Bicycle disaster, with shorts and muscle pain

You never forget how to ride a bike, they say.

It’s funny, “they” never remind you how bleepin’ hard it is to ride up a steep hill.

A mountain bike has been on the wish list since April 1993, the end of my carefree university days and the beginning of efforts to pay off a $1,343,234,123.03 student loan.

It’s a purchase that was never made because other things took priority, like paying off said loan and grown-up things like cars, mortgages and craft beer.

Each spring, the Canadian Tire flyer includes a reminder of my mountain bike fantasy when it plugs sweet deals on two wheels.

The sight of those Supercycles always makes me hum a Queen song: “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike.”

On Father’s Day, my wife made that possible by tying some ribbons around a mountain bike and placing it in the driveway.

It was an awesome, unexpected surprise.

On Friday evening, after a busy work week, it seemed like a great idea to unwind by taking the bike for long spin on the old rail bed just up the hill from our home.

My wife, who bikes there a fair bit, advised me it’s a bit of a push to get up the hill to the track but added that she has no problem doing it.

I didn’t expect any troubles either.

But just 100 feet up the hill from our house, my quads were quaking and destined to detonate.

Serious muscle damage was likely a few pedals away and pushing through wasn’t option.

And, as if the situation couldn’t become more critical, “RRIIIPPPP!”

My shorts tore open.

I hope the neighbours weren’t watching or recording on their iPhones.

It was time to abort the mission of riding on the old track. But I couldn’t return home 60 seconds into my first bike ride since the Mulroney government.

I decided to cruise quietly downhill past the house and find a flat stretch of road.

Thankfully my wife didn’t see or hear me speeding by.

Imagine her ribbing if she did: “Steve, your seven-year-old son can do that hill” … “Do you want me to put the bike in the classifieds now?”… “I should get a baby carrier and you can ride on the back with me.”

Within a few minutes, I was enjoying a spin down a flat street.

Finally, the feeling I’d been waiting for — the fresh air … the freedom … the .... “OUCH!” … the freakin’ pain!

There’s something else “they” don’t remind you about — how much your butt hurts after an extended period of time on a bike seat. OMG!

Between my throbbing thighs, torn trunks and aching asset, this decades-old dream was a disaster.

It was time to wave the white flag and walk the bike back home, a 20-minute hike that felt longer than a romantic comedy starring Ryan Gosling.

Around the corner from home, to save face, I got back on, pedaled into our driveway, collapsed on the couch, and wondered if there were any Adirondack chairs on sale in this week’s flyers.