I used to be adventurous.  I used to be a risk taker.  But, at some point, my everyday life took over: cooking, shopping, de-worming the dog. I lost track of my dreams.  And in recent years, the greatest risk I’ve taken is to eat at a breakfast place the Health Department routinely cites for cleanliness.

            So, last fall, when a friend asked me to go on a thirty-four mile bike trip in the mountains, some remnant of my former daredevil self woke up.  I said, “ Sure. Why not?” 

To be honest, I didn’t think this trip was going to be all that challenging. Our destination, for goodness sake, was the Virginia Creeper Trail, a paved path about four feet wide. I envisioned a low-key, leaf-peeping roll down a big hill.

            Yet, when my family heard the idea, you’d have thought I’d agreed to bike down Mount Kilimanjaro.  They protested: “You’ll lose your bearings and ride off of a cliff.” And the worst insult:  “Those other women are half your age, twice your height and ATHLETIC—you won’t be able to keep up.”

            Despite my family’s objections, one sunny October morning, I headed off to the mountains with seven friends. That night, howling winds and heavy rains battered our rented farmhouse.

            In the morning, undaunted by bad weather, my compatriots bundled up and trudged out. (I’ll have to admit, I was plenty “daunted” but had no desire to stand out as a short, elderly, un-athletic wimp.)

            No other customers were at the bike rental shop.   And, we were the only occupants of the shuttle as it negotiated the sharp switchbacks on the climb up the mountain.

            When we finally reached the summit on Whitetop, we stepped out of the van into brisk winds, light snow and finger-numbing cold. My bike stood substantially smaller than everyone else’s.  No matter how fast I pedaled, I was going to have a hard time keeping up.

 When I pulled my hood up over my helmet, moisture covered my glasses, so I could neither hear nor see well. Everyone hopped on her bike and took off down the trail.

Within minutes, I lost sight of the pack, even though I pedaled as frantically as my stumpy legs and pint-sized bicycle would allow. I pictured falling off and freezing to death.  So, I began to indulge in a Very Bad Language Moment.

  Fortunately, I hadn’t said much before I heard the sweet voice of the expedition co-leader, Christine, “Debby, you know that I’m right behind you, don’t you?”

No, actually my foggy glasses and helmet-encased ears had obscured that fact. Bless her heart, Christine stuck with me all seventeen miles until we made it to a mid-route restaurant where we defrosted and had a hot lunch.  Then, we decided we’d enough of the bitter cold and took a shortcut back to the rental shop.

The upshot? That day, something shifted in my psyche.  On that snowy trail, I believe my Delaying Gratification brain cells froze up and died.

Conquering the mountain (oh, please grant me that small claim) inspired me to take more risks and realize other dreams I’d deferred, like painting, organizing a talent show, and hiking a mountain trail along the Mediterranean.

As it turns out, the Health Department has finally closed down that breakfast place, which completely frees me up to take my risk-taking, dream-chasing pursuits elsewhere. Watch out world!