Sunday Disaster

As much as I love BF, he can get me into some pretty miserable and disastrous situations. Take yesterday for example:

I woke up in the late morning to BF poking and prodding me, asking "when are we going to play outside" like the 4-year-old I know he is. I finally woke up enough to agree to go biking, which in retrospect was only achieved because of my hindered, half-asleep mental capacity. Fully awake with all engines running- biking never would have happened.

So after curling my ponytail and cuffing my pants, off we went to BF's parent's house to pick up the bikes. After visiting for a while we threw the bikes in the trailer and headed off to the Luce Line. Despite living within a five mile radius of the trail for most of my life, I have never biked/walked/ran/anything on it, so I was excited and felt like it was a great opportunity to keep with my goal of exploring my city this summer.

A mile or so down the trail we see a sign that tells us we only have three miles to go until we reach Medicine Lake and a turnoff for French Park. While I'm not in great shape, three miles seems easy, so I yell ahead to BF (who is easily surpassing me, that fit jerk) that it would be fun to head to French Park where we can stop and get an ice-cream sandwich before heading back. Leave it to me, even when I'm exercising all I think about is treats.

BF is excited that I am willing to go a bit farther than the original plan of turning around at Medicine Lake, so we speed ahead together- me racing for my ice cream, him just because. (Have I mentioned how much really in-shape people bother me yet?) Finally we make it to Medicine Lake, and even though there is a nagging part of me that knows French Park is still a ways off, we continue on.

ALMOST THREE MILES LATER! We finally make it to French Park. By this point in time I'm not sure if I'm huffing because I am having an asthma attack or a rage attack. So much for a leisurely bike ride along the Luce Line. We stop for ice cream (I was getting my ice cream!), and then get back on the bikes, going around the lake because BF thinks it will be faster than going back the way we came. I suppose it was about the same, very long, length.

We hopped back on the Luce Line about 2 or 3 miles later, and I am so excited. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I am speeding along faster than ever just trying to end this miserable experience. About a mile down the Luce Line, I hear a loud shout from behind me. A quick glance back shows BF stopped and off his bike a ways back, looking down at his pedals. I grudgingly bike back to him, where he tells me his pedal has fallen off his bike. Could this be any more disastrous?

Suffice to say, BF runs with his bike the remaining two and a half miles. Even though he's fit I still felt bad, and at the realization that someone else was in a worse situation than me I stayed faithfully by his side the rest of the ride, pumping him up and making sure he was ok.

We collapse back into his car and start recovering, guzzling the water bottles we left in the car due to a lack of holders on the bikes. Although a miserable experience I don't want to repeat, both of us are fine, minus a really, achingly sore behind pour moi.

Has anyone else ever had a bad exercising experience? I know they are out there...leave 'em in the comments!