Last night, Billy and I went with some friends (Chad & Melissa - she blogs, so check her out!) to a cycling class at our gym. Let me first say that Billy is infinitely more athletic than I am and works out all of the time. I, on the other hand, have to work at it.
So, at the beginning of the class, the instructor asks who's new. I raise my hand. I'm in the front row, and Billy's sitting right behind me. She runs back to Billy (right past me) and makes sure that his bike is all adjusted and perfect. I don't ask her for help because I think, hey, she must have thought I looked like I already knew how to do all of this.
So we start.
I feel really good until about halfway through the class. I hit that wall that tells me that maybe: one, I should have eaten more than fruits and vegetables all day, and two, I'm just not that athletic. However, I push on. I follow instructions. Even though my knees are locking up, I go as fast as I can.
And then I fell. Thankfully, it was only distracting for a good minute or so, but my foot came out of the little foot-holder, and I fell smack down onto the seat.
And then we finished.
The instructor yelled, right at the end, "Let's congratulate our first timers!"
She runs, again, right past me, and gives my husband a high five. I decided to take it as a compliment. She must have thought I was a veteran. I mean, it's normal to fall off of your bike, right?
When we got home, I kept wondering why my left calf was so sore. Nothing else was that sore. Finally, I looked down in the shower, and realized that I had fallen right onto my calf.
Here's my battle scar:
Yes, that whole bottom half of my calf is discolored. Along with that reddish bluish spot to the left.
Really, though, I LOVED the class. And I'm going back Wednesday. And silly me probably won't ask for help again, because, hey, now, I'm really a veteran. I've got the scars to prove it.