Tigers and Cows

In my medicine cabinet, on the top shelf, is a small glass jar of Tiger Balm. The lid is rusty from all the moisture in the bathroom and the label is practically illegible. But the smell is as pungent as ever and a friendly reminder that some kinds of pain can also be quite pleasurable.

I have ridden racing bikes since I purchased my first one in Paris on my sixteenth birthday (that, in itself, is another story). There was a succession of bikes, but then a long gap of some twenty-four years between the bike I had in college and the one I purchased at the ripe old age of 44. Of course, things had changed a lot since then. Ten speeds had become twenty. Shifters had moved from the down-tube up to the brake levers. And toe clips – which required a deft hand to release if one wanted to avoid toppling unceremoniously at stop lights – had been replaced with clipless pedals (a vast improvement). And I had changed, too.

Actually, the new bike was the result of my leading a rather sedentary life as a trade show manager for The Learning Company. I had returned in the spring of 1999 from eating my way through yet another educational technology conference in Orlando to find that my weight had ballooned up to a startling (for me) 178 pounds. I decided to give myself an incentive to get back into shape and four months later I had pared down to my arbitrary goal of just under 155. Soon, I was also a couple of thousand dollars lighter, with a brand new bike, cycling shoes, gloves, shorts and jersey. In the photo my wife, Pat, took of the occasion, I am practically beaming.

Naturally, I had to try it out the new steed, so I called in sick and headed out into West Marin. It took me a while to get used to the new shifters, but before long I was going uphill and down, through small towns and past scores of appreciative cattle. It didn’t hurt that the bike looked sharp, too. I stopped at my friend, Steve Boughton’s, dentist practice in Forest Knolls to let him admire my purchase, then rode back to Novato where I decided to drop by my office, too. Apparently, the fact that I was “sick,” yet had just ridden 55 hilly miles, was not that big of an issue. They were impressed and happy for me.

However, that night I realized my enthusiasm had clearly outstripped my fitness level. My knees were very, very sore. I downed some ibuprofen and then spied the jar of Tiger Balm on the top shelf. I had never thought of using it until now, but I was in the market for some immediate relief – as promised on the label. As I dipped two fingers into the jar, I tried not to think of having seen my primary physician do something similar recently, prior to a rather personal exam. Then I massaged liberal amounts into the back of both knees and waited. Not for long, though. As the heat rose, I became momentarily alarmed at the unexpected burning sensation, then pleasantly surprised as the cooling menthol came in delicious waves. Pain leading to pleasure. In my mind, I was on my way to being cured.

Since that time, I have had my bike position adjusted professionally, so I seldom experience that same type of knee pain. But I do occasionally reach for the jar of Tiger Balm to sooth wounded muscles after a big day on the bike.

There is a tremendous satisfaction after returning from an epic ride. The initial exhaustion is soon replaced by the high of endorphins released during the effort. It one of the most singularly satisfying feelings I know. Ever since that day, the smell of Tiger Balm has reminded me of that heady first day on the new bike. And it also reminds me to challenge myself often enough to “feel the burn” while my body is still up to the challenge.