Or Saving My Life One Pedal Stroke At A Time

When you think everything is someone else's falut

I wish, I sincerely wish, the world would work according to the plan I have in my head. I have discovered that rarely happens. Surprise!

My original plan was to post once a week. Then it was once a month. It has been a month and a half since my last post. Crap! This is not the vision I’ve had for my blog. It is supposed to be smooth, insightful, timely, and of great use to those who are trying to find their way in this craziness called life. Laugh, snort, laugh some more, snort until I choke.

You wanna know what I’ve discovered about life? You wanna know the great, big, huge, mystical, life-affirming, clear, path-of-destiny wonderism that I have realized in my journey to happiness? Well, here it is. Get yourself a cup of green tea, settle in, focus, and prepare to be amazed. I have the ultimate truth.

Life turns on a dime.

Yep. That’s it.

One day I was I was continuing to make up stories about how wonderful my life was with a man I was magically thinking was great. The next I realized what a fairy tale I had conjured up, had lived with for 15 years, and just how unhappy I was (to the tune of 200 pounds).

One day I was thinking about how I couldn’t possibly do anything more than I was already doing. Which was working on the computer in the back room of my house, doing bodywork treatments one day a week, eating everything I could think of (and what I couldn’t think of; that’s called mindless eating or “food amnesia”), and sitting on the sofa, watching tv every night, and drinking. What a seriously glamorous and wondrous life that was.

One day I was thinking that, “This is just how life is. Being middle-aged means weight gain, means exhaustion, means a low libido.” Of course, I didn’t have all those thoughts all the time. They would just flit through my brain like birds on their way to another destination.

The next day everything changed.

I had an experience where someone I knew briefly and peripherally looked at me like I was desirable. Wow. I weighed the most I have ever weighed in my life and he looked at me like I was beautiful. This man was not my husband. This man was a catalyst, and I doubt very seriously that he even knows what he did for me. And for that, I thank him.

Shortly thereafter, I came home and realized that my husband didn’t look at me like I was a woman. He didn’t even look at me like I was a human being. No one should ever, EVER, be with someone like that.

It was just that simple. All the tears, all the anguish, all the “Let’s try this to see if he’ll pay attention to me” antics I did. Just. Simply. Stopped.

What started was, “How do I want to live my life?”

It is as simple as that.

It was as simple as the difference between one day in October, 2012, and the next.

Life turns on a dime.

Fairy Hair


Happy Valentent’s Day


Soooo…. last year on Valentine’s Day, I posted a rant on my Facebook page about how I’d never, ever, ever, ever, never had a good Valentine’s Day. I can’t say that any more.

This year, my good friend, Elisabeth, invited me to go along with members of her church to Rocky Point, Mexico, February 14-17, to help build a house. It was in conjunction with an organization called Amor (www.amor.org). The family for whom we’d be building the house, Jose, Cynthia, and their three children age ten to three, had barely escaped with their lives when their trailer had caught on fire. Their car and a shed containing paint thinners Jose used in his work were nearby and had exploded, sending up huge fireballs.

Jose, Cynthia, and their children.

Jose, Cynthia, and their children.

Building would involve using hand tools (no electric ones so that others in underdeveloped areas could mimic what we’d build), either freezing cold or blazing sun (we ended up having both), camping in tents (which is where I got the title for this post; Elisabeth’s husband had bought her a new tent for us to take so they were calling it the Valentent’s Day present), Port-A-Potties, and no showers. There was cause for celebration that actual Port-A-Potties would be on site since the previous bathroom facility was a wooden enclosure over a ditch.

I did not know how to use building tools. Oh, I’ve pounded a nail into the wall to hang a picture but that hardly qualifies me to help build anything. I really dislike being cold. I hate camping. I REALLY HATE getting dirty and having to use a Port-A-Potty. So, naturally, I said yes.

In the year since I moved out from an ending marriage, I’ve needed, and wanted, to challenge myself to do things I’ve never done before. I’d lost a significant amount of weight, learned to cycle clipped into the pedals, committed myself to CrossFit, and started a blog. Now, apparently, it was time to learn to build a house. And, unbeknownst to me, it was time to resolve some very old, deep hurts.

I was a bit nervous. Elisabeth reassured me that I would be fine. There was a lot of work to do, but everyone would do what they can.

Late morning on Valentine’s Day found me at the Rocky Point campsite, helping Elisabeth put up our tent. Somehow, I had secretly thought we’d be ten feet from the beach, softly lulled to sleep each night by the calming whoosh of waves. Instead, we were plopped in the middle of hardpan desert, miles from the beach, choosing whether to put the tent nearer to the camp dining area, which would ensure we’d be awakened long before necessary each morning by pots and pans being banged around, or nearer to the Port-A-Potties, which would ensure shorter journeys in the middle of the night. We chose to be nearer the Port-A-Potties. Ironically, we were awakened long before necessary each morning by a symphony of banging Port-A-Potty doors, courtesy of very early risers. This was not the issue we thought we’d have to deal with in this particular location.



Early afternoon on Valentine’s Day found me on the job site wearing my-so-fresh-from-the-package-it-had-crisp-fold-marks-in-it Ace Hardware canvas nail pouch. My shiny new tools, also procured from Ace through the hand-the-Ace-guy-the-list-of-things-I-need method, were at the ready.

Elisabeth had said to just go up to someone and ask what to do, so that’s what I did. He told me to go over and nail some boards in the house frame. I walked up to one of the guys who was already hammering and said I’d been sent over to help. Without looking up, he said, “Have you?” then proceeded to ignore me. I stood there, frozen, as memories washed over me.

I did not grow up in a Hallmark family. My father is obsessive-compulsive, and has very fixed ideas of how things should be. There was only one right way to do things – his way. I’m not sure where it stems from. Maybe because his father was raised Amish, a closed society known for hard work and fixed ideas. My father worked my sisters and me hard, but no matter how much we worked, or how well we tried to do things, it was never enough nor anywhere near the perfection he demanded. I’d just ended a marriage with a man a lot like him.

As a result, I’d never had any interest in anything mechanical or building related. I’m good with my hands – I’m a massage therapist and can do all kinds of crafts. But the overriding feeling of “You can’t possibly do it right” from the past, coupled with the big sighs and pressed together lips from my now ex-husband had prevented me from attempting even the simplest home improvement project, like painting a wall.

Somehow, I managed to shake myself back to reality. I went back to the first guy, David, and told him I was ignored so I guess I wasn’t needed nailing boards. David then did something remarkable. He showed me how to snap a chalk line, measure and cut boards for fire blocks (boards within the frame that don’t have to be done perfectly), and how to nail them in, including how to toenail (hammer a nail in at an angle to secure boards at right angles to each other). He was calm, nonjudgmental, and encouraging. I ended up spending most of the rest of the day nailing in the fire blocks. Another guy said that he could tell I’d spent some time hammering before. I said that this was my first day.

After the fire blocks, I helped mix cement in wheelbarrows, using a hoe. If you have never done this, it’s a full body workout. Trust me. The next day I helped sift sand through a screen so it would be nice and smooth for the stucco we made the third day by again mixing cement in wheelbarrows. Once the wooden frame of the house was up, it was covered with tarpaper, which was then covered by chicken wire. I helped nail the chicken wire on. This had to be done carefully because it needs to be flush in order for the stucco to be applied smoothly. At one point, there was a separation in an area where the chicken wire needed to overlap. I asked David what we could do about it, and he said it could be stitched together using baling wire. Stitch? Did he say stitch?! Oh, man! I was the gal for that job! When David said it looked good, I was as proud of that as I am of the Tiffany stained glass cross stitch design that took me four years to complete. After the chicken wire, we troweled stucco on the house.

Nailing chicken wire up.

Nailing chicken wire up.

Tiffany stained glass cross stitch, Oyster Bay

Tiffany stained glass cross stitch, Oyster Bay

Everyday everyone got up at dawn, moving stiffly in freezing cold. We ate a hearty breakfast made by the excellent camp cooks, rode to the work site, and worked hard all day long in intense heat. Cynthia and Jose worked right along with us. We came back just before dusk, and had another hearty meal. Around the campfire was some singing and prayers led by the church minister. Then everyone stumbled off to bed, usually asleep before their heads hit their pillows.

You know what, though? It wasn’t that bad. Bone-penetrating cold before dawn? For months I’d ridden my bike to CrossFit before the sun came up, fingers aching and the air slicing my face like icy blades. Hard work all day long? CrossFit is functional fitness so my body was used to all the movements required to do all the different tasks. Scorching heat? I ride my bike in Tucson in the summer. Need to keep working until the job is done, and done right? Have I mentioned my father and my Amish roots?

The only breaks were for lunch, or the children’s outreach and church services most of the other members of the group went to. I elected to stay at the work site during those excursions. I was the only woman to stay when the church services were held, and continued working along side the men who had also stayed. We mixed cement for a step in front of the front and side doors. One of the guys told me to make the form for the side door step. Me? He said, “Sure. Take the measurements, cut the boards, then nail them together.” So I cut the boards to the proper lengths and brought them over to nail them together. As I hammered, I looked up and all six guys were watching me. And the look on every single one of their faces was encouragement. Not a single one doubted that I could do it. All those years of thinking I can’t do anything mechanical or build anything, of poisoned words and actions from people who were supposed to love me and help me, were undone by six people who had known me for three days and simply trusted me to do it right.

Elisabeth and me. Elisabeth is in the dark purple shirt and  I'm in the light green shirt.

Elisabeth and me. Elisabeth is in the dark purple shirt and I’m in the light green shirt.

By the last day, I had gotten to know everyone, and was even laughing and joking with the guy who had ignored me the first day. We were exhausted, filthy, and ready to come home. Fortunately, some of the members had condos right on the beach and generously let us use their showers. It’s amazing how such a simple thing can be so pleasurable. We all met for dinner in a nearby restaurant, relishing the chance to relax before spending one more night in our tents, then packing up in the morning.

So, after all was said and done, would I do it again?

In a heartbeat.

Job well done!

Job well done!

Warning: This One’s Heavy


One of the major reasons I ride my bike is because it’s a moving meditation. It gives me a chance to breathe, and feel, and take in the world around me. Cycling has made me slow down and, as a result, I see more.

Today, for instance, I rode to Wildcat CrossFit for a late afternoon kettle bell class. I smelled sweet acacia trees starting to bloom – intoxicating! That means spring is very close. I saw people on the University of Arizona campus dressed in their red U of A shirts, going to a basketball game. We are very proud of our Wildcats here in Tucson. And I felt the sun on my skin. It was 76 degrees today. I wore my “A Ride Fixes Everything” t-shirt and was actually starting to sweat. It won’t be long before we have the bone-penetrating heat the desert is famous for. But mostly my ride gave me the chance to let my thoughts fly like birds through my brain, and not stop and build nests.

Except for one thought. Actually, it’s not a thought, exactly. It’s an experience I had. And it changed the entire course of my life.

It’s not one I usually talk about. My closest friends know, but I don’t disclose this because I don’t want people to feel uncomfortable, and because most people don’t know what to say. This experience is the real reason I moved to Tucson, Arizona. My standard response when asked why I moved to Tucson is that I was living in Dallas, Texas and didn’t like it. I had one sister living in New York City, and the other living in Tucson so I decided to move to Tucson because I thought I could handle it better than New York.

The real reason I moved to Tucson is because on February 10, 1987 a man in a ski mask broke into my apartment and raped me.

So no, I had no love for the desert. I’d never dreamed of living here. I barely knew where Tucson was. Prior to being raped I’d visited my sister and thought Tucson was the ugliest place I had ever seen. All I saw was brown dirt and thorns on every single plant. Even the crickets were creepy – an unnatural sand color unstead of the decent black they are in the northeast.

Interestingly, however, was a thought that went through my head as we went down I-19 to Tombstone (the city girl in me recoiled at going to what I thought would be an obvious cliche Western town. I was wrong, but that’s for another blog post.). Anyway, the thought I had was, “This place sure is ugly, but if I ever need a place to heal, this would be it.” I am not kidding. Those words rang through my mind clear as a bell.

So a few months later I needed a place to heal. I don’t remember too much about the days and weeks following the rape. The rape itself is another story. Strangely, I don’t remember it like a movie but like a slide show instead. I found out later that this is normal. I do remember the kindness of friends and my sister. Somehow, my cats, my belongings, and my person got transported to my sister’s house in Tucson.

I cannot say enough good things about the Southern Arizona Center Against Sexual Assault (SACASA). This organization saved my life. One counselor was especially helpful. Of all things, she and I have the same birthday. Random fact, but it makes her more special to me.

Slowly, I managed to put the shattered pieces of my life back to together. It took years, and I honestly do not believe that could have happened in any other place than Tucson. I found my career, massage therapy and bodywork, and I found my life’s calling, teaching and writing.

It is interesting how PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) works. The first few years, I was a mess on February 10. Then for several years I would schedule something fun on that day to take it back and make it mine, not the rapist’s. As time went on and I got busier, I’d always remember the day but sometimes not have any feelings about it. Some years it would be as though the rape had just happened.

This year? This year is different. This year it is hitting me very hard. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because my time in the desert might be drawing to a close. Maybe it’s because I’m at a crossroads in my life and I’m not sure what the next step is, or where I’m meant to be, or where I’m meant to go.

What I do know, though, is that I will not only survive, I will thrive. Because for every horrible, despicable, black-hearted person out there, there are a multitude of warm, caring, concerned people who will help for no other reason than they want to help.

photo 1photo 4photo 5photo 2photo 8

Well, my initial goal for my blog was to write a post each week. It has now been three and a half weeks since my last post so that goal I set for myself is seriously under question now. But that’s just how things work out sometimes. We plan and plan, and work and work to meet goals, and the Universe has other things in mind. That pretty much sums up life, doesn’t it?

Take, for instance, a couple Saturdays ago. I had the whole day planned out – 7:30 am workout at Wildcat CrossFit, ride downtown, bagel with peanut butter for a breakfast, surf Facebook until the 10:30 am Zumba class with Rosemary at the Downtown Y, lifting and core work afterward, a lunch with friends, then back home by 2 pm so I could do some work. As you may be able to tell, I like to map out just about everything I do. It makes me feel comfortable, and it’s how I accomplish things.

Everything went along just fine until the lunch with friends. The hour turned into two, then another half hour. I was having such a good time, it was hard to leave. I still had a 45 minute bike ride home so, finally, I walked back across downtown to get my bike. Along the way, I remembered that I’ve always wanted to take photos of El Nacimiento.

El Nacimiento is a traditional Mexican nativity scene. In Tucson, it is part of the Tucson Museum of Art (http://www.tucsonmuseumofart.org/exhibitions/el-nacimiento/), and is located in La Casa Cordova. Despite not being at all religious, I have an inordinate love of nativity scenes. I finally figured out last Christmas why I love nativity scenes – it’s because they are dioramas. And I LOVE dioramas! I love how a moment in time (relatively speaking) is captured in a craft format. Someone constructed buildings, mountains, streams, a Ferris wheel, a city, people, trains, dogs, trees, elk, igloos – you name it – all to depict an event or an idea. A diorama is 3D. A diorama is real.

El Nacimiento is not your usual nativity scene. As can be seen in the first and second photos, which do not even show everything, the diorama is HUGE. It is intricate and must have taken hundreds of hours to build. It probably started off as something simple, then took twists and turns. Additions were made, evaluations of the progress were done, new ideas were thought of and incorporated. There were probably some areas that seemed like a good idea on paper, ended up looking less than perfect, then were scrapped and redone.

The end result is something truly magnificent. It is unprecedented. It is unique. And it is not what the originators initially had in mind. But it is what happened, and what it ended up being.

Just like my Saturday. I had all sorts of plans but there ended up being twists and turns, and I ended up not doing any work at all. Instead, I found something beautiful. I found how it is I actually live my life.

Sandy and bunch of cats

The other night I watched the movie “Miracle” with Kurt Russell about the U.S. hockey team beating the Russians in the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, NY. I’m guessing it was on TV because of the upcoming Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia. I LOVE this movie, which is interesting because I could care less about hockey. I grew up in Western New York in a small town halfway between Buffalo and Rochester. Believe me, I knew all about the Buffalo Sabers, and I’d recognize their theme song, the Sabre Dance, if I was in a coma. It’s just like the William Tell Overture forever being recognized as the Lone Ranger song.

One of the reasons I like the movie is because I remember seeing the actual game on TV when I was in college. I went to Ithaca College in Ithaca, NY which isn’t too far from Lake Placid. For some reason, I was in the student lounge when the hockey game was on, and it became more and more exciting when it became apparent the U.S. actually had a chance of winning. Like a lot of people, I was a hockey fan that night.

After watching “Miracle,” though, I realized another reason I like it so much. Herb Brooks, the coach for the U.S. Hockey Team, had both courage and confidence. He had the courage to take on the best hockey team in the world, and the confidence that it could be beaten. And he instilled that confidence in his players who had the courage to face formidable foes.

So that got me to thinking… Which comes first, courage or confidence? Is it courage, because we need it to face certain truths and make changes necessary for our health and wellbeing? Is it confidence because that means being willing to trust our abilities to make the changes? Do we become confident because we have courage? Or do we have courage because we have at least a little confidence in the outcome?

Thinking about this brought me back to when I first started doing CrossFit. The majority of my life I had devoted to elevating couch potato-ness to an art. The photo shows my favorite position – ensconced on the sofa, with cats, doing cross stitch. If I went for a bike ride, it was a big deal. If I walked a mile, it was a VERY BIG deal.

So, as you can imagine, CrossFit scared the daylights out of me. I was the kid picked last in gym class. I would always be the goalie because I didn’t have to run up and down the field, getting sweaty and out of breath. I read all the time. I was skinny and awkward. So what was I doing in CrossFit, in a no frills gym, where everyone else knew what they were doing? I was immediately transported back to Medina High School, 35 years ago.

One time the Workout of the Day (WOD) included a complicated series of lifts. This link shows the moves: Clean to Front Squat to Push Press to Back Squat

I’m guessing we all know how well I did with this. The instructor did his best to explain and show me all the different movements, but what I heard and saw was, “You’re going to juggle these chainsaws. While riding a unicycle. On a tightope 200 feet in the air. With no net. Over a tank filled with sharks.” The tiny bit of courage I had to even lift the barbell fled. Any confidence I had that I could do CrossFit fled. I fled. Into the bathroom to cry. Believe me, there’s crying in CrossFit.

After a few minutes I managed to pull myself together. I had come so far, and had experienced so much in my life, I was not about to be beaten by a piece of metal. Dammit. I had to go back out there. And I didn’t have to do all the repetitions, I just had to do one.

So I marched back out and tried again. I couldn’t do it. Then I figured out the problem. There were too many movements, and I was afraid I would drop the bar on my neck. So I asked the instructor if I could put the bar on a rack and just do the back squats (this is called a modification). He said, “Sure.” I did one back squat that way. I did one more. And one more. Until I did all of them.

This gave me the courage and the confidence to keep going back to CrossFit. Now I can do all the movements with good form.

So which does come first, courage or confidence? I’m thinking that sometimes it’s courage, and sometimes it’s confidence. But most of the time, it doesn’t matter. What matters is being willing to try.

2007-01-01 00.00.00-189
Soooo… This post was originally going to include tips on how to become motivated to lose weight. Really. I figured I could search online and come up with some brilliant insights that would be kickstarts sure to get everyone inspired, sort of like the equivalent of a magic wand.

Then I realized that I haven’t a clue as to how to motivate someone else to become healthier. No one truly knows how to motivate anyone else to do anything. That’s because motivation needs to come from within. So since I can’t motivate anyone else, I figured I’d talk about what motivates me.

What I am looking for is not out there, it is in me. ~ Helen Keller

Back when I weighed 200 pounds, it was exhausting to think of exercising more than I already was. How on earth could I ADD something else to an already busy, stressful life? I mean, I was riding my bike around town as much as I could, and I went to Curves for Women as often as I could. I ate salads, and tried to find low fat recipes to make for my husband and me. I worked all the time so, naturally, it was relaxing to sit back with a drink at the end of the day. I even went to Weight Watchers and sat through ENTIRE meetings. But I kept gaining and gaining weight, so the problem must just have been that I was middle aged and my metabolism was slowing down.

On paper, it looked like I was doing all the right things. But you know what I was really doing? Eating a LOT more and exercising FAR less than I thought. A salad a week didn’t counteract all the fat and sugar I ate the rest of the time. That drink I had at the end of the day sometimes extended into 2 or 3, and it was every night. Going to a Weight Watchers meeting doesn’t help if the program isn’t followed. And exercise? That consisted of riding my bike a few miles every few days, and a hit or miss approach to going to Curves. Not a very diligent approach to health.

Diligent. Good word. The only thing I was really diligent about was piling on enough stuff onto myself so that I couldn’t see what the real issue was. I thought it was needing to work so hard to pay bills. I thought it was weight gain. I thought it was drinking too much. 

When I figured out what the real issue was, I could see that all the other “issues” were what I was using to avoid dealing with it. The real issue was that I was miserable in my marriage. We’d been unhappy for a long time, but neither one of us could bring ourselves to talk about the change that needed to be made. I won’t go into specifics but suffice it to say that, even after trying everything possible, we were simply two people who were no longer on the same path together. It wasn’t easy. After 15 years of marriage, there is a lot to undo, and a lot to change. 

The process was hard, hard, hard. But once the decision was made (I call it “my epiphany”), I realized that no matter what I had to do to create my new life, it would NEVER be as hard as being in a loveless marriage. And with that realization came a tremendous surge of energy. I had no idea I was capable of that much energy! Every ounce of strength I had used to stay in the marriage was released. I was bubbling over with euphoria. I needed an outlet.

So I started riding my bike for miles along the Rillito River (or just the Rillito, as most people refer to it) in Tucson, where I live. Like all the rivers in Tucson, it is a dry riverbed most of the time, except when it rains. The Rillito has a walking/jogging/cycling path along it. I rode when it was cold, when it rained, and when it was hot. I rode in the morning, I rode in midday, I rode at dusk. Euphoria sometimes sped me along, and sometimes I'd be sobbing from working through the grief of an ended relationship. But I rode every day. 

 I starting going to Curves almost every day too, and worked out hard. I met two great fitness technicians there who helped me with proper form on the machines so I wouldn’t hurt myself. They also saw long before I did that my body was ready for heavier, harder workouts.

And food? Food just wasn’t that important anymore. I followed Weight Watchers principles (which I knew inside and out because I’d been going for 13 years), and basically ate as little fat as possible while increasing fruit and vegetables. I also stopped drinking every night. In fact, I only have a drink now and then. I simply don’t want to eat all the time, and alcohol is just not that appealing anymore.

My weight fell like a stone. I was going down about a size a month. Talk about motivation to keep going! I still kept wearing my old clothes even though they were falling off me because I didn’t want to pay the money for new ones each month. A friend finally told me to get clothes at a local thrift store. Getting smaller sizes REALLY kept me motivated. In 9 months I lost 70 pounds, and am currently maintaining my goal weight of 130 pounds.  

You know what didn’t motivate me? A diet pill, a diet plan, a shake, or “special pants designed to burn fat.” Yeah. The only way those pants are going to work is if people put them on and then go exercise.

The bottom line is that I finally gave myself permission to take time – quiet, still time – and honestly look at my life. What was working? What was not working? What did I need to jettison in order to be happy? To fit focusing on my health into my life?

Everyone’s life is, of course, different. So that’s why I haven’t the slightest idea of what would motivate others. But I support you in spending some time in quiet reflection to discover for yourself what does motivate you to make your health a priority. Because at the end of the day, that may be the most important thing of all.

Sandy's before photoSandy's after photo

Hi! This is my inaugural blog. I’ve been quite nervous about doing it, even though I’m a professional writer, because I don’t want to make any mistakes or do it incorrectly. However, a friend pointed out that an entity with the ridiculous title of “blog” does not have any rules. I mean, it’s not like I’m writing a “scriveners’ collaborative exposition of information” or something.

Sooooo… like many of the best experiences of my life I decided to just jump in and do it, and figure it out as I go along. Kind of like life. Although my friends will likely laugh hysterically since they know me as a consummate planner.

Maybe the best place to start is at the beginning. On October 1, 2012 I weighed 200 pounds and was size 16. X-large knit stretch pants made up the majority of my wardrobe. I ate all the time even though I wasn’t hungry. And as my body got bigger, my world got smaller.

In 9 months I lost 70 pounds. I now wear size 6, and I did it the old fashioned way – I ate less and exercised more. Along the way, I ended a marriage that was killing me by inches (and pounds), gave up having a vehicle, gained two bicycles, and discovered a love for doing CrossFit. My face became brighter and my smile became bigger the happier I got. In short, I’ve transformed my life. And as my body got smaller and more fit, my world has gotten larger.

As I say in the section “About,” I am not a nutritionist. I am not a personal trainer. I do not have a degree in exercise physiology. I was just a fat, middle aged woman who got on a bike.

So the best part of starting a blog today is that I did it. Just like that first pedal stroke, or the first hill, or the first time I picked up a barbell, I know this will get both easier and more challenging, but I can do it. And along the way, I’m hoping to help inspire others make healthy changes too.

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