Cycling on the stationary after a three-week break from exercise was intense. Not physically, but emotionally. Evaluating my nutrition and training plan in my head as I rode, I did some math: In less than 150 days, my butt's gonna be planted on a custom-made saddle for 70 days. I'll be starting out on an incredible journey with 49 soon-to-be lifelong friends. What am I doing?, I worried as I pedaled.

Then as I reached a 100-RPM cadence, it hit me, and I smiled out loud (a near sin in the weightroom) at the recognition:

I'm doing what I've always dreamt.

I'm becoming the woman I've always wanted to be.

I am living.

I AM LIVING!

As I entered my cool-down session on the bike, I thought of Grammie and her present chronic condition. Of the sick kids at Wonders and Worries who may not be back for group this year. Of my gradeschool friend Tiffany who died in a housefire at age 8 years. Of Etienne and Nicolas, our family's French amis who were swallowed by the Atlantic on their flight home.

Of how rare each day is. Of how lucky I am.

Cycling. Such a simple sport, in essence. Whir of feet. Repetitive motion. The course changes but rarely the movement. Seemingly tedious, boring. And yet it excites me, for...

I ride because I am able. I ride because they no longer can.