Everyone in my part of the world is complaining about our terrible spring. It’s been cold. It’s been wet. Yes, we have more light. But mostly the weather has been so horrible that the extra light hasn’t made the dramatic difference it usually does. I like running in the morning when it gets light early. But lately it’s been hovering just above zero in the morning. No thanks.

I’m reminded of a book a read some years ago by Jose Saramago, the author best known for his novel, Blindness. In this lesser known novel of his, Death with Interruptions, people in this one town stop dying. Like, not matter how old they get, they just don’t die. Though perhaps that seems like it would be something awesome, and at first it is, eventually it creates all kinds of havoc. It turns out [SPOILER] death decided she (death is a woman in this novel) was tired and needed a vacation. So she took a break.

I feel like that’s what Spring is doing this year. She’s taking a break and maybe, just maybe, she’ll be ready to get back to it really soon. Like yesterday was kind of a nice day. Not exactly a “leave your coat at home” day. But close. And today promises to be even better.

By the time we get to this point in May, everyone is eager to get outside into warmer weather. Granted, it’s warmer than winter. I went for a run at lunch time on Monday and I had to take off a layer because I got warm. But the weather is nowhere near what its should be.

And I’m aware that in no time we will be complaining about the heat and humidity. Just yesterday I was telling a colleague who is visiting from Texas that sometimes it is so hot and humid here that even first thing in the morning you’re dripping in sweat after 5 minutes of running.

But we’re not there yet. Spring, if you’re out there having a vacation, please come back. We need you.

What do you plan to do when the weather becomes beautiful (if you’re somewhere were you too are patiently or not so patiently awaiting Spring)?

Back when the blog first started I coped with balancing fitness and work travel of which I do a lot by walking lots, carrying all of my stuff, running in new places, and a little hotel room yoga. I still do the hotel room yoga and now physio, but I can no longer run, or count on being able to walk enough to get enough exercise.

Why do I care? I’ve thought about that a lot in recent months. Why can’t I just read more? Get some writing done? Why does exercise while traveling matter? It’s not the only thing that’s valuable in life after all. I’ve even thought about quitting the blog, or blogging less, and moving fitness thoughts to an emotional back burner.

But the thing is my knee hurts less when I get exercise. I’m also happiest when moving. And I stay on an even keel emotionally when I’m moving lots. It’s still really important to me. So I want to keep exercising and I can’t count on walking, running, carrying bags etc. What to do?

Here’s two recent success stories.

In Vancouver where I was attending to Pacific Division meeting of the American Philosophical Association I made good use of the hotel gym. Then when Sarah arrived and the conference ended we rented bikes and pedaled our way around the city.

In Halifax where I was for the Canadian Council of Deans of Arts, Humanities, and Social Sciences meeting I opted against the conference hotel. Instead, I stayed in an cute little airbnb apartment with my own kitchen, brought my new Brompton to commute to the conference, and signed up for spin classes.

What’s clear is that this is going to take more planning in terms of what I do, where I stay, and what I bring. It’ll take some advance internet skulking to find classes. I’m going to have to take time out of tourism to take fitness classes or workout in the gym. I’ll bring the Brompton and I’ll continue with yoga with and physio on my own.

I also realized in April that some of who I am has helped me slog through this chunk of life with my badly arthritic knees.  It’s not just toughness though people say that about me and I’ll nod. Toughness isn’t enough given the nature of the problem. I am determined but it’s also creativity and being positive when things are difficult. It’s funny because I know those characteristics are true of me in other areas of life but I hadn’t thought about it in the fitness context until this spring. I do now.

What’s your approach?

On Sunday, I finally got out onto my road bike again.  My bike has been reclining dustily on the hooks I installed on my office wall last fall, untouched until I got my tall niece to help me take it down.  I knew last Sunday was going to be warm — FINALLY!  — and I’d mentally bookmarked Sunday for a possible ride.

I didn’t have a plan. I’m super-booked with work stuff these days, and tired from all the cross-fit, and I’m highly resistant to *plan* or commit to anything else.  It makes me elusive and annoying (ask my mother about my reluctance to pick up the phone), but it’s my way of creating the blank space I need to reset.  So I made no plans with anyone else, and when I woke up at 7 am on Sunday, I squinted at the time, read for a little bit and let that blissful second sleep overtake me.  I woke up when my cat Emmylou came and hit me in the head at 10 am, fed up with waiting politely for breakfast.

It was beautiful out, but I didn’t hop on the bike right away.  I fretted about undone work, then made some french toast, and did the dishes, and farted around with a few work emails, and then realized that while I’d brought the bike down from the wall, the tires were flat, it was dusty, I hadn’t looked at my cleats in months and didn’t know where they were, blah blah blahbiddidy blah.  Then I couldn’t find my garmin, or my good riding gloves, or my sunglasses, or any decent water bottles — it’s like I had Marie Kondo’ed my house but only left the joyless crap.

I knew I should just pump the tires and get on the stupid bike and ride east right from my door and tackle the Brimley road hill that is my ongoing barometer of seasonal fitness. But I was determined to compound my procrastination by driving north out of the city to ride.  I had work to do, and it was already afternoon, but for I stubbornly insisted to myself I needed to add an hour or two of unpredictable traffic to the whole enterprise.

As I went back to my condo for a third time after getting the bike in the car (who knows for what — snacks?  my fitbit? change my shirt?) I realized the procrastination and inability to find anything was actually an approach avoidance kind of anxiety.  Because here’s the thing:  I am super comfortable on my bike.  I ride a lot.  I don’t race, and I don’t ride when it’s snowing, and I’m no Kim — but I certainly identify as a cyclist.  The kind of person who rides a bike in foreign lands, on purpose.  The kind who will happily decide for NO GOOD REASON to ride 150 km on Canada150, or do an imperial century in PEI just because I can.  But — every time I go to get on my road bike for the first time — this same beloved bike I’ve had for a dozen years now — I have fear.  Real, in my cells, fear.

Now, I love the click of cleats-meeting-pedal.  If they made ASMR videos of pedal clicks and jam jar lids popping as they seal, it would be the best aural soundtrack to soothe me to sleep.  (Well, that and the sound of skates on ice — but I digress.  #canadian). But it’s a paradox.  The sound soothes me — but the experience of riding with my feet clicked in can trigger a powerful fear that as soon as I click in and get on the road, I’ll somehow manage to spill off the bike and right under a truck that would kill me dead.  

I’m not alone in this.  Tracy has written a lot about her cycling anxiety, and I know a lot of other people who are extremely reluctant to ride on the road.  It’s different for me, though — I *like* to ride on the road.  I’ve logged a lot of riding in cleats, in the city and beyond. I’ve ridden from Toronto to Montreal, on roads in Vietnam, Laos, Sri Lanka, Bhutan, Australia, Germany, Latvia, Estonia — and learned to ignore trucks roaring up behind me with huge loud horns, roadside chickens and butchered pigs, cows on the bike path, sudden downpours.

And I love my bike. I feel completely, gracefully at one with it, the wheels an extension of the part of my soul that sings.  BUT.  I still have this weird drumbeat of anxiety — especially when I hit the low blood sugar part of a long ride — that the pedal/clip situation is going to trap me somehow, and if something Dramatic Occurs, I won’t be able to scoot quickly.  (It’s even worse with SPD style pedals, which I use when I do bike touring — I rode the whole way down a Bhutanese mountain with one foot unclipped Just in Case).

With my head, I know I can navigate streetcar tracks and potholes, and that my feet easily pop out of the pedals.  I know this.  I have done this many times.  And even more importantly, I have crashed off my bike many times, once, spectacularly, right in a blind curve as I came face to face with a Sri Lankan ambulance (who didn’t stop, by the way).  And — I can’t stress this enough — I was fine.  A few scabs and scars here and there, but I’m fine.  Road rash is part of riding.

Those things are facts — mostly I don’t fall off, and when I do, I get a little bruised but get back up.  Like I taught my niece to be comfortable putting her head under the water when she was 3 — you go underneath, you come back up.

But the inner lying voice of fear is powerful — and sneaky.  I didn’t locate it at first hiding in all of that procrastination.

I’ve been doing some work in my coaching practice with the concept of our  “saboteurs” — the inner stories that show up to remind us we aren’t good enough, or loved enough, or capable.  It’s similar to what other people tell me they get from self-help voices like Brene Brown.  As I (finally) clicked into the pedals last weekend, I tried to make friends with that inner story.  What could I actually learn from this now-old story?  How could I shift it so it can be part of what I pay attention to when I’m riding — a reasonable question about safety — and not a tripwire?

I wasn’t super confident when I got on the road on Sunday.  It was the first warm day, and there was a lot of traffic at the lake where I parked. Right away, there were swoopy fast cars whipping past me, and the edge of the first road was a trap of broken tarmac, unpicked-up winter crap, little stones.  A good chunk of my favourite sideroad was completely potholed, cracked, mocking me with the possibility of a blown tire if I hit a hole too quickly.  The sun was beautiful, but the wind whipped at my face, and my eyes streamed, making me slow down even more to try to see the holes coming.

But as I started riding, I started focusing on feeling the bike respond to me, started to feel myself respond to the road.  The roads WERE a mess — I wished for a mountain bike.  But I navigated slowly when I had to, and finagled around, and climbed a few hills.  The confidence returned to my calves and hands.  I got off and surveyed the land, adjusted my brakes.  Found my rhythm.  Ended up doing two lengths of a road I always enjoy, a long gentle up for about 8 km, a safe smooth down.

There were cars, and wind, and ruts, and holes. I wasn’t flying along, still cautious about what I might not see under my tires.  But it was my bike, and it was me, and I remembered me, remembered me on my bike. Rode around 40km, and would have done more if I’d had more time.  And as I rode, I savoured that anxiety, turning it into a reminder to pay attention, be present.  Cautious, not fearful.

There’s no formula for me to overcome this kind of fear.  But I’m glad I recognized it, let myself sit in it without it pushing me around.  Reminded myself that yes, riding alone on a country road 20 km from your car is a risk — but I’m also the kind of person who can embrace that risk, find the pure joy in it.

Next time, I’ll leave earlier.  And get out my gear the night before.

What do you do to confront your fears?

Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, who lives and rides in Toronto.