We weren鈥檛 even a third of the way through our hike, but I was trying not to let my legs know. Then P spoke up.
鈥淎ren鈥檛 you glad you ride a Dutch bike?鈥� he chirped, referring to my bike鈥檚 50-pound heft. 鈥淢y legs aren鈥檛 tired at all.鈥�
鈥淯h, yeah,鈥� I lied, thinking it obviously hadn鈥檛 done me a whit of good.
We were at the steepest part of the trail, pitched like the narrow staircase in my grandmother鈥檚 house, but boobytrapped with leg-sucking mud and twisted branches. And my legs were tired, thankyouverymuch, though the muscles twitches wouldn鈥檛 set in till the way down.
P had been wanting to take me to Joffre for years, and, wanting to get out of the city more -- and clinging to some idea of myself as the outdoorsy type -- I had finally agreed stopped putting it off.
The 5.5-kilometre trail isn鈥檛 that hard (it seems to be considered 鈥渋ntermediate鈥� by most guides), which is to say I didn鈥檛 need to be airlifted out, and the payoff is worth it. Lunch by a glacial lake, even when it鈥檚 cloudy and/or foggy, is pretty great.
And there鈥檚 something about the fact that we got ourselves there, step by muddy step, that is immensely satisfying.
I feel the same way when I cart two weeks worth of groceries, or 50 litres of compost, a dozen plants and a small tree on my bike: a sense of power and strength, and a bit of thankfulness that my body still works, despite the fact that I spend most of my time sitting at a desk.
So P was right: Riding that heavy bike probably did help condition me a bit. It has also trained me to realize that speed isn鈥檛 always necessary, that distances can be closed steadily, that my legs can move more than I realize.
