To deal with my car-lessness, I pulled out the old bike that I used while I was in Cedar city. By used, I mean decorated my living room with since I was too afraid to ride around in cedar city traffic*. Now I had to delve into the realm of traffic that had a speed limit above 25 mph.
The first couple days weren't actually terrible. I would ride to work, around town, the gym, and then home. I was proud that my legs were surprising me with the ability to keep going, but that pride shriveled when I would occasionally stop to walk up the really steep parts of a hill. One hill in particular would be Bitch Hill.
What is Bitch Hill? The bottom of my street. Since moving, I relocated closer to the mountain which makes my commute anywhere in town a breeze, but coming home is...less breezy. That being said, I named the bottom of my street bitch hill since it starts with a steep incline only comparable to the steepest part of whatever mountain you think is the steepest.
What it probably looks like (look at all the happy people!)
So, I began to pedal up that bitch with the determination of a drag queen at a dress sale. There was no going back (or at least not in my mind because I wouldn't be a quitter for a stupid bitch hill).
The theme from Chariot of Fire started to play along simultaneously with the Rocky theme song in my head and I realized how much I didn't find either of those songs very inspirational, but I still decided they were appropriate. I can only assume that any passerby within earshot would have to assume a horse was trotting by by the gusts of wind that were escaping from my mouth. Each one louder than the next, I huffed and puffed on with my little bike on the gear that allowed me to pedal forward.
"Breathe in...breathe out...." I heard in my head.
"Breathe in...breath out...PSHHHHHHHHHH."
Suddenly, I was back in the yoga class in China taught by an older southern woman named: Constance.
Constance was the epitome of southern. A drawl that rivaled honey spilling out of that jar you can't quite figure out with the same sweetness in her attitude. A white woman in her 50's, always dressed in yoga pants and a loose t-shirt that swallowed her 5'3 frame (and hid her small paunch), along with a colored bandana (due to her bald scalp that I vaguely remember being cancer related) that changed with the weather.
Respect was her forefront, and yoga was her bitch. She never enjoyed late-comers, and yelled out commands like a staff sargeant.
"Breathe in...breathe out...PSHHHHHHH." Her breathes were as calm as a lady in a store screaming about how she should be able to return that sweater even though there was a hole in it. Yes, she may have snagged it on a fence running from some cops and her dog might have used it as a chew toy, but this is obviously bad construction!
"WARRIOR POSE."
I could still hear my friend Tamara breathing out expletives under her breathe as she assumed warrior one.
"Hey, I don't want to hear that language in my class!" Nothing got past Constance.
Along with being a yoga instructor, Constance would also grace us with her knowledge that I will dubb, "Constance medicine."
"You know, if you rub your big toe, that will help you along with your bowels since everything is connected by the nerves."
"Each breathe is releasing the toxins that are in your liver."
One jem of Constance medicine I was blessed with upon arriving slightly early to class. Constance approached me as I was doing a couple warm up stretches and bent down to talk to me.
"Since you can't do kegals, you need to flex the small part between your legs to strengthen it up." She said, her drawl inflecting each word with tar. "If you do that," as she went down to a whisper, "it will make sex a whole lot better."
"Oh...thanks." Was all I managed to say.
Along with her well of wisdom, Constance usually dealt out treats before Namaste. The rules of receiving a treat always included closing your eyes and picturing a serene picture in your mind. Then Constance would walk by, tap your head, wait for you to open your mouth, and pop in some kind of food; usually a grape or small piece of chocolate.
I began looking forward to rubbing my toe twice a week and bending my body into poses unbeknownst to me, while a southern drill sargeant reminded me to get that breath out. Each lesson I was becoming a regular subscriber of the Constance journal of yoga medicine. Then one week, yoga was cancelled. It stayed cancelled week after week with no word from Constance.
I later learned from my friend Tamara that Constance had gone back to visit America, but was never allowed back into the country of China. That, or she didn't want to come back; I never actually figured out which in the end.
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I huffed out another breathe and took a slow pedal up bitch hill and heard those familiar words in my ear:
"Breathe...PSHHHHHHH."
Just keep breathing. Then you can get home and rub all the toxins out of your foot. Or was it stretch the good air into your butt? Either way, I deserved a fucking grape.
*While not heavy, traffic in the Cedes was what we call, "I'm not used to seeing a biker so I'll probably hit you." And cedar is basically one giant hill both ways in the snow with your grandma on your back telling you now in her day it was two hills with fire raining from the sky.
**Post edit: I realized that I never before mentioned this strategy. Probably because in my mind I just decided that hopping off my bike had to be the only thing that I could do and thus explaining it at all had no real merit.
**Post edit: I realized that I never before mentioned this strategy. Probably because in my mind I just decided that hopping off my bike had to be the only thing that I could do and thus explaining it at all had no real merit.
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