Pyro

I got on my bike Thursday night.  Just on the trainer in my laundry room, but still.  Poor Pyro has been neglected, hanging forlornly from the ceiling.  Her tires were flat.  The brakes look a little iffy.  She needs some attention.

Man, I'd almost forgotten how much I love that bike.  And how much I fear her.  Just putting some air in her tires made my pulse quicken and the butterflies flop around my stomach.  See, she's the Beast in corporal form.  I "feel" Beastie stir when I'm on my runs, "hear" her encouragement when I need it most or her low, rumbling growl when I consider staying in bed rather than hitting the track or the pool or the spin class.  But Pyro is the Beast.  I don't know why - maybe because the bike has always been the scariest, most challenging aspect of triathlon, maybe because Pyro is painted with fire - that's just the way it is in my mind. Beastie is this firey crouching thing - part animal, part machine.  And when I'm in the saddle - even on the trainer - its like I'm riding the Beast - 90 miles an hour with my hair on fire.  Its terrifying and exhilerating all at once.  I've missed it. 

But, I also remember . . .  Pyro bites. 

And so does the Beast.

She can be encouraging, empowering and faithful.


But get cocky, or careless, or fail to respect the danger that lies at the heart of her and you can end up on the pavement. 

She doesn't put up with false bravado, ignorance of limitations or any general monkey business.  That's one of the things I love most about her.  It also intimidates the hell out of me.  Damn, its good to be back.