Three months ago my unindicted co-conspirator and I joined Weight Watchers. While it's my first time with them, it's the fourth time in the past twenty years that I've embarked on a campaign to get rid of a significant portion of my body mass. Yeah, it's serious.
Bicycling, however, is not. I'm decked out in a pair of ludicrous lycra shorts, a flaming chartreuse jersey, gloves with no fingers and a silly styrofoam hat. I'm wearing this clown gettup while perched on a parallelogram of pipes with a couple fragile wheels creating a sort of gyroscope effect as I piston my legs, bumping my belly with my thighs 80 or 90 times a minute. And I'm thinking, "Wheeeeeeee!"
You don't tell a kid, "Go outside and get at least 30 minutes of aerobic exercise, with your heart rate between 65 and 75 percent of maximum." You say, "It's a beautiful day. Go out and play."
The *real* clydesdales here - the big powerful athletes - may not understand this, but the greatest joy for us obese middle-aged people after a short time on a bike is the sudden realization that you're not an invalid! Life becomes contrained when you're seriously big. You avoid uncomfortable situations, like little seats at Fenway or carnival rides. You don't go hiking or running or even walking much. You don't go out to play anymore.
Last night I pumped out twenty glorious miles in the fresh sea air, and I was ready for more, but it was a school night. Aw c'mon, do I hafta come in now?
It's never too late to have a happy childhood. I'm playing. Any other benefits are just gravy.