Once a year I race. And when I say “race” it means literally doing exactly what I do almost every day of the year. I get dressed and take off, typically in a skirt, and typically on a bike and typically packed with enough food and drink for an apocalypse. I’m not technically “racing” by any standards of spandex. And I ride along for the great fun and adventure of the “Dirty Pizza Ride” organized by Orchard Hill Breadworks in Alstead, New Hampshire.
It is a ride through the hills (and I cannot stress that word enough) of New Hampshire. The full “Dirty Pizza” ride is over 40 miles and about 4500 feet of elevation. I did that last year. And frankly, I do not own enough holy water to repeat that challenge. I think my husband was speed dialing a priest by the end after ten miles of silence. I finished, but lost my soul somewhere in those hills and found out a whole lot about myself.
This year, much wiser, and committed to being non-committed, we rode a ride called the “Clean Pizza Fusion.” It was a 34 mile ride that shaved off over 1000 feet of elevation. I can live with that, without medication or holy intervention.
It was a beautiful day, and my lungs and heart and belly were filled with the virgin air, spiced with thousands of shades of green, and donuts and pizza and other assorted nightmares of gluten intolerators. I loved it. A thousand feet of compromise for sanity was just perfect for me. I took in the constant undulations of hills with a belly full of carbs and wondered about the beauty of the day.