As I said in an earlier post, I was never much of an athlete.  Then in my early 30s, I started running, both to lose some weight and to get stronger and healthier.  Then my husband (Lee) started telling me about a guy in his office who did triathlons (James).  This was the most insane thing I had ever heard of.  Lee, of course, decided he needed to try one.  With the approval of his cardiologist, he signed up for a sprint.  Then another.  Then an Olympic-distance race.  My daughter’s toddler-hood was punctuated by early mornings in the stroller, watching Daddy come sloshing out of the water, then head out on his bike, then back to deposit the bike in transition, then plodding out on the run, then, finally, running across the finish line.  My son was old enough by then (five, then six, then seven) to think this was cool, and he did started doing some races held just for children.  I, on the other hand, still thought it was insane.  I was slimmer, and stronger, but all that in one day?

Besides, I don’t swim.  I might get wet.  Or sink.  So my husband, always eager to help, signed us both up for a weekend swim clinic (check out totalimmersion.net–it really works!), and I learned, all over again, how to swim.  He got me a hand-me-down bike.  There were no excuses left.  So when my daughter started preschool in September of 2001, I started training for a pool sprint later that fall.  Lee promised he’d stick with me, and he was as good as his word.  He waited for me to get out of the pool.  He waited when my bike chain fell off.  I waited when he stopped to put his helmet on right way around.  Then, in the last mile of the trail run, I left him.  Not very nice of me, I know.  But that was it–I was hooked.  I was slow and plodding and way, WAY at the back of the pack, but I was officially a triathlete.

So for Christmas Mr. Helpful signed me up for a week of camp at multisports.com.  The word Ironman reared its ugly head . . .

Next time you glance at your bike, hanging over the dining room table, or jammed in with the scooters, or disassembled in the back seat of your car, or wherever you store it, make a mental note to measure your chain. Then do it.

Get one of those little chain-checker tools, or better yet, take it to your friendly local bike shop and let the pros handle it. But especially if you ride much, or if it’s been a while since you pampered your drivetrain, make sure the chain hasn’t stretched and gone floppy and out of shape.

In case you hadn’t guessed yet, I got my bike back from the shop, and was quite embarrassed. I assumed I was taking excellent care of my dear bike. I lube it regularly, and wipe the chain and the gears. Sometimes I even spray the whole thing down with Bike Lust and it’s shiny and purple and makes me feel quite glorious. But one day a couple of weeks ago, I was out on Penny Road, crawling up the hill by Lake Wheeler, and the chain popped off. Hmm. That never happens. Truly–I climb that hill all the time, and the chain has never come off before. Another cyclist rode by, asking was I okay. I felt ridiculous.

(For the record, yesterday, on the exact same hill, I was again just crawling, lost in thought about my carpool woes, when another cyclist flew by me, saying “That’s a mighty fancy bike you’ve got there.” I chirped something about how much I love it, but then he was gone, and I immediately began to stew, assuming that his compliment was some sort of slur about how someone going that slowly had no business riding such a fabulous bike. I tried desperately to catch him, but never did. Maybe he was right . . . Or maybe it was just because I got caught by a red light–I’m sure he just lucked out and caught it green.)

Anyway, that day a couple of weeks ago, I popped the chain back on, and went on with my ride. Something lodged in my brain, but I couldn’t think what. I was just perplexed that it had come off, but then I was distracted when my computer fell off and two vicious dogs came after me when I stopped to look for it (another story for another day), so I forgot about the omen of the chain.

Three days later, on Graham Newton Rd. this time, chain came off again. Hmm. This time, I pondered the problem more carefully, and realized that it was probably because the chain was too old. So I rode, oh, three more times or so, then took the bike to the shop. Yup. A week later, they’ve replaced the chain–and the rear cassette. Ouch. Apparently, if you wear a chain out, it stretches, rubs against the teeth of the gear rings, and wears them down, so a new chain won’t fit right. Whoda thunk it?! So do yourself a favor–check your chain.

Now, what I should’ve done to keep water out, to avoid the corroded cup in the bottom bracket, and the ruined bearings in the headset, I don’t know. Rain just seems to happen . . .

Really–that’s my athletic history. Decade 1: a few ballet lessons. Decade 2: even fewer ballet lessons, followed by high school (no activity) and college (activity only when absolutely required, plus unlimited food). Decade 3: marriage and graduate school (lots of reading–true couch potato-ness), then a baby. Then another baby.

But things changed in Decade 4. A few days after I turned 31, my husband had a heart attack. Suddenly, being couch potatoes seemed like a bad idea. We realized, even as the anesthesia of his bypass surgery was wearing off, that we needed to get fit. We started with a few shaky strolls around the hospital halls–he shook from pain, I shook from panic.

Within days, he was walking laps in the mall, and I was trying to figure out how to completely overhaul my cooking habits. I tossed out the butter and cheese, and started learning what saturated fat was and how to avoid it. We were both quite overweight, so we bought an exercise bike. Then a few weights. Soon, we had converted our guest room into an exercise room, and the pounds were melting away. It wasn’t easy, but the success was so much fun.

So 6 or so months later, we were in Miami, visiting my mother-in-law for a few days. We took turns going to use her gym (our children were just-5 and almost-two), and I just couldn’t bear it. I was in this tiny, hot, cramped little room, looking out at Biscayne Bay, all blue and breezy and beautiful. So I went outside for a run instead.

Admittedly, it was excruciating. I can’t imagine when, if ever, I had last tried to run. Like, not even around the block. It hurt a lot. I was afraid there might be a dog in every driveway. And this was downtown Miami–even though it was broad daylight, I was certain I was going to be mugged. But I wasn’t, and the bay was even more beautiful up close, and the breeze was perfect, and I was never bored, not for a second.

I realize that 31 is a bit late in life to decide one needs to be an athlete. And I don’t think I exactly decided it that day–but I definitely wanted to run some more. What does all that have to do with PBP? That’s the next installment . . .

In 1891, when bicycling was all the rage across Europe (the US, as well, for the record), the owner of a French newspaper had a crazy idea. He would organize a bike race, from Paris to the city of Brest, and back again. It was a brutally difficult, wildly successful, 1200 kilometer sales stunt. 1200 kilometers, for those of us who are metrically challenged, translates to roughly 750 miles. That’s a long way, folks.

The ride became known as Paris-Brest-Paris, or PBP. Twelve years later, in 1903, a different, and ultimately more famous ride began: Le Tour. But PBP continued, in different formats and at varying intervals, throughout the twentieth century, gaining interest and riders all the while. Today the ride is considered a randonnee, a very long, timed ride that follows a set of clear rules and guidelines established and enforced by the Audax Club Parisien.

It is still, however, 1200 kilometers. Which is still a very long way.

This type of riding is called randonneuring, and the people (lunatics?!) who engage in it are randonneurs. The governing body of the sport in the US is RUSA (Randonneurs USA), and their website, www.rusa.org, has a wonderful article that details the history of PBP, as well as loads of information about other insanely long bike rides, both in the US and abroad. Check it out.

Today is August 20th, 2006. One year from today, thousands of cyclists will ride out of Paris, headed for the city of Brest. Then they’ll turn around and go back to Paris. I intend to be with them.

I’m Lisa Rosen. I figured I should start writing today; I want to document my experience, and I think doing so publicly will keep me honest. I love to ride my bike, but it’s easy to slack off, knowing that I’m the only person who will know.

So. My year of training begins today, on an inauspicious note: my bike’s in the shop. I ride a Serotta Peleton that I’ve had for about 4 years now; I love it dearly, but it was in desperate need of a tune-up, so I missed two great group rides this weekend. Instead I stayed home, boiling water. Our town has been under a boil water alert (a bit of an e. coli problem) for the last 48 hours. It ended early this evening, and my children celebrated by brushing their teeth much more willingly (well, somewhat more willingly, anyway) than usual.

So that’s what I’m up to. In the next few days, I’ll explain all about Paris-Brest-Paris (fondly known as PBP), my checkered past as a long-distance cyclist, and what I do when I’m not pedalling.

Come along for the ride!