My Wealth and Speed

While I was initially really annoyed to receive a comment on the "Name My Bike" blog from Muscle-Milk which stated simply, "you are rich and slow," at almost midnight, it really made me think.

Because I know the person wasn't intending to be kind, I realized that they likely were not referring to any richness of character traits.

That being said, I also knew there was a pretty good chance that the person didn't know me very well...or at all.

I know this because anyone who does actually know me, knows that I am far from possessing any financial wealth and considering my ever-growing mountain of medical bills which are not covered by insurance but instead paid out of my pocket more often than not, I am not likely to be rich within the next 20 years...unless Ed McMahon knocks on my door.

*looks at newspaper from week before last*

Ooooops! Looks like Ol' Ed is finally done ringin' doorbells with freakishly large checks for weird, balloon-filled photo ops...My bad.

Until tonight, I was unaware that a 5 year old station wagon meant that I was livin' large.

Since Mr./Ms. Milk posted on a blog about my new cx bike, I guess they assume I'm rolling in cash.

I'm not.

I had to cut way back on some things to be able to afford this cycling season, and I'll be dammed if I'll be treated like some spoiled Trust Fund Baby.

I didn't marry a rich dude. I married an engineer...when I was 29 and had long been busting my ass on my own.

I had a Mercedes and he had a Chrysler Sebring.

We sold my Benz to put a new kitchen in our house.

When I left, I took a picture frame and a Pampered Chef casserole dish that I bought from a lady in my office.

I bought a Jeep.

In my lifetime I have lived in some very fine houses and I have lived in my car.

I have slept on the floor, on the couch, and in my car.

I have eaten at glorious restaurants and I have eaten Ramen noodles for months on end.

What I have always had was strength. Both mental and physical. For this I am fortunate.

I grew up with a mom who was a manic depressive and slit her wrists out of boredom and for attention.

I was always at a loss on how to save her.

I saved myself. She eventually followed.

I was rich with imagination and creativity.

I was rich with determination to be different.

I was rich with the will to never look back.

I was rich with the knowledge of how NOT to treat people.

That may be why at this point in my life, an oldish/youngish woman in the beginning stages of menopause and about to celebrate my 10th anniversary of surviving something I have been told multiple times would kill me, that I am confused by someone's preoccupation with what material things another may have.

So, I have a new bike. So what?

I also have two beautiful children, not purchased at Saks, whose eyes I look into every time I get a bad test result and convince them and myself that it will all work out.

Have you seen me with my children?

We are rich in affection and love and independence.

You worry about my bikes?

You want a new bike, then go buy one.

If you can't afford it, save or figure it out.

Why does my bike matter to you?

Why does it piss you off?

Why does the concept of me on my bike piss you off?

Have I ever run over you with one?

I'm generally happy when on my bike...unless I am bleeding...or like I was today, which was suffering with bruises from head to tow and a knee brace as I tried to get a smooth revolution...

Did I make a mean face at you? I assure you, it was probably pain, not meanness.

Have you seen me with my bikes?

If so, you would clearly see that regardless of speed, I adore my bikes.

They are not cute little toys for me to play with until I get bored.

They are alive, as am I when I am on them.

I am not the female version of a midlife crisis gone wrong.

I didn't buy a bike instead of a Corvette.

When my mother left, I was 10.

I got a mauve Raleigh 12 speed for that birthday.

I was immediately free.

Free of every fucked up emotion that a 10 year old could feel when her mom leaves because she simply doesn't want to be a parent anymore.

Free of feeling lost as I was raised away from my younger sibling, something from which we have never recovered.

Free to explore a city that no 10 year old girl should be exploring on her own.

Free to go where I wanted, without witness...so long as I was home by the time the street lights came on.

Free to speed away from mean girls who wanted to kick my ass.

Free to go all the places that other kids needed a mom to drive them.

Free.

Free.

Free.

You cannot put a price on that.

My entry-level road bike was the first thing that I bought with my divorce settlement.

It felt good.

It was nice to be free again.

I truly am sorry that my material items, whatever limited knowledge you have of them, bothers you so.

My bikes would only be material to someone who has never been where I have.

For me, putting a price on them is an insult...and is probably why I have a difficult time parting with them.

They each hold so many stories for me and each has lived a life.

While I am fortunate to have the bikes that I do, I am most happy that I am rich in so many things, including beautiful and healthy children, wonderful friends and challenging opponents.

And if you consider it a bit longer...or possibly simply mature a little more, you will realize that whether it pertains to racing or life, it is strength that matters most. Not speed.

...and while I am certainly not the strongest person alive, chances are that I have you beat there.