It was 4:15, and I was having doubts.

Not about riding. I wanted to ride. I was having doubts about myself, as always, and about whether I'd be able to keep up with my ever-patient cycling group.

Two others were in the parking lot, and despite the few raindrops that had fallen on my window on the drive over, the skies looked like they might clear up and give us a beautiful afternoon to match the surprisingly beautiful day.

I clipped into my pedals and made the first few strokes. It always seems to me that it's the first mile that sets the tone for the ride, and it was certainly not boding well. My thighs already were mildly complaining about the ride I'd given them yesterday and the spin class and boot camp class I'd treated them to the day before. Apparently, they informed me, they weren't too fond of wall sits.

As usual, I started in the back of the small group of three. The leader was a strong rider who was very supportive of my 'just-beginning' skills and struggles. The second person was a climbing friend of mine who wanted to join us to log some more miles. He'd only ridden three days so far this season, but he was The Cycling Kind, that is a ridiculously tall and lanky person that seems to find pedalling and climbing hills as easy as walking.

I brought up the rear, lagging a bit behind as I tried to entice my legs into moving. We hadn't even barely started the ride, and already I was panting. This would be a bad day.

We took the first few miles to the meeting point and met up with two other cyclists who would be joining us. They'd come from our company's other site. We set off, apparently to do Hills. *cue scary music*

Off towards the park I started feeling a bit better about myself. My legs had warmed up and I thought maybe I could handle it today. After all, the last time we'd done hills I'd had a wonderful day and not only not had to dismount, but had even passed someone on a hill! The first hill proved me wrong, and immediately I felt the LA in my thighs. I was panting heavily as I topped the tiny slope, and happily trailed a bit behind the group as I kept to my own pace.

The ride wasn't going too bad, granted I felt like I was dying on the hills, but I was beginning to think again that maybe I could handle the bigger hills that were coming up.

Until I realized we were doing Mt. Misery.

Which, apparently lives up to it's name, being 1 mile long and a steady, mischevious little bastard of a hill (it doesn't look nearly as steep as it feels). I stopped after a short distance, panting and coughing up nonexistent phlegm. My thighs felt as solid and heavy as two iron bars. One of the riders came back down a ways to me, and I informed her that I may not be able to make it, but I'd try. She promised to have the group wait at the top for me for 20 minutes and if I didn't show up they'd come back down and pick me up.

Then she was gone. And I was alone with the hill.

I remounted, talking to myself. I set myself goals. "See that curve there? I'm going to make it there. I won't dismount until I get there, come on you can do it legs, keep moving." I was at the curve. In my haste to stand up I almost fell. I took some deep breaths and continued the pattern. Short stretch to a flatter section, dismount. Breath. Allow lactic acid to subside. The stretches were getting shorter and I was beginning to wonder if it would ever end. Finally, I saw a yellow sign for a T-junction. I was at the top! And there was my group, waiting for me with a smile as I pulled up, panting and flattened with effort.

We rested a minute and then continued, to my surprise continuing on some milder (though they didn't seem too mild then) hills and back to the park.

Every hill was a struggle. The lactic acid wanted to stay there, and a few times I had to dismount again. I was yelling at myself on those hills, glad that the others were far ahead of me. I wanted to be alone with my anger and my disobedient body. Suddenly we were on a steeper hill. That looked familiar. Yes, I knew this hill, the steep switchbacks and the dark forested depths that lined the black asphalt. Were we really..... no! We were doing Mt. Joy (not nearly as joyful as it sounds, though a bit happier than Mt. Mis). I cursed my group, loud and uncaring. Damn them for making me do these hills! One followed by the other! My thighs were screaming, and I wanted to as well. But I continued, and met them on their way down from the top of Mt. Joy. As I was feeling utterly whipped, I elected not to continue to the top (though I probably would have if I were by myself) and we wrapped up the ride (if wrapped up means more hills until we were back on the short stretch of flat path to the cars).

By the time I got back to my car, I felt like I'd been through the wringer. My thighs felt twice their size, and I wanted nothing more than to just lay down and go to sleep.

All this effort and only 14 miles! I regretted saying I'd do the 50 mile ride on Sunday (written up as 'hilly and challenging'), and I almost regretted buying my bike at all. I was full of dissatisfaction. With myself, my performance. I was frustrated that I can't ever seem to be good at anything.

But then I got in my car, my baby in the backseat, and cranked up my music and looked around at the gorgeous late-day sunlight that was streaming through the windows, and thought that I was lucky. Hey, maybe I'm not the best cyclist. But I'm getting out there, right? And that's all that matters.

As one of the women in the group said to me during that horrible Mt. Misery climb, "You know I always feel that it only matters if I finish. I don't care if I don't get first place. I know I'll never be really great at cycling. All that matters is finishing out."

And she was right. I could dig that.