Why yes, I do work in a library. Why do you ask?

I grew up as the proverbial 98-pound weakling. I remain so—well let's make that 170-pound weakling. I still have little stick man arms and the grip strength of an eight-year-old girl. As uncoordinated and gawky as I was weak, I was always the last one picked for teams, and the first one out in things like dodgeball. My aversion to sports grew as I got older. I skipped gym through most of high-school and had to attend summer school to make up gym in order to graduate.

Off the bike, I remain gawky and uncoordinated, frequently crashing myself into doorways and furniture. I have pliers in the kitchen to open the ketchup bottle.

I brought that background to cycling, along with the damage from 35 years of smoking, 29 years of drug and alcohol abuse, one bum knee, and an arrythmia.

Some of you may recall the story of my first bike ride. I rode my shiny new hybrid home from the LBS. I had to stop and rest for five minutes halfway home. I required a two-hour nap once I got there. The distance? 0.67 miles at -1% grade. Yes, two-thirds of a mile (a smidge over a kilometer) ever so slightly downhill. I was exhausted.

For a long time I couldn't apply the term “athlete” to myself because of both that and the contestant aspect of the term. Although I used the terms “work-out” and “training” to describe “cycling strictly for the purpose of improving my physical strength and stamina”.

I worked hard to become a better cyclist. Harder than I'd ever worked towards anything in my life. (Mainly because of the joy cycling gave—gives—to me.)

I worked on strength for climbing hills, stamina so I didn't have to stop and rest every mile, then two, then five, or ten. And I worked on staying on the damned thing, upright, not wobbling and weaving.

Most of you know the next part of the story. Twenty-eight months after buying that first bike, I took a 2½ day train ride to Denver, to ride the Front Range with a bunch of people I'd met online. My first mountain was Mt. Evans.





The entire continent is downhill from there.

And yet, I couldn't apply “athlete” to myself. It didn't feel right. I'm not a jock. I don't do teams. I still haven't seen the inside of a gym in decades. I throw like a girl.

It wasn't until three years later—three years ago now—that I tried out and found it comfortable. I'd long avoided the Highlander Cycle Tour, billed as the Toughest Century in the East for its 11,000 feet of climbing on punchy, Finger Lakes hills. (27% anyone?)

On my first entry—where I'd given myself permission to take one of the many cuts—I aced it. Here I am still looking fresh at the 75-mile rest stop. (And yes, that is a middle-aged paunch and man boobs inside the jersey.)



That's when I decided that, yes, maybe I am an athlete. A very rare kind as well. An endurance athlete.

Except for a brief spell on Medicaid during rehab 15 years ago, I haven't had any sort of medical insurance since 1991 or 2. Then Obamacare came along. It really strains my budget—I'm going to have to move to a cheaper apartment to continue paying for it—but I'm signed up. As long I have to pay for the thing, I use it.

I quickly learned from the horrified expressions of nurses, that a 43 BPM heart rate sitting in the doctor's office is a tad unusual. Since every visit begins with a stethoscope and BP cuff, I begin every visit by reminding them, “Endurance athlete”. Even so, they usually say something like "Jeepers" afterwards.

This time of year when my miles are below 40 a week and my average speeds are in the single digits, it's hard to remember that I'm an athlete. Especially when everyone just thinks I'm a crazy person for riding a bike in single digit temps with all the snow.

But I'm now a racer. Even if it's 4½ miles to work in the snow at 9 MPH average, I'm racing against the Grim Reaper—a contest I know I'll ultimately lose. But compared to those poor bastards trapped in their cars and heated leather seats, I know that I'm likely to make it quite a bit longer than them. Certainly much longer than I would have, had I stayed the course and skipped cycling.

So there you have the final piece. Competition. Since I "train in an exercise or contest involving physical agility, stamina, or strength" I meet all the criteria of the dictionary definition.

Aren't you glad you asked?