mile, it was all-out desperation. I was forcing myself not to cry and the beau just kept shouting, "No! No!" "Yes!" I'd shout back. "Come on, superstar! We can do this! We're almost there!" But we were dying. 

Our goal was to run the whole thing without any walking. We had stopped twice along the way to go to the bathroom, and briefly at the water stations (where I told the volunteers they were angels from heaven), but that was it. At this point, we thought walking would just prolong the misery so we might as well keep running and get it over with. 

We made it to the village for the last tenth of a mile. Hundreds of people who had achieved what we were attempting were milling about, looking happy and alive. Several cheered us on as we rounded the last few corners. We still couldn't see the finish line and I started laugh-crying. "Is this a cruel joke? Is this ever going to end?" I sobbed. 

We made it around the last corner and there it was. The adrenaline kicked in for those last few feet and I bolted past the beau and sprinted across the finish line, where I broke down.  

Behold, the faces of agony.

Annie and my mom were at the finish line to capture the moment. Wait a minute...did Annie WALK that whole thing faster than we just ran it? Uh, no. Turns out she didn't do it, save a few miles. She had walked a miserable, rainy half the week before and knew she wasn't up for the challenge. She didn't want to tell us at the start line, though, because she didn't want to freak us out. Good thinking!

We saw our runner sisters one last time, who were awarded kooky little German weather houses for running in costume. They told us how proud they were of us and confirmed that those hills were no joke. In fact, we heard a lot of veteran runners say how tough that was.

Behold, the faces of survival.

13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1  13.1

During the days of recovery that followed, I was mad at running. Had we known what a rough course it was actually going to be, we might have opted for a less rigorous race. Or perhaps we should have trained for another six months. Either way, I highly doubt I'll ever do this again. Überendurance is just not something I need in my life. 

Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I did it. I've never set a physical challenge for myself before and there are a lot of benefits that come with meeting it. I'm so grateful for my good health. I learned about commitment and dedication, perseverance, facing adversity and kicking its ass. And speaking of asses, mine's looking pretty sweet right now.

A week afterwards, I laced up my running shoes and ran 5 miles. I thought if I don't do it now, I may never want to do it again. I'm still a little bit mad at running, but that 5 miles felt pretty good. And today, two weeks later, I'm going to head out again. 

I'm sure the thrill of this achievement will fade eventually. You can't rest on your laurels forever. But until the next challenge comes along, every time I see that medal hanging on my door, I can feel pretty proud of myself.

I put on a pair of running shoes for the first time in my life nearly two years ago. I've never been a sporty spice--and I'm still not--but, somehow, I found myself committed to a half-marathon.

Speaking of committed--I oughtta be! What am I, nuts!? It's been an arduous undertaking; a physical and mental challenge like I've never faced before. 

I've been following a training schedule--no I haven't. That's a lie. I downloaded and printed a training schedule. Following it? Eh, not so much. I'd like to be doing a better job training, but it hasn't been entirely my fault. This winter has been chock full of record snowfalls and polar vortexes which have made outdoor activities nearly impossible. 

Instead of doing two "easy" runs of three to five miles a week as well as adding a mile to each weekly long run, I've been taking advantage of any moderately non-snowy, non-freezing day to run as far as I can. A week in which I was supposed to do two easy runs and a long run of seven miles? Too cold and snowy to do the former; just did the latter. Two easy runs and eight miles? Just did the eight. And on and on for the past two months.

Every training schedule I've consulted says 10 miles is the goal to reach while preparing for a half. Last Saturday, against all odds, the laws of physics, and my wildest dreams, I met that goal. And let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. Not unlike my "Before & After" pictures, below:

It started out great. It was a gorgeous day; sunny, temps in the 50s, not snowing for once. My beau and I were like a couple of kids let out on the last day of school. I even ran my fastest mile ever: 9 minutes and 50 seconds! My miles are usually somewhere between 10.5 and 11.5. I get it, I'm not fast, go ahead and mock. Mile two, I was still feeling good and going at just a slightly slower pace. By mile three, we were both feeling the fact that we hadn't run in a while. 

Then came the hills. Sweet baby Jesus, the hills. 

We were in Delaware, running on a new path. There are, like, seven hills in Delaware. We ran up six of them. 

I can't fully convey the desperation of the next two hours. I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but it was the worst torture ever endured by any two humans in the history of humans. 

I experienced the stages of grief upon facing a long, difficult run for which one is unprepared. 

1. Denial: This is okay. I don't feel that bad. It's a little hard to breathe and a couple of toes on my right foot are starting to hurt a little, but it's not big deal. I'm hardly even dying for water and my thighs are only ever-so-slightly on fire. 

2. Anger: Another hill? Are you kidding me!? I just freakin' went up a hill! I know that because my lungs are collapsing and hot lava is shooting through my bloodstream. My toes are surely broken. I would bite off my own tongue if blood were as refreshing as water. Why the hell am I doing this? What the hell is wrong with me? I will now rethink all of my life choices up to now. Oh the horror, the horror.

3. Bargaining: I am now thanking the Universe for the pain. I am begging for its help to get me up the hill, to not collapse, to not pass out. I deserve this pain. I'm a wimp. Bring it on. Make me strong. I won't complain, just help me. Please, sir, may I have another?

4. Depression: I'll never reach the end. I've never been so exhausted in my life. I now live in a state of pain from which there is no relief. I have a thirst that will never be quenched. The Universe hates me. 

5. Acceptance: Of course the Universe doesn't hate me. I've only got a mile left. I've made it. It will take me 16 minutes, but I've essentially made it. This pain will soon be over, soon to be followed by a new pain of stiffness and soreness for the next two and a half days. But I've survived. And I burned 1200 calories so I can eat all the food tonight. 

And I did. Oh, yes, I ate ALL the food. 

You can read more about what led me to run here.