I’m building up my bicycling endurance. When I was half the age I am now, I thought nothing of riding 50 miles or more on a single ride. This past weekend, I was proud of myself for covering that distance in two days.

My husband and I have been riding together on weekends. We sometimes daydream about taking cycling trips together. He’s been contemplating getting a gravel bike to get off the roads and onto the huge network of forest roads and pathways we have access to here in Appalachia. I told him I’m not interested; I love the smooth feel of a road bike on a paved road. I don’t want to bump and rattle for hours.

On Saturday, we didn’t feel like doing the same rides out our front door that we do during the week, and we also didn’t feel like driving the bikes an hour away to ride them. Brian found a route 15 minutes away by car, and when we pulled into the dusty parking lot, he said, “Look! Gravel :).” I put on my helmet and bumped my way out of the lot onto the smooth asphalt.

We took off, winding our way through the mountain roads. As we curved up a long, gradual hill, I realized we were out by the Christmas tree farm where we cut our tree every year. I recognized the patch of tall trees we always end up in because the kids want a bigger tree than all the ones we suggested. I sniffed the air and felt the openness of the space in a way I don’t feel it when we drive there.

We crested the hill where the tree farm’s parking lot is (also gravel), and then we descended, swooping down the winding ribbon of road. We went down and down for what felt like miles. I pedaled in my big chain ring, flying down between grassy hillsides, past a little turnoff for blueberry picking, alongside wood and wire fences with cows watching us whizz by. The road was so freshly paved, there weren’t lines painted on it yet. I felt glee.

We rode down into the river valley, then back up out of it. We emerged in Eggleston, down the road from one of our favorite restaurants, The Palisades. We’ve driven that road dozens of times in cars, usually fast, and it was a totally different experience on a bike. I saw views all around. I smelled sunshine on fields of grass. I felt the temperature drop when I dropped down a hill into a cool pocket in the shade; it felt like entering a refrigerator filled with green leaves. On a bike you can feel the wind all over you — on your shins, moving the hair on your arms, blowing across your ears to make a whooshing sound.

I’ve been seeing where we live from a whole different perspective since we got our road bikes. I’m going down roads I’ve never been down before. I’m exploring just to see what’s there. I’m seeing familiar places in new ways, with wind on my neck and a 360 degree view.

The ride was a loop, and on the way back, the roads deteriorated. They were pitted and rough. At the end of one of them was a cattle guard — a slatted grate on the ground to keep cows from crossing it — and then, a gravel road that stretched as far as we could see before bending into the forest. My husband looked at me like, well, I guess we’re going to try gravel after all. But on road bikes instead of gravel bikes!

“What do you think?” he said.

“I’d rather go forward than backward — I don’t want to turn around and go back the way we came.”

So forward we went. From what we could see, it was flat, so it should be fine.

We bumped and slid and I recognized immediately that I hated it, and no, I am not interested in a gravel bike to ride gravel roads. On a steep pitch up (it became not flat in the part around the bend), my back wheel spun out and I was sure the bike would slide out from under me. It did not, probably because of all the swearing I did to keep it upright.

After about 10 minutes of this, I wondered when it would ever end. And then the road dropped into a downhill. A steep downhill. This was even worse than uphill. I moved my butt far back on the saddle to save myself from going over the handlebars, and I squeezed the brakes to keep from losing control on the loose scrabble. I could not loosen my grip on the brakes at all or I’d speed up, my bike would fishtail, and I’d lose control and crash.

My forearms screamed in pain and my hands cramped from clenching the brakes so hard for so long. I hated it. I hated every second of it. Luckily Brian was up ahead of me, so I don’t think he could hear me swearing, grunting, and crying. I cry easily these days. Snot and tears streamed down my face and I said out loud, over and over, “I hate this so much.” I stopped twice to give my hands and forearms a break and so I could blow my nose with the hanky I keep tucked in my sports bra.

After a while, I needed to switch from hate-talk to pep-talk.

I can do hard things.

I’ll be proud of myself when I’m done.

The paved roads will feel amazing after this nonsense.

I never have to do this again.

Eventually, we emerged from the forest. I saw a strip of asphalt ahead of us. It was fresh and black as night. It looked like it had been paved yesterday. It was spectacularly smooth. It was the most beautiful road I’ve ever seen. We swooped through emerald forests. We passed a quaint little covered bridge. I gloried in the wonders of this gorgeous place we live.

By the time we got back to the car and pulled into the gravel parking lot, I thought okay, the rest of the ride was spectacular. This ride would dazzle in the fall. Maybe the gravel part wasn’t that bad. Maybe I do want to do this ride again. I could position myself differently on the bike to make it better. And as for other stuff we’d get to experience from trails instead of roads, gravel would feel different on a gravel bike; maybe a gravel bike could be fun.