If you were anywhere in the vicinity of Creve Coeur Lake last Saturday morning, you may have noticed an emotional woman on a green bike. If you didn’t see her, you probably heard her.

This woman was doing that really big, ugly cry. You know the one. Gigantic tears spray out of your eyeballs like a fire hose while another nasty liquid simultaneously spews out of your nose. On occasion, it appears as though you’re hyperventilating or convulsing – but it’s really just your breath trying to keep up with the rapid flow of emotion.

A Kleenex is no match for the big, ugly cry. Every once in a while a real handkerchief is useful – if only to hide your face so people don’t see you doing it.

You can’t control the big, ugly cry. You definitely shouldn’t try to talk during it. That just makes it uglier. And you may feel a little bit cuckoo. Your only real recourse is to buckle up and ride it out.

That’s exactly what the woman on the green bike was doing. She was riding it out. She was wiping her nose and her eyes on her pink spandex shirt and riding it out.

How do I know? I know because I was the woman on the green bike. I was the wailing cyclist.

I wasn’t crying because I hate bicycling. I actually really enjoy it. But about a year ago I screwed things up. I started referring to bicycling as exercise. And it was in that moment that I developed this resistance to what was once a favorite pastime.

For whatever reason, I have always disliked exercise. Exercise is painful. Exercise is boring. Exercise is torture. But because I need to lose more than a few pounds, exercise is a necessary evil.

Isn’t that strange? I once loved a certain activity, but when I started talking about this activity in a different way, I grew to dislike it. Weird? Maybe not.

When my son, David, was about 2 years old, he loved hot chocolate. And he loved hot dogs. And then, seemingly overnight, he developed an aversion to both. I later learned that it was the word “hot” that completely changed his view of these tasty treats. He didn’t want a hot anything. A very clever dad friend suggested I could remedy this situation by referring to hot chocolate as cocoa and hot dogs as wieners. What do you know – problem solved. Not that David’s refusal to eat a hot dog was much of a problem. But I think you get my point.

Our minds are powerful things.

The stories we make up about real and/or perceived happenings can become these subliminal narratives that rule our worlds. They can damage our relationships. They can keep us from being our best selves. They can stand in our way of experiencing joy, contentment, growth, intimacy, etc. They can make us believe we hate something that we actually really, really enjoy – like bike riding.

To get through it, the exercise, that is, I listen to music. I rely on Pink, One Republic, Queen, Kelly Clarkson and even Elvis to keep me pedaling. When I’m going uphill or tempted to quit, I pump up the volume and the pace. You see, I have to quiet that little voice in my head that is resistance. The voice that says, “You can’t do this. You should turn around. You can start exercising tomorrow. You REALLY can’t do this.” I drown out the little voice with my music.

“You can’t do this” is no match for “I Lived,” or “Suspicious Minds.”

Which brings me back to last Saturday. Midway through my torture, or my ride, I’m pumping like a mad woman to get up a hill. I look ahead, hoping to see level ground, and instead I spy another cyclist coming at me. This cyclist doesn’t look like she’s in agony. She actually looks like she’s enjoying herself. What’s more, I see something sparkly on her handlebars. As she gets closer, I realize they are pink handlebar streamers.

We make eye contact for a brief moment and then it happens. The other cyclist smiles and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up. Let the waterworks begin.

Looking back on it now, I’m not even sure why I started crying. It may have been the simple, yet powerful affirmation from a complete stranger that prompted it. It may have been the handlebar streamers and the momentous realization that I can control the narrative. I can choose to reclaim the joy that I once experienced when bike riding. I’m not really certain.

Whatever the case, I just know that the last part of my trail ride was probably the most fun I’ve had on my bike in a long time. I also know that I’m heading to the store to buy some handlebar streamers and maybe even a bell to keep that joyfulness top of mind.

So, if you see a 6’1” lady wearing a pink spandex shirt on a green bike anywhere near Creve Coeur Lake, that’s probably me. I won’t be doing the big, ugly cry this go around. And for that, I give my anonymous friend on the bike trail a huge thumbs up.

I’d really love to pay it forward and to cheer you on in your pursuits. Care to share where you could use some support?