My fiancée is training for a marathon. She runs more miles in a week than I have in my entire life. Some days, the runs go as long as twenty miles. The short runs, ones that would still kill me, of about eight or so miles, she runs on her own. But on long, high mileage days, I follow her on my bicycle.
I hang a pannier or two on the bike, and load up the gear. Three Klean Kanteens will come along, one Gatorade, two water. Fleece coats. Hats, gloves, rain gear. Energy bars, gels, and chewies. I am her rolling support and gear (SAG) wagon.
She worries sometimes I get bored, rolling along in my lowest gear at six and a half miles an hour. She needn’t worry. That lets me see things I’ve missed rolling by at two or three times the speed. It gives me more time to think and the luxury to do so without rolling off the path or crashing. I can peddle ahead and shoot while I wait for her.
We ride the light rail out to Littleton, or we run out and ride the light rail back. I enjoy running and riding out, as it gives me a opportunity to grab a chocolate croissant and pressed coffee at this little bistro out there. Or we go around the stadium and do some laps of Sloan’s Lake and watch the people waterskiing bundle up in dry suits since it’s still a bit cold. We go though Cheeseman Park, where every time the sprinklers get repaired someone finds a few dead bodies. A century ago, it was the city’s Boot Hill, and not all the bodies were removed when it became a park. It’s so common no one is surprised by skeletons anymore. We lap City Park, with the Zoo and the incongruous statue of the Scots poet Robert Burns surrounded by Civil War artillery pieces.
I’m proud of her running. When I used to run it was never anything I enjoyed. It’s her love, her passion. I want her to be happy, so I get up early on weekends and ride behind her. I’m proud of her.