The last year has been something of a roller-coaster for the Fat Kid. About a year ago, my life was pretty bad. It was about as low as you can get, actually. While I will not belabor the point (those who know me can e-mail me privately, and ask anything) I will simply say that I was being ruled by something paralyzing, something horrible, and something altogether unreasonable: Fear.
Fear is a strange thing. It's based upon our perceptions, our prior knowledge (automatically biased) and our desire to always know "what's going to happen next?" No one really understands it. Social scientists have been trying to figure it out for years, as have many others. So far, all we pretty much know about it is how to scare ourselves silly. Just as Wes Craven. Of course, it would help if we all had the same fears, but we don't.
This past year has been a lot of me facing my fears, and a lot of searching inside to find the guts, the chutzpa, the cajones, the stones, or the wherewithall to look at Fear straight in the eyes and let it know, in no uncertain terms, that I am not Fear's bitch.
I find that there are fears in just about every facet of my life, to some degree. Afraid of the winter weather, afraid of going grey, afraid of this, and of that...and particularly for me, afraid of riding up the steep hills of southwestern Pennsylvania. When the Fat Kid first fell in love with riding his bike, it was on the flatlands of Central New York. There were only a few hills in the region, and only a few of those were really very steep. So I never learned to ride them effectively, or efficiently. I still have doubts as to my efficiency, but the effectiveness...well...I made it over them, so I guess that counts.
In conquering these hills this weekend, I realized something: I looked at them, and I wasn't afraid. From the base of each hill, I stopped, looked up it, assessed it, and knew that I was going to torture myself incredibly. But for the first time ever, I was not afraid of them. I was slow, I had to stop halfway up some of them...and sometimes, stop again...and each time that my legs screamed out at me for putting through this torture, I was still not afraid. Four months ago, I would not have attempted such things. Four months ago, I lived in fear of those hills...of ANY hill.
I don't know what it was that changed. Is it because I know I will have to face these hills on an upcoming Charity Ride (The local MS 150, for those who want to know)?? Is it because I've been trying to work on hills, and finally have some confidence? Is it something larger? It got me thinking - let's face it, when you're out riding alone, you have lots of time to think - about the fears in my life, and why they do or do not make sense. For example, WHY was I afraid of those hills? It makes no sense. It's a hill. It doesn't care about me, it doesn't even know if I'm climbing it or not. It's not out to get me. It's just a hill, and the road I'm on goes over it. So must I.
The only thing to be afraid of is...what someone else might think??? Really? Is that what I've been afraid of all this time? That someone I don't know might see me on the side of the road, and say "Poor guy couldn't make it up the hill." Or worse, that someone I might know might realize just how bad a climber I am? WHO THE HELL CARES? I'm out there on a bike, dressed in spandex! Seriously, a fat kid in spandex!!! And NOW, when I'm climbing I'm concerned about DIGNITY???? As if I have any left? You know who cares?? I care. I care about looking up at that hill, and saying "This is gonna hurt, and it may take me forever, and I'm gonna look bad doing it, and I may even have to stop a time or two, but I'm going to climb up it, come what may, because I'm not going to let fear rule me any longer!"
You know what, Fear? You're my bitch, now.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
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