A few kind souls have inquired where I've been, this is my response.
The first few miles are the hardest. My muscles hate me. My body is overtly angry with my decision to ride instead of reading and drinking coffee like a normal person on a Sunday morning. I try to keep my pace slow, maybe 13 miles per hour, as I adjust to moving, but my brain wants to go faster so I can be home more quickly to cross off everything on my list.
I think about all of the things I should be doing. I think about laundry, little twigs in the road, taking the car for an oil change and the emails I need to write. I think long and hard about why I keep white t-shirts after they have little stains on them even though I don’t wear them anymore. At some point my quads demand my attention. Focus, keep moving. My brain tells my calves to pump harder. I’m hyper-aware but all systems are a little off.
I push, around mile 7, the nagging voice that wonders if I paid the electric bill is replaced by an awareness of right now. I start paying more attention to the things around me. A corn field. Something burbling in the canal. I suddenly realize it’s rude not to smile at the other riders that pass. I say hello.
My muscles are warmed to spinning, and it’s less of a chore. I wish it felt like miles 8-15 for the duration. Happy. Light. I think less about what I’m doing. It feels easy.
Easy isn’t the point.
Breathe, breathe, Breathe. Three in the nose, three out the mouth. I make sounds like a dog. I would be embarrassed if I cared. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I sprint 20-25 miles per hour on the flat. Drift a while. Breathe, Breathe, Breathe, sprint. Push. Breathe. Sprint. Somewhere in between the breathing and the sprinting I feel this amazing sense of well being in the moment where I drift -zipping by without effort.
I start looking for water. I’ve already drank 64 ounces, time to refill. Where the hell am I?
A gas station. I pull up and quickly refill. I walk in a sweaty, foul smelling creature. I ask for water. No one ever says no. I refill my bottles. I drink standing next to the fountain. Someone’s always watching. I smile. Grab a handful of ice, before I leave. I say thank you and push on.
I wipe the ice on my face and on my arms. Then keep going. Around mile 25 I start thinking about which path to take. Should I go home? Do I push on? Do I see the house with the seven miniature ponies. Should I go until I see “Welcome to Scottsdale?” ” Where next? At what point do I head home and how many miles for a safe return?
The other me, the superstitious primal me makes those decisions. Maybe I see a fortuitous minivan or some landmark points in the direction of home. Maybe my brain finally listens to my body and says, “Yes, this is what done feels like.” I don’t know how it happens, but I always know when it’s time to head back. And I do it.
At mile 40 I lose any idea that my body and mind are separate. I’m surviving. I’m fucking hungry. I can feel every little divet in the road. Every slight change in direction of the wind. I’m motivated to finish so that I can cook a salmon steak and a baked potato for breakfast. I fantasize about tater tots and lemonade. I wonder if there are any Hershey kisses in the freezer.
I push on for orange juice and to feel clean again. The last five miles greet me with inconceivable obstacles. I’m just trying not to get hit by cars. I’m just trying to stay upright with the wind in my face and sun beating down at 110 degrees. I don’t have to power of mile 30 and crossing traffic feels Herculean. But I push.
I think about all of the things I should be doing. I think about laundry, little twigs in the road, taking the car for an oil change and the emails I need to write. I think long and hard about why I keep white t-shirts after they have little stains on them even though I don’t wear them anymore. At some point my quads demand my attention. Focus, keep moving. My brain tells my calves to pump harder. I’m hyper-aware but all systems are a little off.
I push, around mile 7, the nagging voice that wonders if I paid the electric bill is replaced by an awareness of right now. I start paying more attention to the things around me. A corn field. Something burbling in the canal. I suddenly realize it’s rude not to smile at the other riders that pass. I say hello.
My muscles are warmed to spinning, and it’s less of a chore. I wish it felt like miles 8-15 for the duration. Happy. Light. I think less about what I’m doing. It feels easy.
Easy isn’t the point.
Breathe, breathe, Breathe. Three in the nose, three out the mouth. I make sounds like a dog. I would be embarrassed if I cared. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I sprint 20-25 miles per hour on the flat. Drift a while. Breathe, Breathe, Breathe, sprint. Push. Breathe. Sprint. Somewhere in between the breathing and the sprinting I feel this amazing sense of well being in the moment where I drift -zipping by without effort.
I start looking for water. I’ve already drank 64 ounces, time to refill. Where the hell am I?
A gas station. I pull up and quickly refill. I walk in a sweaty, foul smelling creature. I ask for water. No one ever says no. I refill my bottles. I drink standing next to the fountain. Someone’s always watching. I smile. Grab a handful of ice, before I leave. I say thank you and push on.
I wipe the ice on my face and on my arms. Then keep going. Around mile 25 I start thinking about which path to take. Should I go home? Do I push on? Do I see the house with the seven miniature ponies. Should I go until I see “Welcome to Scottsdale?” ” Where next? At what point do I head home and how many miles for a safe return?
The other me, the superstitious primal me makes those decisions. Maybe I see a fortuitous minivan or some landmark points in the direction of home. Maybe my brain finally listens to my body and says, “Yes, this is what done feels like.” I don’t know how it happens, but I always know when it’s time to head back. And I do it.
At mile 40 I lose any idea that my body and mind are separate. I’m surviving. I’m fucking hungry. I can feel every little divet in the road. Every slight change in direction of the wind. I’m motivated to finish so that I can cook a salmon steak and a baked potato for breakfast. I fantasize about tater tots and lemonade. I wonder if there are any Hershey kisses in the freezer.
I push on for orange juice and to feel clean again. The last five miles greet me with inconceivable obstacles. I’m just trying not to get hit by cars. I’m just trying to stay upright with the wind in my face and sun beating down at 110 degrees. I don’t have to power of mile 30 and crossing traffic feels Herculean. But I push.
The last stretch up to my house, I hit mile 50. I feel elated. My mind and body completely together, I drift up the driveway. I put the bike up, then peel off my clothes. I climb into the shower, and watch little brown pools of road dirt collect near the drain. After dressing and before eating I lay on the floor stretching. I sink in and feel like I could lay there forever.
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Jonathan Wolfman
Ronald Allan
Duane Gundrum
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Comments
Your tell this well. It really gives the sense of your experience during the ride.
Thanks for the post. I really enjoyed this read.R!