Go, greased lightning

My birthday was a week ago, and while I didn’t receive any gifts on the day, the box that arrived at my door yesterday more than made up for it.

Sturdy workhorse. Useful. Not exciting.

Last year I bought myself kinda-cheap hybrid bike so I could join the boyfriend when he took his shiny new racing bike for a ride. The thought was good — I hadn’t been on a bike for years, and was uncertain on how much I would use it, so I didn’t want to spend too much money nor specialise too much.

It was a good bike, and it turned out I enjoy bike rides very much. But a hybrid and a racer makes for a hilariously mismatched ride — I’d be putting in all the effort while the boyfriend couldn’t even work up a sweat.

That will no longer be a problem.

My *precious*.

I nearly killed myself five minutes into my first ride (HELLO, sudden car from the right who decided to stop far enough into the road to COVER THE BIKE LANE when I haven’t gotten used to the radically different brakes on my new bike yet).

The bike is so light it felt like even the lightest gust of wind would blow me off the road.

The combi pedals would always be the wrong way up.

Carbon frame and rock-hard tyres means every tiny little bump in the road is relayed up my spine.

But man, does it go. Push off, and it feels like I could coast forever. Start pedalling, and there’s a kilometer behind me before I can blink. Put some effort in, and I have to start dodging other cyclists.

I came home in agony after spending two hours in an unfamiliar sitting position. You really don’t ride a racer like you ride a hybrid, and my lower back muscles would sourly remind me of this all evening — as would my elbows and knees, which took my weight as I subconciously tried to compensate for my aching back. And yet? I want to do another ride tomorrow.

But someone, please explain to me how the hell the magically turning pedals work.

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