We arrived at the registration table of the local “Family Bike Ride” fund raiser for local schools about 30 minutes prior to the start of the race. I wasn’t in the greatest of moods. If I were a cartoon character, steam would have been emanating from my ears and I would have been grumbling things like, “Razzafrackle Fruzzlemrggerrrr” over and over again.

Why was I grouchy, you ask? Well, the kids decided that today would be the day to wake up at 5:00 a.m. so I was forced from my peaceful slumber at Satan’s hour and never really got my groove back on. Because usually? The groove is so on.

Anyway, Beautiful Wife was on her bike and I was on my bike. The only difference between her bike and my bike is that hers is newer, shinier, a better ride AND isn’t towing the kiddie trailer with two 40 pound kids in the back. The ride over only contributed to my mood as I realized that towing 100 pounds is something someone who hasn’t done a lick of exercise in the past 6 weeks should even contemplate doing. And yet, there I was.

I would like to place this day as Exhibit A in “How much Matthew loves his wife.”

Soon enough the race actually started and I was spurred on by the flat ground and the kids yelling, “Faster, Daddy! Faster!” from their carriage seats behind me. The wind was blowing in my air, I was passing people left and right and I was feeling it. I was Lance Armstrong only with a bigger butt and more hair. Soon, we hit a huge downhill and we flew down the hill faster, in retrospect, than it’s probably safe for me to tow a couple of pre-schoolers.

Alas, in bizzaro world of physics, what goes down, must come up and soon enough we had to go up a hill. A long, long hill. At first I was fine. I stood on the pedals and cranked about halfway up the first length of hill. I even passed a fat dude and his daughter who were walking their bikes. I was feeling good.

And then I wasn’t. My quads started to say things to me like, “What the hell are you thinking, moron?!” and “You sit on your ass all day eating brownies and now you want us to pedal that fat ass up this hill?” I stopped. After a few moments of sucking in air and a swig from my water bottle that, sadly, only contained water, I proceeded up the hill.

The kids, sensing their old man needed some encouragement, began chanting, “Go Daddy, Go! Go, Daddy, Go!” This sudden excitement from the kids spurred me on and I crested the top of the first hill with great gusto. (Okay, maybe it was only medium-gusto but it was gusto, nonetheless.) But then the second hill came. And about halfway up, my body gave me one big middle finger and I was forced to stop. As I stood panting, the fat dude and his daughter passed me. Along with just about everyone else. The kids, caught up in the moment, began shouting, “Daddy! People are passing us!! Let’s race!!”

And I wanted to. I really did. But then I felt like I was going to throw up. This is when I asked Beautiful wife to trade bikes and she agreed. She went on ahead while I waited for the nausea to pass. I few minutes later I was back on the bike and quickly caught back up to the wife and kids. Soon after, we traded back and we rode the last (flat) bit of race to the finish line.

And while the kids seem to have fun and my wife enjoyed the ride, I have vowed never, ever, ever again to agree to do something like this. Not ever.

Until next time.