It’s the second worst time of the year. For those not in the know:
#1 = Bathing suit season.
#2 = Suffering through multiple exercise routines as you repent of all those comfort foods you packed on during winter so you can fit into that bathing suit.
As part of my repentance process, I decided to take 33-pound Bode on our first ride of the season in his bike trailer last week. (Sure, I could have rounded his weight down to 30. But I want you to feel Every. Last. Pound. Just as I did.)
It was one of those delightful Spring days last week and we started strong. Translation: we went downhill. My house is perched atop a hill that takes me about two minutes to ascend on my bike, 20 minutes when pulling Bode and about 2 hours with my 40-pound daughter Hadley added to the mix.
There was a good reason I chose to do the ride when she was still in preschool.
Bode and I have a regular route through a nearby Open Space park. We often pass “Swiper” the Fox by a footbridge, “Daffy” Duck paddling in the pond and if we’re lucky, we’ll spot “Wile E.” Coyote perched under his favorite shade tree.
Our animal nomenclature is commercialization at its best.
That day, we were delighted to encounter many of our favorite animals as we cruised along the undulating landscape and marveled at the profusion of wildflowers starting to explode. All was going well–blissful, even–until our ascent up The Great Hill.
It was a warm day and I realized I wasn’t the only one who packed on a few pounds during winter. Turns out, Bode may not be fitting into his swim trunks anytime soon, either. We slowly crawled up the hill and upon reaching the apex, I encountered my neighbors and gasped, “First ride of the season but we did it and….”
Then came Bode’s interruption.
“I wost my Cwoc.”
“What? YOU LOST YOUR CROC? WHERE?”
“Dunno!”
I dubiously stared at him, hoping this was a 2-year-old’s idea of a sick joke. It wasn’t.
I had a few options. 1) Write off the $30 Croc as one of the many casualties of life. 2) Drag Bode back on the recalcitrant route. 3) Detach the bike trailer, dump him off with our neighbors and try to find the Croc by myself.
I chose #3. Even though it was the best of the three options, it wasn’t pretty. I was exhausted and going on a Croc Rescue Mission was the last thing I wanted to do. Worst of all? The Croc was tan-colored, not a delightful fluorescent that would have made it easily identifiable. After 30 loooong minutes, I found it perched atop another hill.
Because it would have been too easy for it to be nicely waiting for me at the bottom.
Bode was delighted to be reunited with his beloved Croc. He slipped it on his foot, gave me a charming grin and queried, “Go biking again, tomorrow?”
Didn’t happen.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 