Credit: Lisa Congdon, one of my favorite artists.

Today, I’m coming in with something light and breezy—or that’s the intention, anyway. This essay will likely be part of a series in [newly titled] The 27th Mile, my book about how to handle the speed bumps as you transition from running to the next chapter of your athletic life. Throughout the book, I am going to write short, personal essays that touch on various aspects of what my post-running chapters look and feel like.

[If you want other potential excerpts, here’s my Running Obituary and What I Miss About Running.]

It’s May and I’m 52.

I wake up in a bad mood. I thought I would go swimming, but it just feels like too much. The drive to the pool, the suctioned cap over my head, the sharing a lane with a breaststroker whose limbs cross the line, the stray hair clogging the shower. Plus, swimming is such a solo sport. My days of running in the dark in a chatty neighborhood pack are long gone, so I’m used to exercising by myself, but sensory deprivation feels too bleak.

Ok, no swim. Just get myself moving.

I need to do my exercises that loosen everything up: cat/cow, pelvic tilts, groin rocks, 90/90, etc. Small movements that remind my joints how they’re supposed to behave. But it’s bleak (and boring) down on the ground. The other day, I used a dust ball the size of a grapefruit as an ersatz rag to pick up a dead fly. Both the dustball and fly were in the corner.

Still, I get down. I queue up a 13-minute story from This American Life, about a cop who chases a squirrel around a new house. It’s funny and light. That’s my goal these days—and has been for pretty much for my whole life, although I couldn’t name it for at least the previous 45 years: Hold it lightly. Don’t force it. Unclinch. Relax.

My lower back relaxes with each pelvic tilt, and I’m feeling better. I remind myself for the 4,867th time: just as you shouldn’t judge a run by the first mile, I shouldn’t judge my day based on its first 10 minutes. Today, I want to be out in the fresh spring air. I want to move through space and feel like I’m a part of this world.

I get ready to ride. Arm warmers, gloves, extra chamois cream and A + D diaper ointment to my delicate parts to counteract the fact that my cycling capris are so old, its chamois may as well be a couple Bounty paper towels.

In my neighborhood, I follow a teenager, responsibly wearing a helmet, until she turns off into the orthodontic office. I catch a green light at the intersection where I never catch a green light. I cross a creek on a wooden bridge, and remind myself to come back here with the dogs and let them play in the water.

My effort feels hard, but I am consciously trying to keep it light, keep it easy. Relax. Don’t force it. On a short hump of a hill, I click into my easiest gear, and don’t judge myself for doing so. I notice the cars on the nearby freeway, clogged with red brake lights as far as I can see. I am not clogged. I am not braking.

Youngest. Definitely not clinging.

I ride past a small mountain bike course where I used to cheer for my youngest as he navigated the trail, rolling down hills that made me wince from the sidelines. I notice prairie dogs popping up everywhere, a town of little mounds as they chitter good morning to each other. On top of one mound, there’s a mom with her two babies clinging to her.

Did I appreciate the clinging days enough? Hold it lightly, Dimity.

Not the mom, but a relative, I’m pretty sure.

A neighbor passes me with a smile on her face. She’s the type who I’ve rarely seen scowl. How would my life be different if I were more smiley? If I didn’t have to consciously tell myself to relax? I get excited that we’re both here, near Cherry Creek, on bikes at 7:47 am on a Wednesday morning.

Maybe she’s my new riding buddy?

But I remember a run I did with her years ago, and the conversation felt forced, not flowy. Also, she was faster than me, and I didn’t really like that. Plus, having a conversation while you’re on the bike is so hard. Without even applying, she’s already lost her gig as my new riding buddy. Don’t force it.

I keep riding. I see my husband, fresh off his morning crew practice, leaving the park in his big truck. “Fancy meeting you here,” I say, telling him that I’ve picked the longest loop, so don’t expect me home too soon. I can tell he’s both surprised to see me and proud of me for being out here. I feel light.

I keep riding. I see two large, well-fed coyotes far enough away that I want to stop and take a picture, but I don’t want to stop my momentum. They’re next to another town of prairie dogs, which is probably why their bellies look so full. “I’ve seen two coyotes, tons of prairie dogs, and so many birds,” I tell myself as pedal by green fields that have yet to turn brown from the intense Colorado summer sun.

I say good morning to every pedestrian I pass after I say, “on your left,” as calmly as possible. I notice a woman walking who has beautiful calves. I immediately think, “runner,” and then wonder why she’s walking. I hope she’s not injured.

I want to take her on a bike ride. I want to buy a mountain bike, a gravel bike, and a cruiser bike. I want to bring a group of women to ride across the state of Iowa in RAGBRAI. I want to keep riding forever.

One guy with meaty thighs passes me on my way home. He’s cooking, pushing a big gear. He doesn’t say good morning or anything, actually, as he passes me on the left; instead, he just flicks up his pinky in acknowledgment. Whatever, Mr. Cool Bro.

I get home, down a glass of chocolate milk with a scoop of creatine mixed in, and go to make my morning latte. We are out of oat milk, but this doesn’t set me off like it normally would.

In fact, in a few minutes, I’ll calm down a heated discussion about apartment moving plans between my husband and our daughter. “You both feel disrespected right now,” I say, amazed that this insight has come to me so clearly, “This isn’t about moving furniture.”

My legs are pleasantly tired, my mind has bathed in the fresh air, I’m spinning in this big world, and I’m ready to hold it all lightly—at least for today.