'Do I have to wear lycra?'' was the instant thought. ''I am not wearing an ice cream container on my head,'' popped another.
''I wonder if I can train on my Low Rider?'' came the third, slightly less hysterical reaction.
It was a little bit panic, a little life-flashing-before-your-eyes, but when Relax editor Charlotte Harper - all sparkly-arkly after weeks of diet, fitness and glowing anticipation of the ''Wedding of the Century sweetly suggested I take part in, and write about, a cycling training program, I buy some time with a ''not sure'', ''maybe'', and an ''I'll think about it.''
Firstly, her very popular Runaway Bride diary is a hard act to follow (Wallowing Divorcee doesn't quite have the same ring to it).
Secondly, the goal of a 20km race in the Tour de Femme (not a fundraiser for sanitary napkins) is possibly more challenging to me, given my current state of fitness, than childbirth.
Thirdly, there is a tradition in these pages that you never back down once you start one of these ''diary-of-a-loser-turned-fitness -fanatic'' accounts. Not only do you face very public failure, but worse, a certain loss of honour among colleagues.
So how is it, then, that am I now facing a 6.15am start each Friday for the next six weeks, riding a very fancy racing bike, dodging magpies and praying I don't career off a cycle path and into an oncoming car, usually driven by a sneering, swearing driver like myself? Because, I hate to admit it, Charlotte-newly-wed really did inspire. She had a goal, and she stuck to it.
A goal? What the hell is the goal for a tired, lazy, cynical, full-time working, single parent who has hit the ''invisible age'' - too old for the young set, too young for the retirement planners?
Well, for a start, I could delete some of those adjectives or cliches if truth be told. I am tired of being tired ...
A couple of years ago I was training and playing soccer (our team won gold at the Australian masters), swimming three times a week, walking the dog, a bit of netball and basketball and I had the energy to get my kids to all of their sporting events.
But two summers ago, in the final few minutes of our final Summer Sixes match and after warning everyone to be careful of the drought-stricken, pot-holed grounds of the Mawson playing fields I headed a ball and landed with one foot in a trench that posed as a goal line.
Everyone heard the snaps. And they were very creative. No simple break here.
After six months and several rounds of plaster, physio, MRIs, and so on, surgery was the answer, and I now have a bit of bling holding my ankle together.
Don't walk, don't run, no weight-bearing exercise, even swimming was out. But the psychological damage was more surprising. In a word, miserable.
I find the stories of athletes who just have something sprayed on them and off they go to tackle for another day rather annoying. They tear and crack and continue on their merry professional path, an army of doctors following.
Not me. I just wallowed. And languished. And for a little more pity, I was recently diagnosed with diabetes. And I have to wear reading glasses!
So here I am, dutifully baring the soul and about to claw back some of my health. A bung-ankled, bung-shouldered (another story), non-smoking, blurred-visioned, diabetes-diet-conscious (including alcohol, damn it) cyclist.
What doesn't kill you defines you.
But if you think I am telling you my weight forget it.
Each week Andre{aac}e Stephens will chronicle her preparation for The Canberra Times Tour de Femme, organised by the ACT Cycling Club, on November 9.
See www.fitact.org.au for information on the training program.