Sunday mornings are usually my time to sleep in. It’s the one day in the week I am undisturbed by the doorbell ringing – first the milkman, then the gardner, then the help. I have nothing to wake up to on Sundays, considering I’m rushing off to the gym on every other day of the week.
Everyone gets a day off on Sunday. Including me.
Except the weekend that went by, when I dragged myself out of bed at 5.45 am. I’m quite the morning person, but only once the sun is up. It’s called feeling bright and chirpy for a reason. I don’t feel bright and chirpy when the sun is not out, when you need a headlamp on your bicycle to make your way out.
But we do these things. In the name of trying new things. And whatdya know? Sometimes doing that thing you hate so much enough times can make you love it enough to do it over and and over and over again. In this case, waking up when it’s still dark, dragging my feet to the door, bicycle in tow.
I’m always on the brink of giving up and crawling right back into bed, right until the last minute I’m actually out the door.
But once I’m out there’s no turning back. And the father I go, the more I fall in love.
Last Sunday we clocked 45 kilometres on the morning ride. It included silky smooth roads, winding through woody, shaded avenues that ran through villages. While people ambled around going about their morning business, a sight I don’t get to see very often. Then train tracks were crossed, a spectacular lake visited, some idlis and vadas consumed. And a super zippy ride back, despite the fact that the sun was already beating down hard by then.
I got home with a black, dust streaked face, tan lines on my thighs and arms, exactly where my shorts and tee ended. But I was blissed.
Sometimes it’s about taking that once step outside your comfort zone. And sometimes it takes a little repetition, practice and pushing yourself. Sometimes it takes doing it over and over again. And sometimes it’s about doing it over, and going the distance.