She haunts me. Always staring at me with eyes full of judgement. I try to avoid her gaze, moving quickly when I pass her, but I can’t escape her stare. Even without looking at her, I feel her disappointment.

‘She’ is Lauren Fleshman, Olympic marathon hopeful, and the feature of the cover of the November issue of Runner’s World. She sits on my dresser atop a growing stack of magazines, each featuring a perfect runner who’s pissed at me. They’re pissed because I won’t read their issue. It’s not that I don’t like Runner’s World. I enjoy it very much, in fact. I’ve gotten some wonderful advice from Runner’s World, and reading about others’ stories of defeat and triumph inspires me. But I just can’t read it right now.

I can’t read it because I don’t feel like I’m a real runner. I feel like a fraud.

In actuality, I’m in a bit of a hiatus. I let running go a bit during ski season, because, as Kyle pointed out, running 4 miles in the morning and then skiing for 5 hours is fucking stupid thing to do and a great way to hurt myself. Then I decided to give P90X an actual go, which meant only one day a week for running. And now that I’ve got Sassy, Kyle and I are going for long bike rides almost everyday. All this means that I’m no longer running the crazy distances 5 days a week like I was last summer, instead going only once or twice a week, and managing only 3 or 4 miles in a run.

I still run, yes, but I no longer feel like a runner. A runner puts running before all else, and never turns down the chance to hit the pavement. A runner can do 5 miles without contemplating throwing themselves in traffic. A runner is constantly looking ahead to the next race, and always trying to run further and faster. I used to be those things, but not right now. I run, but I don’t -er. So to read a magazine written for people who love running, who are passionate about running, it feels like I’m a poser. I don’t feel like I deserve to call myself one of their ranks.

Which has gotten me wondering, what makes someone an -er? A runner, a writer, a skier, a dancer, a hiker, a gamer, a designer; the title indicating that this activity is part of who you are, a facet of your life. When do you get to call yourself an -er? Where’s the threshold between someone who simply does and an -er? Is it the frequency in which a person engages in the activity, or is there a skill level that must be reached? Is simply having passion and enthusiasm enough, or do you have to be good at it, too?

And let’s say your passion wanes, and you’re not into it as much as you used to. Are you still an -er? Can you be a sometimes -er, a casual -er?   When do you stop being an -er altogether? And once you’re no longer an -er, how long do you have to be back at it and at what intensity level before you can call yourself an -er again?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. I run but I don’t feel like a runner. I write but I don’t feel like a writer. I hike but wouldn’t call myself a hiker yet. I play Mario Kart, but wouldn’t begin to call myself a gamer. I can’t explain it, but I don’t feel qualified to be an -er in most of the activities in which I participate.

I do, however, know in my heart of hearts that I am a skier, a blogger, and a lighting designer. I used to be a singer, a dancer, and a runner, but I know that I’m not anymore. I can’t explain any of them.

Where are you an -er?

My expectations of bicycle ownership may have been a bit…unrealistic, let’s say.

I had some birthday money without intended purpose that was burning a hole in my metaphorical pocket. I was going to buy one of those old-fashioned bicycles with the wicker basket that are so popular with the hipsters right now. Hopefully, it would be yellow. I would ride my bicycle downtown while wearing a white skirt, and in the basket would be a hardback book and a little lunch of bread and cheese wrapped in a red handkerchief. I would ride to the park and sit under a shady tree, and read my book and eat my little lunch. Then, as the shadows grew longer and the air chilled with the oncoming dusk, I would stand up, dust myself off, hop back on my little bicycle, and bike home.

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t quite so delusional to believe that this was how it was going to work. For one, I am not Heidi, and bread and cheese is not a damn lunch. And there’s no way I could spend an entire afternoon sitting on the ground without my ass going numb, nor could I come within three feet of grass while wearing a white skirt without staining it to hell. But I did see long, leisurely rides with Kyle in the sunshine and zipping around downtown for lunch and ice cream. And I definitely still saw a yellow old-fashioned bicycle with a wicker basket. So I hadn’t been on a bike since…early high school, maybe? We were going to become bicycle people.

The first hole in my fantasy came when I began searching for my dream bike. Turns out, those old school bikes come in two varieties around here: new and very expensive or old and very shitty. And despite my insistence that we were going to patronize one of the local bike shops, I learned very quickly that unless I was going to spend $800 on a racing bicycle they had no interest in helping me. Not even a little. The disdain they had for the casual biker was palatable. So despite my belief that they’re a bunch of sexist assholes, we found ourselves at Dick’s. And let me tell you, they may not believe that women need athletic wear for anything but yoga and tennis, but they do sell a nice bicycle.

Her name is Sassy.

A few days later, I took Sassy out for her first spin. To say that I was a bit nervous was an understatement. I mean, I hadn’t ridden a bike in at least 10 years. When I got on Sassy in the store to try her out, I barely managed to wobble my way in a circle, and damn-near took out a rack of children’s bikes and a four year old. So while the expression on my face may have been, “Well, this is pleasant, I eagerly anticipate this experience,” the voice in my head was saying, “WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO RIDE A BIKE, THAT SAYING IS A LIE, I’M GOING TO DIIIIIIIIE!” Nonetheless, I straddled Sassy and pushed off, following behind Kyle.

Turns out I did not forget how to ride a bike. Apparently the saying isn’t a lie after all. I did, however, forget that I don’t know how to ride a bike anywhere with actual traffic. See, when I was a kid, we lived so far out in the middle of nowhere that you could just ride in the street without worry. Traffic was almost non-existent, and any cars that did come were seen at least half a mile off, plenty of time to pull off to the side. Here in Saratoga, however, traffic can be heavy, even on side streets. Sidewalks are everywhere, but it’s hard to get anywhere without having to cross at least a few busy intersections. Intersections that, when looking at them for the first time from atop a brand new bicycle, look like they mean certain death.

And then there’s the other little factoid of which I was unaware: my husband is suicidal. I didn’t realize he was so unhappy, but apparently he believes that being run over by a car would be cheaper and easier than a divorce. He won’t hesitate to throw himself across a busy intersection at the slightest break in traffic, regardless of the color of the lights. Which leaves me with two options: throw myself out there after him and  hope I make it, or stay back and get stuck waiting for another break in traffic while Kyle waits on the other side. I usually went with the latter option, seeing as I don’t want to die, but I definitely saw my life flash before my eyes more than once.

But despite his best attempts to kill me, Kyle and I made it to the park without incident. A few embarrassed waves to cars who took pity on me and let me cross, but no death. Once in the park, I was able to relax and really enjoy riding Sassy. The afternoon sunshine through the trees that made everything look like it was glowing, the wind whipping my hair that made me feel like I was flying, a few impromptu races against Kyle; it wasn’t my book-in-the-park fantasy, but all the things I’d hoped for us as bicycle people were starting to come to be. It really was lovely.

As the shadows grew long and some rain clouds gathered in the distance, we headed for home. And even though we were still crossing busy intersection and weaving our way through cars and pedestrians, I felt more confident. I no longer saw death in every crosswalk, and I even allowed myself to coast down hills instead of riding the break the whole time. Daresay, I was actually enjoying myself.

Oh, until I ran into a house.

Yeah, I ran into a house. Well, not the house itself, exactly, I ran into the flower boxes on the front of the house. I’d looked back for a moment to make sure Kyle was still right behind me and BAM I ran smack into the flower box. Luckily, the only one between the three of us-myself, Sassy, and the house- who walked away with any injury was me, and I sustained only a scrape to the hand. Oh, and a giant bruise to my ego. That one still smarts.

Since our initial ride, Kyle and I have been out several more times, and every time I enjoy my time with Sassy more and more. Do I think I’ll ever take her on that romantic ride to the park for a picnic lunch? Not likely. But I’m seeing plenty more afternoon rides with Kyle. Discovering parts of our town that were previously unexplored, and ending our adventure with ice cream. And bikes will definitely be our mode of transportation to the track this summer. (Assuming we can figure out how to strap a 30 rack and some chips to the back.)

I think I’ll be a bike person after all.

I like to eat hot dogs cold out of the package. 

That’s how you know you have a good hot dog: good hot dogs taste delicious cold; cheap hot dogs taste like monkey balls cold.

I’ve never seen Titanic, Jurassic Park, or any of the Back to the Future movies.

I don’t feel like my life is empty for it, either.

I crack my knuckles.

All. The. Time. I also crack my wrists, back, hips, toes, and ankles.

I like to watch cartoons.

And not just classic cartoons from my childhood, modern cartoons, too: Adventure Time, The Amazing World of Gumball, Spongebob, Fairly Odd Parents, and more. I was actually upset when we lost Nickelodeon in the switch from cable to satellite.

I have eaten an entire can of sweetened condensed milk with my finger without shame.

And it was delicious.

I’ve never actually filed my own taxes.

Kyle does our taxes now, and before that, my grandpa did them for me. (To be fair, I had really complicated taxes the year my grandpa did them.)

Though I enjoy watching it, I’m suspicious of The Colbert Report.

I’m afraid that some right-wing wakadoo somewhere is watching it without realizing that it’s meant to be a comedy show and is taking it seriously.

Sometimes I miss living in the ghetto.

Mostly, I miss peeking out of the window between the blinds and watching all the epic fights that either erupted on or migrated to the front yard. That shit was hilarious. Our current neighbors are waaaaaay too civilized to have any kind of entertainment value.

I think it’s hilarious that Paula Deen buttered herself to diabetes and yet, still continues to peddle the same lard-infused, triple deep-fat-fried, drenched in mayo shit food that she’s so fucking famous for.

In general, I don’t find diseases funny. However, if you smash yourself in the face with a hammer repeatedly until you have a concussion and then insist that smashing yourself in the face with a hammer doesn’t cause brain damage while continuing to smash yourself in the face with a hammer…well, you kinda deserve brain damage. Especially when you only come public about your brain damage once you have an endorsement deal from a concussion medication company.

I don’t shave my feet, even thought the tops of them are covered in hair.

It’s fine, blonde hair, so most of the time you can’t see it, but at the right angle it looks like I have hobbit feet. But I just can’t bring myself to shave my toes. Somehow, that just feels like too much.

I don’t like Peeps or Oreos.

Well, that’s only 1/3 true. I like the chocolate cookie in Oreos well enough, but that white lard shit is fucking gross. And the only appropriate way to eat a Peep is to bite the head off, spit the head into the garbage, and stick the headless body to the wall. Leave it there. You’ll be amazed and disgusted by how long it’ll stay there stuck to the wall.