So I have this bike.
It’s a cross between this:
Okay, maybe not that totally dorky. But pretty close.
It has shock absorbers under an enormous padded seat. And nice grippy, upright handle bars. A cute little bell. And a basket. Which I have removed for the triathalon so I don’t die of embarrassment.
When we first started training for the triathalon, I hadn’t been on said bike since our vacation near the Cape Cod Rail trail 3 years ago. And even then I only rode it to Ben & Jerry’s and back.
It’s ironic. I enjoy rides going 400 miles an hour, the more twists and turns the better. At amusement parks, the only things that get my attention have “Warning” and “Aviso” written on them. But something about having to be in control of the thing that is going fast just gets me.
Probably because I’m a clutz on flat land and two feet.
My husband had graciously offered his bike for me to use for this race. He is not a super-short man but he does have short legs, so we actually could use the same sized frame.
His bike looks more like this:
I rode it around the driveway, nearly crashed into the stone wall because I couldn’t find the brakes, chickened out and decided that my granny bike suits me just fine.