Why Using A Cruiser To Try To Break A Record Is NOT A Good Idea

One of the best things about living in Boulder is the fact that, almost year-round, cycling is an available mode of travel. Whether it's the dead of winter or smack in the middle of the blistering high-altitude summers, the weather is rarely nasty for any longer than a couple of days straight and, if you're like me and your bike isn't just your preferred mode of travel (because it's also your only one), fortunately Boulder also sustains a healthy convenience-store climate for those days when conditions are too incelement even for a quick trip to the grocery. Most of the time, however, "temperate" describes Boulder beautifully, with more than 300 days of sunshine a year (hey, I learned something in my college orientation) and temperatures generally ranging between 45 and 75 degrees. As it's also a relatively small town, biking anywhere usually means a pretty quick trip and, at the end of any given workday, a much easier one than that offered by a motorized vehicle and a deluge of Denver-area and Longmont residents making a mass exodus. (Note to said residents: that's me flying by you on my beautiful turquoise cruiser, laughing hysterically at your plight. Sorry, cycling has to come with some perks, and most of them make themselves known at rush hour.) There's a going joke that you can get anywhere in Boulder in four minutes.

I made mention of this joke to my boyfriend about a month ago while discussing the pros and cons of riding everywhere, and he looked at me as if my nose had suddenly fallen off. While checking to make sure it was still firmly attached to my face, I queried the look. As it turns out, Gregory didn't believe you could get anywhere in Boulder in four minutes, maybe downtown but not to outer areas. He stated that he'd never make it from his house, at the far south edge of town, to mine, at the northernish part of town, in less than fifteen. I was, at the time, in the middle of baking bread for him and figured what better way to test this out (read: prove him wrong) that to sidle on over to Maison de Gregory on my cruiser with my backpack full of bread strapped to my back. I arrived panting but only thirteen minutes later, extending foil-wrapped baguette in friendship and a thumbed nose in competitive inquiry.

Now it's become kind of a thing for me to try to beat out thirteen minutes. I did that ride while I was still a (stupid) smoker and now I figure, hey, it's been almost two weeks, my lungs should be doing better by now, and the other night I took almost the exact same route to Gregory's house to try to beat my thirteen minute ride. I had my backpack, my lamp, my gorgeous cruiser...and my totally shot, desperately-trying-to-recover lungs. What they DON'T tell you about quitting smoking is all of the not-so-fun stuff that happens mostly as a result of your body recovering-rapidly-from the death, destruction, mayhem, chaos and general discomfort YOU'VE been dumping into it for however long you've been a smoker. For me, it was seven years, and my lungs are getting revenge now. Of the fun stuff nobody tells you you get to deal with as a result of quitting, a few of the problems I'VE experienced are:

1) Colds: most ex-smokers catch at least one and it lasts at least a week. I've caught two and, thanks to a background in the natural foods industry and sympathetic colleagues, have been able to brain them with herbs and homeopathics before they got too bad. This is basically your body's way of kicking your ass for doing something so stupid for any length of time, and it happens because, well, whe you're a smoker, you pretty much have constant respiratory issues, whether you realize them or not, so the cold(s) you get when you quit are really just your body's way of recovering from the self-inflicted illness (i.e. painting your lungs with tar) you've had for however long you smoked.

2) Trouble breathing: that's right, Hercules, you may be trying to feel like a million bucks but you're body's not quite ready to let you. Asthma checks in with you once you've quit, usually temporarily but sometimes forever. My grandmother has the worst hacking cough you've ever heard; it is truly alarming if you don't know to expect it and I've had many well-intentioned, but ill-informed, friends bolt for CPR mode once they hear my grandma for the first time. Usually we have to calm them while getting Gram a glass of water, so we usually try to forewarn them now. She never got it until after she quit smoking. For most of us, however, we merely experience temporary asthma symptoms. I was living with allergy-triggered asthma already before I quit, and while smoking just made it worse, quitting has had its own vengeance. As my lungs get more and more used to the idea of breathing in air that's NOT tainted by tar they're struggling valiantly to spew up the tar that's already in there, resulting in coughing fits for me.

There are other strange symptoms aplenty, including lowered stress thresholds, cravings ("nic fits"), restlessness sometimes to the point of sleeplessness, heightened sensitivity to other substances like caffeine and alcohol, but those are all the "duh" ones. You don't expect a cold or an asthma attack, and you don't expect to pull into the parking lot of your boyfriend's condo complex to find you got there in eighteen and a half minutes and you're coughing and wheezing for want of more pure, clean air than you can possibly suck into your poor, diseased lungs especially at an altitude of roughly 5400 feet, where the amount of pure, clean air, or any air for that matter, is severely lacking. I had to call my boyfriend to have him cart my bike up the stairs to his place, and when he got down to find me, sprawled out on the floor of his praking garage, heaving, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully and mused over the possibility that trying to break thirteen minutes on a commuter bike wasn't the best idea. I harrumphed emphatically and glared, still wheezing, as he tucked my bike into his storage space, and shook my head for extra emphasis as he started in on the idea of trying it out on a road bike, y'know, something that weighed maybe a third of mine, when suddenly it dawned on me that if I kept riding my cruiser and didn't opt for a road bike anytime soon, by the time I did get a road bike I'd be able to fly on it, between the increased longevity of my ex-smokerhood and my already-brilliant ability to cruise town on a commuter that weighed in around thirty pounds. I have to say, though, that it's not fair for me to claim this idea; Gregory's planted it long enough ago, but suddenly it all made sense, and I could picture myself in a black chamois and purple-and-white stylish Pearl Izumi jersey like my mom's, clipped into a practically-weightless road bike, cruising along with Gregory and his fellow triathletes, a big, bug-smattered smile wrapped around my face. I grinned at the thought, then coughed mightily, spat, and wearily accepted the glass of water Gregory extended towards me. I wasn't there yet, but I would be someday.