Back In The Saddle. 12 Miles, Fears Conquered, and Perfectly Executed Snot Rockets.

The desire to ride my bike alone, just me, no social riding, has been heavy, loud, and frequent. Inspiration has been coming at me from all angles, big shout to you all, because I see you and you are my inspiration! You’ve been feeding that hunger to get back on the road, to feel the freedom, the fun, the gear, the little pre-ride rituals, and… the humbling reality check of holy hell, I have lost a lot of fitness and endurance. HA!

For so many months, it’s been this mental three-way dance: my brain, my thoughts, and the unwelcome third partner, PTSD from the crash. I’ll feel totally normal, like BC (Before Crash) normal. I’ll think, OK, I’ll ride Saturday or Sunday. The weather looks great, I wander into my PainCave, look at my road bike, ambition raging, energy electric, and then… Sex In the City- Carrie Bradshaw voice: “And just like that…” the PTSD chimes in with, Hey, let’s watch that crash again! Cue fear. Cue mental detachment. Cue me not riding.

But as much as I’ve wanted it, the mental side has been the real climb. It’s not just about clipping in, it’s about quieting the crash reel my brain loves to replay without warning.

Last week, driving to my arm surgeon, I saw a fire hydrant. My heart rate spiked, and instantly it was like watching a movie, except I wasn’t just watching. I was in it. It was vivid, crystal clear: I’m slamming into the curb at full speed, hitting the fire hydrant, feeling the impact all over again. I realized in that moment I had to follow through with this. I noticed I was punching my steering wheel, not hard, not in pain, it was almost comforting. Tears sat at the edge of my eyes, my breathing heavy. And then came one of those enough-is-enough moments.

I started talking to myself out loud:
You CAN do this. You MUST do this. FACE IT. FEEL IT. SIT IN IT. You can handle this. You must handle this. I am not in danger. I am OK. I got this.

PTSD after a crash isn’t just about getting back on the bike, it’s about the way the smallest trigger can drop you straight back into that moment. Fear doesn’t wait for a convenient time; it can hijack you in the middle of an ordinary day. Sharing these moments is how I refuse to let the detachment win. It’s how I remind myself the only way through it is to face it, feel it, and keep showing up anyway.

I’ve ridden twice in the past year with a great friend (and an athlete I coach), and those rides breathed courage into me. His support, the way he gave me the space to ride how I needed, at my own pace, and reminded me, If we need to stop, if you’re feeling the feels, I’m here, we do it your way- grateful doesn’t even begin to describe how much that support helped me in just two rides.

Sometimes I hit that real enough-is-enough point. The fuck-this-shit-I’m-done kind. And when I get there? Get out of my way. I’m on a mission. Computers charged. Gear in the car. Bike on the rack. Extra chamois cream (because we all know what happens when you’re not saddle-seasoned). Tri kit on, the last time I had one on, an ER nurse cut it off me. I figured, screw it, let’s rip all the band-aids off at once, Go Ride!

I chose the only route I really know around here. Parked at the Y and headed out, keeping it simple: just do the thing and start a new chapter in The After. The route is beautiful, with some good hills I was oddly excited about (that is a big Thank You, Mt. Lemmon, Tucson, AZ, I love hills because of you, and I miss you). And as I was riding along this little bit of everything route, I realized I hadn’t been there since before the crash. Out loud, I said to this route, “Hello, my old friend,” and smiled.

You know I love Grossology, so here’s your blog dose, somewhere in the middle of that solo ride, I had a little victory of my own: I successfully snot-rocketed multiple times while in motion. Now, if you don’t ride, this might sound weird or gross (OK, it is gross), but hear me out. This takes coordination, just like pulling your bottle from the cage while riding. You’re moving, balancing, and navigating all the physics of staying upright while aiming and executing. And yes, sometimes it lands on your leg or your shoe (IYKYK). But when you nail it? That’s winning.

By the time I was deep into that solo ride, I felt capable again, not because of the snot rockets (though they were a weirdly satisfying bonus), but because I was out there, moving forward, proving to myself that I could do this. I saw a version of me who’s going to achieve more. This is not where my story ends. This is my oyster, and the grit inside? That’s what will make the pearl. Maybe I’ll even name my next tri bike Pearl. It’s a more graceful name than my Quintana Roo tri bike, which I named Lady Amazeballs (fun name, but explaining “amazeballs” to people was weird). Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Lady Amazeballs and miss my girl dearly.

This ride reminded me of something bigger: every time we show up, whether it’s to train, race, or just live another day, we put that game face on. Some days you’re the bug, some days you’re the windshield. We carry it all: the life stuff, the emotions, the unseen weight. And still, we keep showing up. But let’s be real, there are days when the weight is too heavy. Days when you set it down and say, This is bullshit. I’m tired. I just want to sit here. Days when you hide from the world, feel sad, let the funk settle in.

Guess what? We need that, too. We are not meant to do it all, all the time, with a smile glued to our face. It’s not failing when you feel the funk, it’s being human. And sometimes, sitting in that space is exactly what lets us rise, and ride again.

A quick little note before we get to the end… I’m sweary in the blog today. I feel sweary. I feel spicy and raw. I also believe George Carlin was spot on about a lot of things. If you don’t know who that is, go look him up- genius. And while you’re at it, find the comedy bit he did about swear words, which is why I mention this great comedian. Now, I don’t go around F-bombing for sport. But here in my blog? Some days the potty mouth shows up. That doesn’t make me less ladylike, less polite, or less anything. It just makes this space authentically and unapologetically me.

Back to the Me, Myself, and I ride, I wasn’t just proud of facing the fear, I was proud of what my body did out there. I rode 12 miles that day, and it was glorious. I finished. I loaded my bike, opened the windows and the sunroof, felt like some old school tunes and cranked Def Leppard’s Rock of Ages, and let the wind blow through while I soaked up that post-ride high. Yes, I have work ahead of me. A lot of it. And I know that work. I want it. All of it. Riding will be great cross-training for the Carlsbad 13.1, helping me rebuild my aerobic engine, and maybe even get me back to where 12 miles is a sweet warm-up.

I got home, ate, showered, and later that day, my body felt it, tired, sore, but in the best way. I knew I’d executed the ride perfectly: pushed when it made sense, backed off when it didn’t, and listened to my arm and leg when they screamed, But why?

Because.
Why not?

Want to know why the “WHY NOT?” keeps showing up in my words and my life? It’s in honor of the legacy of strength left by the son of a dear friend, whose life was tragically cut short far too soon. His spirit and his words-Why Not? -continue to inspire me, and I will carry that message for the rest of my life. I hope you’ll carry it too. You can learn more about his story and the movement at whynotcp.org.

Thanks for being here.

Keep SHINING!