Grime ride

As I sit back and reflect on my ride today from 25,000 feet above the crust of the earth, I wonder what I will discover as I pedal 340 miles from Raleigh to Washington DC in 25 short days. 25 days. Wow. I realize the scale of a number is reflective of the thing that number refers to. 25 Days is such a short time. Just over three weeks. Three weeks to finish training for a ride that is the equivalent of running three and a half marathons in a row. I lean back in my cushy airline seat and revel in its apparent softness compared to the hard leather and titanium saddle that seems to be the nemesis of my backside.

Today, I rode with Ilene and Sondra who are part of my team for the Tour. All week we fretted the weather; which has canceled so many training rides for us. The weather we ride through when it is safe. Too many times the sky has wreaked havoc on our plans to ride by providing lightning and thunder to accompany the rain.

We triumph over the rain, which doesn’t fall today, to ride 60 miles in just under 5 hours. Less than a century ago, you couldn’t ride a horse that distance in a day. Our legs churn in rhythmic song. A steady tattoo of breaths in and out. Precision made machines carry our bodies across wet pavement and remnants of leaves and twigs from surrounding trees. The chains whir across the cogs that comprise the rear cassette on the back wheel; an alien sound in the peace of nature. Yet, one that is strangely comforting. Each bike has a unique signature sound that allows us to know where each of us is on the road in relation to the others.

Our legs pump up and down as they propel the pedals around the circle. “Full Circle”, it’s a mantra in my head as I seek to find the perfect cadence to revolve the pedals in harmony with my legs as they strain to climb the hills before me. And to relieve the lactic acid from my muscles as I descend the other side (sometimes miles away.) My tires touch the road over less surface area than a 25-cent piece. On the slick road, the bald tires are my safety net that help me cling to the pavement as I corner and lean my bike over in angles that seem to defy the laws of physics. Yet out of each turn I’m able to stand and accelerate away in confidence.

Thankfully, my ribs are not bothering me today with constant stings of pain as they were when I awoke to the shrill sound of my alarm telling me to rise and dress for another day in the saddle. For this small blessing, I repeatedly smile. It took just a moment to crash, but I’ve spent the last few weeks reliving it (or at least being reminded of it.)

As the miles accumulate, I think about the distance we have traveled and the grime I’m covered with. I can’t recall the last time I was so filthy. The bikes in front of me in combination with my own wheels throw up a continual spray; which slowly covers me with minute specks of dirt, small pieces of dead leaves and bark. At one point I lean over as I climb a hill to scratch an itch on my lower shin. It leaves a gleaming white stripe across my skin. When I remove my socks I will have a perfect little line around my ankle with the lower side the pale white of my skin (proof of the lack of sunny training days) the other a gray black soot color.

At our turnaround point, a 7-Eleven which carries a sandwich which Ilene ironically calls “heaven”, I notice a pair of women watching me stretch and for a moment my mind tells me they like my legs (which are toning nicely I must say) until I look down and see the grit that covers them. Oh, well, it was a thought. Haha.

Two and a half hours later, we coasted into Ilene’s driveway, after what seemed like a brutal climb up the three blocks from the main road, but was actually a gentle incline. I looked down to check my computer to see we’d averaged 15.5 miles per hour over the course of the ride (60.28 miles according to the same computer). A comparable ride on day two of the Tour would see us in the saddle for over 10 hours as we work toward the 120 miles scheduled that day. For comparison, Lance Armstrong rode the entire 2,100 + miles of the 2001 Tour De France (21 days) at a pace that averaged more than 32 miles per hour to win the race. Next time you get in your car, roll down the window, set your speed at 32 and stick your head out the window…Now imagine seeing the road beneath you flying by at that pace with a pair of tires less than an inch wide between you and it.

Better yet, try it at 48 MPH and imagine me on bike going down a hill at that speed leaning over my handlebars to coax out every bit of speed I can find. (So far, the top speed I’ve hit on my bike is 48.7 and you wanna talk adrenaline rush, add a blind corner on a narrow road with a car coming in the opposite lane. WooHoo doesn’t even come close.

But I diverge from my little story, which needs a conclusion. I climbed off my bike and squatted in an umpire’s position to stretch my weary legs. A wan smile or a wry grin peered out from the grit across my face as I felt the tightness ebb out of my quads. I rolled my neck to relieve the tension across the top of my shoulders.

I look down and comment, “I’ve been out mountain biking in the mud rather than pedaling around the countryside on paved roads and trails”.

It’s 3 o’clock on the nose. Ilene and Sondra have delivered me back at the precise minute I requested. I have a flight to catch. (One I barely made, but that is a whole different story.)

911 – We have a cyclist down

Two years ago I was training for a 350-mile bike ride. The ride was to be 4 days. The following is a story of one training ride in early May. (About 6-7 weeks before the event).

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911 – We have a cyclist down…send an ambulance…

So, last time we chatted, we were talking about training rides and crashes. Of course, from the message title, you are already wondering if there is more crash news to be had… of course there is.

But first, I’d like to tell you that last weekend I rode 130 miles. Of course, that’s only 210 miles shy of what I’ll be riding in 7 weeks with my team. If I recover…

Ok, on with the real story.

“Are you ok? What hurts?” Ilene was yelling.

Unfortunately, she was yelling at me. “Can’t breath,” I tried to say. It was a hoarse, wheezing sound but she understood it. I couldn’t see her. And I couldn’t seem to breathe.

“We have a cyclist down…we need an ambulance,” Ilene was on her cell phone.

“No,” I yelled, “I don’t need an ambulance.” It was really a whisper, but it was as loud as I could muster. My arm was pinned underneath me and I could sense I was in a hole. I’d seen it out of the corner of my eye a second ago, and I knew I was lying in it. I could see the sky, but nothing around me. Two other riders joined the scene. One of them, Gordon loomed over me.

“No ambulance,” I whispered again. Ilene was trying to figure out where we were to direct the wailing sirens to the correct intersection. I could already picture the scene in my mind.

“I can move my fingers and toes,” I don’t know if I said it out loud, but as I said it I was bothered by the possibility that it was my imagination. So I moved my right hand into my vision. Whew, what a relief.

Finally, I was able to draw a breath. “Ilene, I don’t need an ambulance,” I called. As she continued talking to the 911 operator, I drew in a deep breath and yelled (I think) “Ilene, I don’t need an ambulance.” Then I turned to Gordon and asked, “Can you get me out of this hole?”

I had managed to extricate my left arm and proved to myself that I had full motion in all my limbs, but after seeing to many ER episodes and other ambulance I was leery of moving regardless of what I was saying to Ilene.

Gordon grabbed my arm, but I wanted more than one person to lift me from the hole I was lying in. He got another rider and they gently moved me from the hole by lifting my arms and got me into a sitting position.

The next step was clarifying to Ilene that I didn’t need an ambulance and then slowly having them help me to my feet. My bike was about ten feet up the road. Flung there in my crash. I expected a broken wheel to be looking back at me in a sick smile. Instead, I found my bike in decent condition. The chain had fallen off the chainring (dropped) and that took only a second to fix. The brake caliper/shifter on the left side was bent drastically, but seemed rideable to me. I sipped some water while everyone raved about how I should be in much worse condition. Gordon offered to go back to the start point and get a car to come and get me.

I was walking with a limp, but seems to have turned out to just be the result of a twist or very slight pull in the muscle in my calf. I also had a considerable pain in my left side. Deep breathing caused pain and so did moving in certain ways. My fellow riders were near astounded to learn that I wanted to continue on the ride.

After a few minutes I tentatively remounted my bike and took the lead in a slow pace down the road. As I pedaled, I tried to listen to my bike to see if I could hear any anomalies that would signal some kind of imminent mechanical failure.

Six miles later we came to a hill that riders call “The Wall”. It’s hard to describe a hill to someone if you’ve never seen it, but let’s just say “The Wall” is an apt description. I’d climbed this hill a week ago on another training ride, but barely. Ilene later told me as she climbed it the first time she wanted to quit, but decided she’d pass out first. So here it is in front of me and I don’t want to do it. Up I go anyway, determined that I’d get to the top.

I thought about this climb on the way from the crash to the hill. I’m in pain, I don’t want to be there, but I am. I’m reminded that I’m riding to help people who don’t have a choice about pain either. People that otherwise may not eat without the help of F & F or the other two beneficiaries.

So I climb, I climb, I breathe hard, and I can’t make it up this hill… At the same time, I realize that I’m more focused on my specific movements and how I’m breathing and spinning my pedals. It’s not about the pain in my ribs or the hill; it’s the cadence and the breaths I take. Then I realized I’ve made it. I’ve gone past the top and I’m spinning easily on flat road. Ilene started the climb behind me to make sure I was ok and shortly she joins me. We high five and smile. We’ve beaten “The Wall” again.

After that, the ride is largely uneventful other than a mile long climb up another hill out of a little valley. It’s not a steep climb like the wall, but it’s incredibly tiring. On this type of hill, you don’t get to rest, you must continue the effort or stop. This is not an option.

At the end of the ride I take off my jersey to see the road rash I’ve felt during the ride and to see if the bruises have begun to show. The road rash runs from the top of my shoulder, down the back of my arm, down my side and across my back. I’m tired, my legs are rubbery from all the hills, my arm and ribs ache, but I have a smile on my face.

The next day, Ilene hosted a ride and BBQ from her house for the team. I get up in the morning (well, that’s a lie) and go to the ride. I actually didn’t get up, I rolled up. The pain in my ribs prevents me from actually sitting up in bed, as you would normally rise. What? He went riding? Idiot. Haha Well, maybe, but I would have felt worse staying at home in bed than going riding with my team. I wasn’t a very strong rider, but I was there and the team was supportive. For the most part, I kept pace with the group. At one point a teammate named Chris turned to me as we pedaled up the trail and said, “I can’t believe you are out here. I’d have closed the curtains and stayed in bed.” I smiled at him and replied, “I don’t know how to do that. How could I stay in bed knowing that you guys are out here riding today?” He nodded his acceptance of what I was saying, but I could see he didn’t agree.

So as I type this, I’m sitting in the lobby at the radiology clinic waiting for X-Rays to tell me if I have actually broken my ribs, cracked them, pulled intercostals (?) or simply bruised myself really good. I was already at the doctor where they updated my tetanus shot. The nurse wanted to put it in my good arm – silly woman – put it where there is already pain… Why ruin a perfectly good arm (the one I can drive with) with a shot?

I also received prescriptions for two different muscle relaxers, an anti-inflammatory and quasi approval to ride my bike. (As pain allows – haha)

No visible broken ribs, I just got the call (they didn’t rule out hairline fractures), but they don’t know about the cartilage around them and they are worried that I damaged (tore?) my rotator cuff. Oh, and they assure me that the bruises are coming; they just haven’t reached the surface yet. (Oh, these are going to be spectacular – Look at all the pretty colors.)

So the bottom line is that it only takes a second of inattention to be in a dangerous situation. I’m very lucky. It could have ended up much worse than it did. I’m happy to not have broken bones, but I’ll not hear anyone ever complain that they couldn’t climb “the wall”. LOL

The cocktail of meds seems to be working pretty well. I’m more than a little loopy from them though. That said I’m already looking forward to getting back on my bike and continuing my training. In the meantime, I’m trying to focus on fundraising.

America's most beautiful bike ride

I did a 100-mile bike ride around Lake Tahoe for The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in June, 2004. I did this ride because my friend Kate went to the Dr. one day in Sept. 2003 with a rash on her legs and 4 hours was in the hospital diagnosed with the deadliest form of Leukemia. Final Stages. Over the next few months she underwent chemo that literally killed her. She developed a blood infection that is 90% fatal and beat it. She fought for her life hours at a time, not days. She beat the chemo. She beat the cancer. While I was training for the ride, she was declared cancer free. In 4 more years, she'll be declared Cured if the cancer stays in remission. The following is my story of the Tahoe ride...

I still haven't fully processed this ride, but I'll try to give you a glimpse of how it went.

On Saturday night there was a pasta dinner along with some guest speakers including one gentleman in his 50s-60s who has had cancer several times and lost an eye due to complications. He also lost his brother and sister to cancer. He has participated in the Tahoe Ride for several years. His speech brought many of the 1600 people in attendance to laughter, then tears and laughter again. They also announced that we had raised 6.5 Million dollars. 1600 people did that. WOW.

As the evening finished, I laid out all my gear and clothing for the early AM. I crashed at 9:30 pm. I slept fitfully (something I rarely do in a hotel, much less the night before a huge event. I woke up 10 minutes before my 4 am wake-up call and just curled there enjoying the softness of the pillow. When the phone rang, I was ready and popped out of bed (something that never happens) and began getting ready. Fearful that the elevators would be packed with people and bikes, I was out of my room by 4:40 am and eating a box breakfast of a bagel, orange juice and a banana. (Later, I would regret not calling room service for something more substantial.)

I was outside by 4:45 with a few teammates as we waited for everyone to gather by 5 am. Most everyone was in high spirits and there was much laughter and photos being taken.

The ride actually starts from multiple points in waves to keep everyone from bunching up. Our wave was due to leave at 6:05, but we cheated and joined the 6 am wave (what's the sense in having 300 more people in front of you). In total, there were over 3,000 riders on the road. 1600 of them with Team in Training.

We move out at a reasonable pace - not too fast, not too slow. It's 35 degrees and most of us have on winter gear. I'm armed with shorts, jersey, arm warmers, wind vest, nylon jacket, tights, wool gloves and toe booties. In the first 15 miles, those without the toe booties will complain their toes are numb. It's cold. By mile 18, everyone will proclaim they are too hot, and begin shedding layers. At mile 13, they began the climb to Emerald Bay. The first of a series of mountain climbs. We are over 6300 feet and by the time I reach the top, I'm breathing so hard I have to stop. I would later comment with a wry smile that, "I was breathing so hard I thought I was going to have a baby!"

One great thing about climbing hills, is, "What goes up must come down". Ok, LIVE for the downhill baby. 48.7 MPH to be exact. Someone cut my line forcing me to brake before I hit the magic 50, but 48.7 is enough to get your adrenaline pumping like there is no tomorrow. You've only got a half an inch of rubber holding your bike to the pavement and 4 tiny brake pads to slow you down. And coming around a blind curve, that's exactly what I needed to do. A rider had gone down and 40-50 riders in front of me were slamming on their brakes. Some reacting so violently that they locked up both wheels. I have seen cars smoke off their tires. I've even seen motorcycles do it on a stationary skid pad, but bikes? No way in hell is that possible... I was wrong. There were small clouds of smoke coming up from the road and off people’s brakes. I somehow had the sense to feather my brakes and visually find a line that would bypass the pack without crossing the yellow line into oncoming traffic lanes. I slowed, yet passed the group as though they were standing still. I was still moving at 40 MPH. Around another hairpin turn in the opposite direction and I was free of the pack - my heart hammering like a giant piston in my chest. A mile later I came to a small pit stop/cheering station where the National Chapter team had a car. I pulled off the road and dismounted my bike. My legs were so wobbly that I wondered if I might fall down. Shaken, not stirred, I refilled water and gatorade bottles and took the opportunity to co-join with nature.

Regrouped with the Hammergirls (my training and ride partners – a group of 4 women that ride hard and fast), we headed down the flat road enjoying the amazing scenery of the woods and the lake views. We turn away from the lake for a jaunt that adds 28 miles to the 72 around the lake. We pit at 42 miles and after a short rest, we return to the road. Realizing that we are traveling up the same road we just came down for the next 14 miles, we will be riding uphill into the wind. We are feeling strong and pass many other riders (pacelining in a tight group of 5). We stop to fix Megghan's flat tire from a puncture and then back at it. At the 60-mile mark, I break off from them and take a needed rest. I refill my gatorade and water stock. I eat a Clif Bar and slam a Gu. I'm HOT. I'm starting to tire, but don't focus on the 'why' enough to take corrective action... drinking more water and eating still more food.

At 63 miles, I encounter another steep, long hill and nearly quit the ride. I'm having severe difficulty breathing at the altitude and I'm starting to realize I'm in trouble physically.

Coming down the other side was a nice long shallow descent. On the way down, I passed a woman on the side of the road with a friend taking a photo op. My first thought was "nice legs" as I got closer the angle of view changed and my thought became, "nice leg"... "…&#^@, If she can do this ride with one leg, I'm going to finish. I also start thinking about Kate - my reason for doing this ride (whose picture I'm carrying in my pocket). My will strengthened, I rally and pedal into the lunch pit at the 72-mile mark.

One of the Hammergirls, Megghan, has grabbed lunch for me and I sit down and slowly eat. I've found a great patch of shade and begin cooling off. I'm still not drinking enough water or gatorade and the turkey sandwich tastes like sawdust. I can't even think of eating the brownie. (Later, I'll think back on that and wish I had forced it down.) After eating, I stretch thoroughly in hopes that my legs will get back into gear. One of the girls (Angela) is having pedal trouble and heads off to fix it. Nicole and I decide that with the biggest climb of the day still ahead at mile 80, we will get a head start. She has asthma issues and I'm just plain tired and I climb slower than they do. The next 8 miles is tough. The lake is on my right and I feel like I'm going up a coastal highway. I've never seen water that color in America before. Simply stunning. I'm pedaling at 6.1 and 6.2 miles an hour. I'm in my easiest gear.

Mile 81. I die. It's 1:30 pm. I have four hours to finish the ride. I know I'm going to be climbing at a 7-8% grade for the next 8 miles. I stop and think about calling a SAG van to carry me to the top. This is Spooner pass. OMG. There are people walking up it, people flying up it and people like me. I stop every mile or mile and a half to rest and catch my breath. With nearly every pedal stroke, a drop of sweat slips off my nose in slow motion. By the time it hits the ground, I'm already past it. I'm riding a bike that only has a double chain-ring (something that has caused me fear since I signed up for this ride). For non-cyclists reading this, it means I only have two chain rings in the front. Most people who ride have a third ring which is smaller (commonly called a granny ring because it's easier to pedal with the smaller ring). It takes more force for me to turn the crank than it would if I had a triple. I end up leap frogging with several riders. I stop, they pass me. They stop, I pass them. It becomes a sick game. We acknowledge each other with tired nods of our heads.

Nicole has long since outdistanced me and I keep waiting for the other 3 girls to catch me. Angela does and thinks she's behind everyone... she has passed Jen and Megghan without realizing it in her haste to catch up. She looks and sounds fresh as a spring flower. She basically flies by and I wave to her behind. 2 miles later - Jen and Megghan catch me as I'm stopped on the side of the road cooling off. They ask if they should stop and knowing I can't keep pace with them, I wave them on. I won't see them again until much later in the day.

I stop again later and I have riders calling to me - "it's only 1/8 of a mile to the top" or "it's only 1/4 mile to the top". My right knee hurts, my breath is labored, I'm tired, I'm so hot I could fry an egg on my head. I'm not thinking very clear, my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself. I feel like I'm going to vomit. I pull out my picture of Kate. I look at her smiling face and think about what she went through in her fight with Leukemia. 1/4 mile to the top. I can do this. I can finish. I can picture the 5-mile descent that I have earned. The mystical 50 MPH downhill I've searched for since I first started riding. The finish line in 12-miles for Kate. It's not about me anymore. I'd have quit at mile 82 or 83.

There is a small pit stop at the top of the hill and scores of people cheering riders in. I pull my bike up to a railing and lean against it to rest. I'm dizzy, nauseated and happy to have the biggest climb done. As I dig out a pack of TUMS to combat the stomach problem, I chat with a women whose leaning next to me. I talk about how many stops I made coming up the hill. She say's she took the SAG bus. She's torn her meniscus twice and doesn't want to risk it again. We chat about the beauty of the Lake and the ride some more and as I get up to climb back on my bike and turn to her and say, "It was a pleasure meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your ride." I finally actually look at all of her and I see that her right leg below the knee is titanium. She's 50 years old and out here riding to help people with Cancer. I'm humbled in a way I've never been. I smile and wave goodbye.

The second I can stop pedaling on the downhill I do. I no longer care that I'm only going 7 miles an hour, my knee hurts too much and my legs are too tired to pedal. I pick up speed and I turn a corner and come head on into a 20-30 mile an hour headwind off the lake. I'm going 35-40 miles an hour and the wind starts pushing me like a rag doll. It's everything I can do to stay upright. I brake to slow and get control of my bike. For 5 miles I fight the wind and never get above 32 MPH again. Robbed, I rage against the wind. My personal goal will have to wait for another time, another ride, another hill. I know as I descend that there are 3 small hills left to climb. Not mountains, small hills. Hills that on a normal training ride are only slightly noteworthy and maybe not at all. In the last 5 miles, I stop 7 times to rest. My knee feels like someone is tapping it with a hammer at every turn of the crank. My energy level is gone completely. Kate, Kate, for Kate. You can finish. Pedal... pedal. I reach the top of the last climb. Three miles in the distance, I can see the hotel. The finish line. I inwardly cringe at a tiny 50 ft. climb a half mile away.

Kate, Finish, Kate, Finish. One mile. The hammer isn't tapping anymore. It's an icepick slamming into my knee again and again. I look at my cycle computer... 99.1 miles reads the distance. I unclip my right pedal from my shoe and pedal as hard as I can with my left leg. Down a small incline and up the other side. 300 yards. I turn into the parking lot. 100 yards. My right leg is just hanging there not touching the pedal. My head is ringing like a gong. I have to climb a small ramp into the final stretch and almost crash on a bump. I grit my teeth and realize the ringing in my ears isn't inside my head. It's more than 1,000 people cheering me every foot of the way. I begin crying, but there are no tears. I'm too dehydrated. Past my team who are screaming my name. Through the finish line. It's 4:40pm. I almost fall off my bike trying to get off. 100 miles. Over 6800 feet of vertical climbing. I finished. Kate finished.

Someone hands me a beer and I have to give it away after two sips. My stomach is revolting. I check in at the finish line and claim my medal. I have two instantaneous visions. One is the medal in a frame with a simple title - The hardest thing I ever did. The other is giving the medal to Kate.