Loyal readers:
It’s all your fault. Just so you know…
Cancer is extraordinary. It changes lives in a moment. It’s voracious. It consumes.
Yet, cancer gives gifts. It inspires. It can bring out the best in us. It offers us opportunities for insight, growth, change.
I’m not Pollyanna—cancer kills. It destroys.
But, between here and there is an infinite space. How we fill that space is up to us—it’s the challenge cancer presents us.
In truth, the challenge was always there. Cancer made me see it.
Searching
This blog has been my therapy. It has enabled me to free myself from myself, while going deep within me. It enabled me to share my stories with you, and in the sharing, it saved me. Where I once was isolated, I connected. When I most needed support, I received it. I gave the only thing I had—me. And what I received in return…has changed my life.
All from the power of stories.
Stories are webs, interconnected strand to strand, and you follow each story to the center, because the center is the end. Each person is a strand of the story.
—Neil Gaiman
Even within the fever dreams of chemotherapy, I wanted to do something more. I wanted to expand the blog experience into something…greater. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew that I would know it when I found it.
Months passed. I recovered. Mindfully, I made myself open, receptive.
One of the things I am good at is connections. A thought here, something from there, a sliver of that from yesterplace, and a scosche from neverwhere become...something whole and meaningful. I read and watched and listened and thought and saw and heard and an idea formed. Then it grew.
I bounced it off him and her and listened to their feedback. I reflected, and the many voices within me argued. Powerful parts cajoled others into action. Doubtful parts were dragged along, despite their sea-anchor affect.
In my last blog post I wrote about how:
I took strides forward, only to be knocked back. Sometimes I got knocked back and sideways. Other times I was spun around; dizzy and confused I fell on my arse. Usually spectacularly.
There was a lot of arse on the ground. (Yes, I have a large arse!)
But, I got up.
I was inspired by others—people who built things. I’ve always let my fear and doubt rule. They didn’t. They Got Shit Done. They Made Things Happen. And I deeply admire them for it!
So, why not me?
Nerd
One of the things I listened to was the Nerdist podcast. Across the episodes an ongoing theme is “just build your thing”. It’s post-Nike. Instead of just doing it, it’s about building it. Make something real. Make something that reflects you and your ideas.
And I have an idea.
And through all the self-doubt and self-stop, the obstacle-creation and the bury-yourself-under-the-pillow paralytic fear, my idea shone through.
I’m quoting him again (slightly out of context), but Gaiman is irrepressibly quotable:
Ideas will, eventually, win. Because the ideas are invisible, and they linger, and, sometimes, they are even true.
And my idea is this…
Here We Go!
It’s all your fault because you encouraged me.
As I shared more, you responded. And one of the humbling things I kept hearing was that you enjoy my writing—my way of expressing things. I don’t take compliments well, so it took me some time to acknowledge and grow comfortable with it.
But that was nothing compared to private comments from those who shared that I helped them, or their friend, or their sister/brother/son/daughter. Quietly, one of my goals was being achieved—someone out there got something meaningful from my blog.
Wow.
Like Michelangelo’s block of marble (I am, on occasion, dumb as a rock.), there was something within me that always existed and needed to emerge. I’ve never been able to tell a joke. I’m useless at it. But stories?
I’m a storyteller. It’s that simple.
I love storytelling. If you strip all the bits away, what you'll find at the center is a storyteller. As I warm to my career and love it more, I have a sense that storytelling is healing, in many ways. You can reach an audience and heal, and by heal, I mean entertain and provoke. It's a wonderful life.
—Sir Ben Kingsley
I have an idea. I have an identity. Let’s build my thing...
The Cancer Broadcast
CancerBroadcast.com is a platform for the cancer community—patients, survivors, caregivers, supporters—to tell their stories.
Stories have the power to change lives, and The Cancer Broadcast is focused on the stories that move others who are touched by cancer. It will be positive—focusing on inspiration and growth...on coping, healing, and thriving. We’ll laugh, even as we cry. And as a community we’ll nuture the strength we need to grow through the cancer experience.
The Cancer Broadcast will be built around a podcast, hosted my me. Blogging will be a part of it as it grows. As it finds its audience, it will become what it needs to become—it will grow organically.
It’s just getting started. The first podcast episodes are being refined, awaiting release.
For now, I’m reaching out to the cancer community. I'll be riding in Pelotonia again this year with renewed purpose. I have nothing to prove on a bicycle. I have a thing to build. I'm going to use my 14 hours of saddle time to meet and talk and listen and receive.
Most importantly, I'm going to connect with my cancer community. I'm going to gather information that will help me refine and build.
It’s a question I’ve heard a lot over the past year or so. Returning to normal life, and work, and play—simply living—people have been variously kind and thoughtful and clueless when first talking with me.
My stock answer had always been: “l’m not dead, yet!”
But recently, it’s changed.
I’d wanted it to change for a while. I’d been ready, but I held back. I needed to pass a milestone first, before I could free myself.
And now I’ve crossed that milestone.
My Unremarkable Pelvis
Never have I been so happy to be described as “unchanged” and “unremarkable”. “Change” to me is an aspiration. “Remarkable” is a quality I admire.
But, this is different.
I recently had my now-permanant, semi-annual scan and evaluation at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. It’s a penitent pilgrimage I undertake. It’s a fundamental and necessary part of my living with cancer. It’s a journey that taxes me physically, psychically, and spiritually.
And it is a milestone. Every six months...time to make the donuts.
And the short version is that my results were…perfect. My blood is healthy. My scans are as clear as they can be (I have that residual mass…).
I have another six months…
Getting There
For the longest time I took strides forward, only to be knocked back. Sometimes I got knocked back and sideways. Other times I was spun around; dizzy and confused I fell on my arse. Usually spectacularly. Few people can fall on their arse with more style and less grace than can I.
I have a talent that way.
But recently, things have…shifted.
Living nightmares have become fugue dreams. Mistakes have become lessons. Challenges…opportunities. Fears have become hopes.
It’s not always that way. I have my bad days. But so do you.
What’s different is that every day is no longer a labor. I don’t go to bed wondering what will befall me tomorrow. I feel like I can handle things. Like I might actually got this.
I could dive inside and tell you how it feels to feel my body awaken. I could describe muscle warmth and sinew suppleness, cardiac confidence and respiratory renewal. I'm getting stronger. I'm finding me again.
I could wax rhapsodic about riding my bike (I've been known to go on about that...). I could share the of joy cycling with a goldfinch past bursting, cornflower-blue-brilliant wildflowers. I could romanticize the apparition of the golden bird that disappeared and reappeared, oddly rhythmically, among intermittent sunburst-yellow blooms.
I could do those things.
Isn't it glorious?
About Time
I’ve been thinking about time. It’s passage. It’s healing powers. It’s anxiety-inducing approach!
I’ve been thinking about people, and the lessons they often unintentionally teach. And about my willingness and ability to learn. And about how some lessons explode immediately, with insights strobe-flashing into awareness. And how others aggregate, accumulating over years before reaching their tipping point...and how I'm felled by revelations I should have known all along.
I’ve been thinking about how the former BCB has changed. And the LAs. And my parents. And my friends. And I see flashes of how temporal everything is, even as it seems permanent.
And how permanent some things are, even those that seemed temporary.
And I know that life can change in a second.
And I’ve learned that life is changing every moment. The river is never the same, no matter how many times you step into it. The stepping is the thing. It's what matters.
Constant reader: This one is long, of necessity. It may seem to ramble, but it comes to its point, and rambling accurately reflects the space I'm in. Significantly, this is Pelotonia week. On Saturday, more than 7,200 people will pedal to end cancer. I will be one of them.
- - -
I answered the phone. A friend spoke: "Should you be doing this?"
He was the right friend at the right time.
So, I answered, truthfully.
And it hurt.
- - -
I know. It's confusing. The last few posts seem so...contradictory.
I made the decision. I'm in. I had reason to doubt. I cannot justify NOT doing it. I will ride 180 miles for cancer research. Please. Donate. Now. Each dollar raised goes directly to research—there is no overhead Each dollar will be matched, generously by Limited Brands I will ride with the cancer community. Mindfully. Purposefully. With attitude.
It's August.
I still cannot justify NOT doing it.
But I shouldn't be riding. Just ask my friends. Several keep trying to talk me out of it.
Here's why...
- - -
When riding my fat-bike lap of the Patapsco 100, I injured myself.
Climbing up them embankment of the final river crossing, like a wildebeest on the Savannah, my knee went "oops".
"Oops" is different from "pop". "Pop" is when you tear something. "Pop" means you are done for the next six months. "Pop" is "fuck!" and "shit!" combined...it's "fushit!"
Mine went "oops".
"Oops" is "this is bad, but it could be worse." "Oops" hurts as much as "pop", but "oops" gives you hope.
Two days and two orthopedists later, the verdict was: no torn ligament, no torn meniscus, but "we don't know what you did".
One doctor suggested it was a bone bruise, caused by the joint's compression under load on that slippery slope. The other doctor suggested that I'd pulled my IT band (at the point where it wraps under the knee. Both doctors suggested I rest it for a few weeks, and see what happens.
This weekend I am committed to ride 180 miles to end cancer.
Other than two, hour-long rides in the past three days, I have not been on a bicycle since July 6th.
- - -
"Should you be doing this?"
I hem and haw and mumble and nod.
- - -
Yesterday I went for a group mountain bike ride. In the middle of the ride, I lost my balance and fell off a bridge.
I never fully recovered.
Once the gyroscope lost its center, it never fully recovered...it never stopped wobbling.
- - -
"Should you be doing this?"
I hem and haw and mumble and nod.
And I lie.
And here's the truth.
I shouldn't.
And I have to.
- - -
I was warned.
My doctors told me, as I moved from chemotherapy to recover, that my metabolism would likely have changed. Permanently.
They said I would be tired.
They said that I would have difficulty losing the chemo-weight. They mentioned that "the Western diet is not your friend."
They warned me.
I've written about the fatigue. I've written about exercise (non-)recovery.
I haven't mentioned that my healing also seems compromised.
It seems that it takes longer for me to repair myself than it did prior to the chemo. Maybe it's true.
Maybe it's all in my head.
But I have a theory...
I believe that the toxicity levels of the particular chemotherapy drugs I took (Taxol, Cisplatin, and Ifosfamide) were so high that my body—at a cellular level—was fundamentally altered. It may not be permanent, but at this stage in my recovery I see it seen in my exhaustion, befuddledness, vertigo...and healing. I believe that a body recovering from one trauma, when faced with another, can't keep up, and healing is compromised.
It's anecdotal; I'm no scientist. But it passes the sniff test.
...
This weekend I am committed to ride 180 miles to end cancer.
That was a difficult winter, and not because of the injury. My marriage dissolved, and in June I separated from my spouse of 14 years.
Injury, life-trauma. Not a lot of training happened leading into 2012. So, I planned to not ride in 2012. I volunteered.
And then I rode.I was at the opening ceremonies for my volunteer gig (helping with bike repairs and setup).
Overwhelmed, I was. The energy. The purpose. The joy. The pain.
In ten minutes, I called my friend: "Talk me out of riding."
"Um, yeah. You shouldn't ride."
"Right, I shouldn't ride."
Click
In ten minutes, I called my friend: "I just registered."
"Of course you did."
- - -
I've ridden it strong, finishing among the first to cross the line in Athens...
2012 was different. I rode on a single-speed. I paced myself. I rode with people I'd just met. It was fun.
But I didn't ride the second day. I did not ride 180.
And I've regretted it ever since.
...
I clanged the cowbell and cheered and jeered and showed my support. But every cell of me screamed that I should have been riding. I could walk. I could ride. And not riding was letting them down.
I don't know who them was. But I've since learned.
And them is driving me today.
Which wolf wins? The one that you feed.
- - -
We all have our demons.
I've been facing mine.
And what I've seen haunts me.What I've learned pains me.
Them. Is. Me.
I'm a saboteur.
I am the architect of my own defeats.
I am mine own executioner. And I have been for time immemorial.
(I cannot express the "why" in this moment; someday I will.)
It's fashionable to say: "I fear success."
But the insidious truth is: I fear failure.
My fear paralyzes me, sending me into self-destructive spirals from which I don't recover.
Countless times. I've positioned myself for success. Countless times, I've shied at the last moment, hiding. It's one thing for your ambitions to exceed your reality. It's quite another to dream the dream, and then never make the effort.
That's cowardice.
I'm a coward.
And I hate me.
...
Disappointment follows in my wake as I cross the dark, fear-filled waters of my failures.
I've let so many people down. People who have loved, trusted, and supported me.
And I hate that.
And I hate me.
The wolf howls, triumphantly.
...
People are boring. It's their contradictions that are interesting. We are the sum of our contradictions.
That statement is the lens through which I view the world. Nothing is more fascinating to me than observing the way people realize their lives. None of us are what we seem. And our contradictions are the keys to truly seeing us for whom we are.
In his second decade fighting cancer, he's made a decision I hope never to have to make. He decided to stop treatment.
Let that sink in...
He decided to stop treatment.
Quality of life is more important than quantity of live. He wants to live.
For John, it's not a question of whether, but of when.
And of which.
Multiple cancers are eating away at him.
He's riding.
I asked him if he wanted to ride a tandem on Day 2. He demurred. He said he wanted to do both days on his bike.
I get it.
And I'm humbled.
He is one reason why I feel like a whiner...
He's a super man. A Superman. And I want to be like him...
Yet...
I know his secret.
Let me re-phrase that. I know his secret.
He fights the same battle I do. Differently. But it is the same.
It's a continual fight. Every day it's a fight...So, for the rest of your life, you're stuck with that shadowy figure...always, always, coming at you. Always coming at you...
And inside he is a mess. A hot mess. A swirling morass of twisted emotion, conflict, pain, fear.
So, really, I am like him.
John finds hope and inspiration in you. And me. And in this event.
And he rides.
Until he can't.
He found something that matters. In Pelotonia he found joy. He grasped it. He clings to it, digging his nails, white-knuckled, with hot tears and gasping breath. He holds it.
And it holds him.
And it is beautiful.
He's been through hells that I cannot imagine. And he knows what's coming.
And sometimes he's at peace. Other times he's devastated. And every moment of every day he slides along the spectrum in-between.
But he has hope. And so, he rides.
If not us, who? If not now, when?
So, what's my excuse?
Pain, heartbreak, love, death, it's all good. You always feel it...you don't have to fear it.
- - -
Should you be doing this? I shouldn't...And I have to.
Fewer than 400 cancer survivors are riding Pelotonia.
I'm one of them. I am going to ride.
I will ride with the cancer community. Mindfully. Purposefully. With attitude.
There's a special magic in Pelotonia. It makes real these words :
Cancer breeds hope, just as it nurtures death.
Cancer inspires; the good become great.
Cancer brings light, and love, and beauty, though it is a challenge to see it.
...
I've been weighed and measured; I've been found wanting.
I ride because I must.
Let's do this...together.
What will be will be what will be.We've got this.
- - -
Postscript
There are so many stories. So many more stories to tell:
The Pelotonia rider who learned of a genetic predisposition for breast and ovarian cancer—a woman who lost half her family to cancer—who is now a survivor of that damnable (and inevitable?) breast cancer.
The Pelotonia friend—a man who donated thousands to support a young rider who had been riding in memory of his young sister—who just learned that his father is in Stage III.
Jessica, the young, cancer-fighting superbabe who—despite her pain—brings joy to everyone she meets.
The readers of this blog who send me notes, sharing their stories with me.
In this space I cannot tell them all.
But I can tell my tale, as honestly as possible.
We are the sum of our contradictions. I hope by shedding light into mine, someone, somewhere finds a little truth and a little comfort, knowing that they are not alone.
When this post appear on the glorious Internet, I will be on the road.
Somewhere in Ohio, I will be with more than 6,000 others.
We're riding to end cancer.
Together, we're taking a stand.
It's all about the money. Every rider is a dollar sign. Every volunteer is an enabler. we're all working to raise the precious funds to defeat the diseases that have defeated so many.
I don't know why the other 6,000 riders ride. I suspect for some of the same reasons. And I know that they ride for reasons too deeply personal to share.
Yet, whatever our motivations, we ride...together.
100% OF EVERY DOLLAR
raised goes directly to life-saving cancer research!
DOLLAR MATCH, TOO!
Every dollar you contribute will be matched by The Limited Brands! I will be wearing their colors proudly!
I ride to respect those who fight.
I'm out. I'm free. The specter is behind me, consigned to history.
I'm lucky! I'm blessed.
Others aren't. I ride to respect them—their battles and their struggles. I ride because I can, and because they inspire me to be more than a survivor. They inspire me to thrive.
I'm out for a spring ride. It's a cold day; I'm dodging rain. I see a woman ahead of me—definitely not your typical cyclist. She's laboring on the flat, and she's approaching a hill.
I pull up and we chat. And everything changed.
Some people radiate warmth. She's that people. Joyfully, she rode. Smiling, she spoke. When I left her, I no longer felt the wind. The rain? What rain?
Weeks later I saw her again. Riding. Laboring. Smiling. And everyone around her was smiling, too.
Soon I knew her story. Jessica P. lost her liver to an incredibly rare form of cancer: primary hepatic neuroendocrine carcinoma. She received a liver transplant. While it saved her life, it did not stop her fight. She lives daily with the chronic nature of the disease.
And she smiles.
And she radiates warmth.
Part of her healing is hugging. Big hugs. Enthusiastic hugs. Not back-breaking hugs, but hugs that connect.
You know the type. Not many people give them. To give one is to share one's self—to extend, to express a kind of love and need and vulnerability that is as poignant as it is gentle. It's wordless, language-free. It's a gift.
And it's a hard gift to receive. It makes you vulnerable. To receive that gift in the spirit with which it was given means you accept the moment...that precious moment when two people connect, sharing time, space, and spirit.
It's beautiful.
Jessica hugs. She hugs a lot. And she inspires me.
Recently, I saw photos of her in a hospital gown. She was getting tests. She battles on, yet she smiles.
I ride to respect those who fight.
I ride for Jessica and her fight.
I ride because you don't have to save a life to change a life.
I'm facebooking (Yep, it's a verb...). An image appears and stops me dead.
The eyes. Haunting and strong. Vulnerable and loving. Placid.
She's looking at me with wisdom—with secret knowledge. She's peering through me. She has taken my measure, and she has found me...
Facing Chemo is a photographic project that exposes the emotion of those undergoing chemotherapy. While the drugs target cells, the treatments effect people—the persons within and without.
Unadorned, exposed, vulnerable, the subjects share their beauty, strength, fear, resolve.
100% OF EVERY DOLLAR
raised goes directly to life-saving cancer research!
DOLLAR MATCH, TOO!
Every dollar you contribute will be matched by The Limited Brands! I will be wearing their colors proudly!
I ride because I'm angry.
Howlingly angry.
Cancer pisses me off.
It's allowed. I don't feel guilty. Neither should you. In fact, I encourage it.
Go ahead, be angry.
You have cancer. Your mother has cancer...your father...
Your partner has cancer...your lover...
Your child...
Being angry beats the hell out of feeling hopeless.
Your chemo hurts in ways you never imagined. You're sick of being sick. You're beyond tired, as your body and soul are pushed to the limit...and beyond...and still beyond.
You fear the mirror. You know that what you will see will not be you. That ravaged creature is not you, but you make eye contact and you see...you. And your sunken stomach sinks again and you feel tears and your chest tightens and you gasp and you know it's you but it's not you and you're lost because who is you and where did you go and Gods what has...and why has...and inside you boil and quake and it wells up from places you never knew and never felt before and it's there and it's scary and it's from you and about you and...
You're angry.
Howlingly angry.
It's allowed.
You don't have cancer, yet you visit the hospital, and the treatment center, and the hospice. You're there every step of the way, supporting, loving, helping.
You watch. You listen. Your palms sweat, your bowels churn as you wait for results. You don't have the cancer, but you're savaged by it.
Your mother, your father has cancer. Your partner, your lover has cancer. Your child...
It ravages them; it destroys you.
What can I do? How can I help? Drive, hold hands, cook, dress, hug, cajole, weep, watch, listen, pray, hope, encourage...a million little things that matter. Yet, you sleeplessly wonder what more you can do.
You're angry.
And you're guilty about it.
But you don't need to be. It's allowed.
I ride because I'm angry.
Cancer hurt me. It stole parts of me. My scars run deep. The skin scars, like the one that runs from sternum to pubic bone, are obvious. I can't show you the soul scars...
Cancer surrounds me—my friends and family. Yet, it always feels like there is so little I can do.
And it makes me angry.
But cancer has taught me a few things...about anger.
Impotent anger is destructive. You bleed pain. You melt with fury. And you remain silent. You're fighting an enemy you cannot know. It's right in front of you, but it is invisible, alien. And you try to understand it, but you can't, and that fact makes you even more angry. And you silently seethe. The feelings surge and recede, wave after wave of pain you wrestle to control, lest it control you. You fear the anger, because it's too big, too strong, and you have no way to express it without hurting someone, everyone, yourself. You know that anger destroys.
So you have a drink, take a pill, eat a doughnut, or close yourself in and wait for the tide to ebb and hope it all goes away.
And for a time it does; and you're able to do what you need to do.
And then it comes back...fiercer. And the cycle begins again. And you go deeper, and the gyre sucks you down.
But you're not impotent. You have choices.
Each time you help, you reach out, you touch, and you comfort you are doing something. Each time you hope, you heal. Every time you do what you need to do to be healthy, you overcome.
You're never powerless, no matter how overwhelming it seems. Anger and Fear are so close; and they can be used for good.
Anger is an energy. use it. Channel it to fight the unknowable enemy. Embrace it and transform it and use it.
And heal it.
Be angry.
It's allowed.
I ride because I'm angry. And I choose to do something with that anger. I choose to use it to help heal; and to fight to end cancer.
My mother has a type of non-Hodgkin lymphoma. After some unpleasant treatments, they told her that it was not a question of whether it would re-emerge, but when.
She lives with that knowledge every day.
And it scares me. I know trepidation.
And while I know that others bear the same burden, it fails to comfort me.
My mother is going to die, and cancer is (likely) going to take her from me.
It's why I ride.
My Little Angels are 11 and 7 this year. They blossom. And they have a solid family history of cancer.
That's scary.
The odds are that they will get some form of cancer. I live with that knowledge every day.
I usually don't think about it. Unless I do. And when I do, I'm scared.
I know about the children who fight cancer. The images are burned into my mind's eye. The tubes and wires and baldness and pallor and scrawniness and the smallness—god, they're small! They're young! It shouldn't happen to them!
Yet it does.
And I know about young adults who fight cancer—how their lives are completely re-defined by the experience. How the best years of their lives are smothered. It shouldn't happen to them!
Yet it does.
And we feel powerless.
It's why I ride.
Something happened to me a few years ago. I intuited something long before I understood it. I'm not powerless. I'm not a bystander. I'm not passive.
When I ride against cancer I'm empowered, involved, and active.
I ride because I'm scared; because I choose to do something with that fear.
Stage T cancer is when you are living with purpose—mindfully, consciously. It is when you are making real the promise of your renewed life.
I've had a brutal year. BCB is no longer in my life. I'm on another odyssey as I write this. It's...challenging. My heart has been broken; but my spirit is intact.
I have my Little Angels.
And I appreciate every day I have with them.
And every hour.
And each minute.
Honestly, no one lives that way. I'm not that mindful. But I am conscious.
I watch them grow. I see the light in their eyes. I hear them laugh, and cry, and argue, and sing. I catch the scent of their hair. I touch their cheeks. I kiss them goodnight.
And I appreciate that I can.
I look in the mirror. I see the scars. I glimpse the grey. The crow's feet deepen around my eyes. I see it.
And I appreciate that I can.
I sometimes don't want to ride my bike. I'm tired. Power is weak. Recovery is harder. My knees ache. My shoulder throbs. Yet, I do ride.
And I appreciate that I can.
It's August; it's Pelotonia. It's time to raise money.
And I appreciate that I can.
I ride because I'm here.
I appreciate that.
And I hope you will help me to raise money for life-saving cancer research.
But here it is anyway...a ride report for Pelotonia 2011, Day 2.
I remember...
Waking up in the dark and feeling spry
The cold tiles under my feet
The aromas of the dorm bathroom
The echoing sounds of voices, flushes, and running water
My first constitutional
Strolling down to breakfast—before it was scheduled to start—to fuel for the day's ride
Hoping that there would be coffee, while reminiscing about the previous year's caffeine-free debacle
My second constitutional
Eggs, and fruit, and dawn's camaraderie
My third constitutional
Packing and waiting on line to return my key
Hauling my baggage
Deciding that my leg felt surprisingly good, considering the previous day's exertions
Delighting in the sight of Papillon (and knowing that we had another adventure before us)
It was a good morning. The air was fresh and misty, just as it should have been. We gathered, slowly. Some were more ready than others. After the previous evening's celebrations, two were...not quite well. But they were game for the day. How they managed it, I'll never know...
Eventually, finally, inevitably, we were off.
I remember laughing at myself...
Laughing at the group (it was a sort of motivation)
Lamenting the speed we were traveling
Resigning myself to a long day
Reminding myself that riding with friends is a rare joy—especially when you live 1,000 miles away
Smiling a lot
Watching Razek's computer pop out, up, and down—exploding into component parts
Tom Lennox passing us, shouting abuse at Razek
Restarting
Stopping
Restarting
Catching long lines of riders, passing them, and the short conversations we had along the way
Stopping
Delighting in the porta-johns at the end of the bike trail (my fourth constitutional)
The ride proceeded as expected. Some were slow and lethargic. Some were spry and ready. All were a little weary, but something underneath drove us.
"Determination" is the closest word for that something. Everyone seemed determined—no matter how crappy they felt. Underneath the various masks—and we had many, from bonhomie to sarcasm with a little wise-arse for good measure—determination reigned.
I'm not so certain that was a good thing.
I remember approaching Logan Dam...
The sun was shining for this photo. For us, not so much...
Seeing Kara and our wonderful ride support
Thinking that the day was over for our most charismatic companion
Counseling said friend to stop the suffering
Reminding him that he had already accomplished amazing things
Believing that my counsel was in his best interest
Watching inky-black clouds roll across the hilltop
Listening to the thunder
Feeling my stomach drop
Hardening myself (that "determination" thing)
Wishing that we would get on with it
Lamenting indecision (on many people's parts)
The irony of the situation was lost on me...until many days later.
I remember starting up the hill from Logan Dam...
Feeling tight from the long stop (20+ minutes!)
Applying pressure to the pedals
Feeling pain
The demons arrive...
Most of the time when you pull a muscle, it's a quick, sharp pain. Sometimes it's a charlie-horse.
This was different.
Imagine a pain that starts in your bone and radiates outward.
Imagine a pain that hits you like a wall of water, engulfing you. Drowning you. A pain that knots your stomach and fills your ears with rushing blood.
Imagine a pain that communicates: you're done. You're really, really done.
I remember realizing that I had "complicated" my injury...
Knowing that a nightmare had just begun
Wondering if I could continue
Pedaling onward, as though nothing had happened
Adjusting my technique to enable pedaling
Going inside, to face my demons (again)
Much of the ride was—and remains—a blur.
I do remember riding with each of my ride partners in turn, separately, to let them know that I was hurt, that I was not trying to be a jerk, that I would do my best, and that I might disappear for a time.
I remember trying to motivate others...
Believing that by focusing on them, I could avoid myself
Thinking that my best mask would be one of support
Hoping that my pain would pass
Knowing that I was lying to myself
At one point in the ride—after Amanda—I went. I knew the rolling hills ahead, and I knew that I needed to be alone.
I needed isolation to deal with the screaming inside—the arguments, the doubts, the fears. I had to get away from my friends to be with the crowd in my head. I had conversations. I shouted expletives. I cried a little.
It wasn't fun
I've shared these experiences before. Sometime's they're funny. This time...not so much.
Here's what I remember...
I remember breathing, counting each breath. Feeling the air fill me.
I remember my mind's eye seeing a perfect left pedal stroke, and I remember feeling a perfect left pedal stroke. First one revolution at a time, then five, ten, twenty...until I no longer thought about it. I was it.
I remember shouting.
I remember the taste of my grinding teeth.
I remember looking up and seeing a long, stepped hill—straight as an arrow—cleaving the fields, thinking: "there's no way I can do this."
I remember doing it.
Determination (that word again) drove me. Sense didn't. I survived cancer, I sure as hell can survive this ride. I was better than it...stronger...more knowing...mindful. I was capable of amazing things.
But at what cost?
To hell with the cost! I'M GOING TO DO THIS!
You're hurt. You've got nothing to prove. Quit.
NO!
Why not?
NO!
That's not an answer!
I HAVE TO DO THIS!
WHY?
BECAUSE BECAUSE I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO LIVE WITH MYSELF MY MYTH DIES IT'S ALL I HAVE EVERYTHING ELSE IS FAKE ALIEN UNREAL SURREAL ALL PETTY LITTLE NOTHING PETTY I'M NOTHING I HAVE NOTHING I NEED THIS MY JOB A JOB A PAYCHECK A PRISON MY HOUSE NOT A HOME A PRISON A TRAP DEBT PILED ON DEBT NEVER ENOUGH NEVER ENOUGH TO WHAT END IS THIS MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE MY FAMILY DEMANDING AN ANCHOR MY BIKE I'M FREE ON MY BIKE I'M FREE I'M ME NOT SON HUSBAND FATHER I'M ME IS THIS MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE MY FRIENDS DISTANT AVOIDED NEVER WHAT I SHOULD BE SHOULD HAVE BEEN COULD BE COULD HAVE BEEN I'M NOTHING WITHOUT THIS THIS MYTH MY MYTH MY BEST ME GODS HOW DID I GET HERE
You know how. You know why. Stop shouting. Acquiesce.
NO
You're injured...hurt. Use it. Use the excuse. Stop. Acquiesce. You've got an excuse...a great excuse...another excuse like all the others over all the years. Perfect. Clean. No one will notice. No one cares.
NO
Give in. It doesn't matter. This ride doesn't matter. Quit. Give up.
NO!
Be yourself. Be the real you. Be the fake, the coward, the rebel without a clue. We both know it: you're just a shell of what could have been, a mockery of your dreams.
NO!
Yes. Acquiesce. Quit.
NOT THIS TIME NOT NOW THIS IS REAL THIS COUNTS THIS MATTERS I'M HERE NOT GIVING UP GIVING IN GOING HOME WHATEVER THE COST I NEED THIS REAL SOMETHING REAL BREAK THE MOLD STOP THE CYCLE SHATTER ME GET OUT OF ME OUT OF YOU THIS IS REAL THIS MEANS SOMETHING GREAT GOOD NOBLE PURPOSE REAL REALLY REAL AND I'M HERE PRESENT MINDFUL THIS PAIN IS REAL I'M IN IT IN IT BIGGER GREATER NOT ME LITTLE LIFE PATHETIC NOTHING SOMETHING TO PROVE SOMETHING TO OFFER WASTED OPPORTUNITIES SO MANY SHIRKED RESPONSIBILITIES SO MANY LET DOWN SO MANY PEOPLE NOT NOW NOT NOW NOT NOW NOT NOW HERE NOW STAND GROUND MAKE STAND HERE NOW LIVE TRUTH HERE NOW BE MY TRUTH
My eyes were blind. My ears...deaf.
The road rolled on.
I NEED THIS NEED IT NEED IT NEED IT'S SO DAMNED HARD GODS THIS HURTS SURVIVOR CAPITAL S STRONG STRONGER THAN YOU THINK STRONGER THAN MY PAST STRONGER THAN I KNOW I CAN DO THIS GODS THIS HURTS THE PAIN SO REAL I'M REAL THIS MATTERS IT MATTERS I MATTER
No. It doesn't. You're one of thousands. You're loud, yes, but you're just part of a crowd. You're nothing special. If you never had come, it wouldn't have mattered. No one cares—really cares. This is narcissistic, arrogant, pathetic waste. You don't matter.
No.
You're not shouting anymore. Give up?
No. You're wrong. I matter. This matters. Fuck you. Get out of my head.
(Laughing) Not a chance.
I don't need you.
So what? You're stuck with me. I've been with you forever, and I'll be here forevermore.
You want to know why? Why am I doing this? Why can't I quit? Because...it's what I'm meant to do. My leg doesn't matter. The damage is done. I can't hurt it more anymore. This ride matters. I believe in it. It's real. I'm making a difference to someone, somewhere. And others believe in me, too. Donors, supporters...they matter. My friends...they matter. They're real. This ride...it's what I have to give. I'm not alone. I'm with them—all of them. Get them home. Give. Go.
I stopped riding. I waited for my friends. We came together, by ones and twos.
We rode in, together. I took the lead, telling the others to get behind me, to draft.
I drove the train, my mind quiet, focused on the rhythm, the work.
We got closer. Headwind. I paced on.
I got stronger. At some point my pace split the group We slowed, regrouped. Together we came home.
I remember a lot about that day—too much. As I type this five months later my leg still throbs. I haven't been on a bike since Pelotonia. That was August. It's now January. I'm not on a bike again until April. Maybe.
Was it worth it?
My post-Pelotonia blues were deep, wide, and consuming—I still haven't unpacked.
But then...I saw this:
And I realized that maybe...just maybe...it was worth it.
I have another blog. It's more along professional lines. It has a (mildly) clever title, but it needs more content. It hasn't matured yet. It's still seeking its voice.
And, of course, there's more to the story of Day 1.
Unfortunately, I don't get paid to write this blog, and The Man needs my attention.
So do BCB and the LAs; and they deserve it!
I am accepting that I will never capture it all. I have some memories that will last a lifetime. Other memories will fade into time-fogged images formed more from emotion than reality—the impressionist art of our collected past.
For today, here are a few highlights and lowlights from Athens.
Highlights
Highlights included seeing volunteer queen extraordinare and absolute cutie Liz (and having her recognize me). Each year she was a beacon of support—for so many. She was always up (even at 0530) and ready for the challenge.
A Brief Digression
Here's an example...
Pelotonia 2010. I finished with the top 20 riders. We were in Athens just after noon. While most of the bags had made it, mine had not. I was standing there, stupidly, exhausted and unsteady on my feet, still wearing my soaking kit and bike shoes, with absolutely no ability to think.
No bag = no shower.
No bag = no personal support (food, clothes, teddy bear).
No bag = no anchor; no clue.
She's the woman in charge—she should be!
She's darned good!
And she's a cutie!
I looked at her blankly. I think I said something like: "Point me in a direction."
She put her hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said: "Go get some food. Relax. I'll handle this. When your bag gets here, I'll come find you."
I did as I was told. I got some food. I relaxed. I let her handle it.
The next thing I knew (time meant nothing; I could have been sitting there for 10 minutes or an hour), I got a tap on my shoulder from another volunteer, who directed me to my bag, and offered to carry it for me.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is volunteer support at its finest!
Back to the highlights
What else did I enjoy?
I loved watching others finish. Everyone has a story. The joy and catharsis is inspiring.
I enjoyed telling parts of my story in interviews. Shameless self-promotion? You cynic! I prefer to think of it as furthering my mission as a Thriver.
I love the randomness of conversations at the finish. People approach other people to congratulate or appreciate, and warm personal exchanges manifest. It's an absolute joy to soak in the positivity and the overwhelming heart of the finish.
Lowlights
Somebody's got to write it.
To quote Genius Ed: "We can do more. We can do better, and the best time to fix next year is right now."
Showers
The scalding hot-hot-hot showers in the convocation center left something to be desired. In a way it was funny—we all wanted a hot shower after the ride. But the complete lack of cold water was ridiculous. I know that Pelotonia could not control it, but it is worth mentioning...
Massage
I was lucky—I got in early enough to get a (very short) massage. Unfortunately,
the lack of massage and chiropractic was disappointing. I applaud those who showed and offered their services. I hope there can be some incentives put in place for future events, to ensure this support for the riders—especially the late arrivals. They were told that there was a four-to-six hour wait for massages. And these are folks who really needed it! Something better can be done.
AUDIO VOLUME!!!
Wheelsucker on the left.
VS DM Jeffry on the right.
I would have liked to have had a
conversation with my favorite
Victoria's Secret Dungeon Master.
But who could hear anything?
The bands. Crikey! Who thought it a good idea to have music that loud blaring across our recovery meals? Might we maybe have an environment that is simultaneously festive and conversational? We had just ridden long and hard. We wanted to share the experience with family and friends, and we wanted to commune with the wonder and joy of the experience WITHOUT SHOUTING! WHAT, YOU CAN'T HEAR ME? I SAID WITHOUT SHOUTING! I'm not bitter...much. Really, the bands are way over the top. This has nothing to do with musical taste. It has everything to do with the objective of the event. If you want to go over the top on the opening ceremonies, great. more power to you. I can pick up my packet an leave. But the finish is our finish. And we want to share.
Say, maybe channel some of those band funds into incentives for chiropractic and massage therapy for riders. Now there's an idea!
Sherpas
Finally, some kind of carts or logistics to get the bags from the dorms to the trucks on the Sunday morning.
I can completely understand the logistics behind Saturday, and how support to the dorms would be difficult.
Getting out is different. If we had a bag drop at the dorms, it might be possible to pull a truck up to the dorm and sling the bags all in one fell swoop. It would eliminate the problems we have of navigating a long-haul early morning.
None of these individually or in combination reduced the overall goodness of the experience. My Pelotonia memories are not defined by these personal lowlights.
But my experience would have been enriched that much more , if they wre made to (poof!) go away!
"I just got here. Help me out! Don't make me pull!"
Perhaps not the best way to announce yourself. Not exactly "Bonjour, je m'appelle 'Wheelsucker'. Comment ça va?"
But it was all I had. And in the circumstances, it made sense.
The group was small—four or five riders, and they were cursing their misfortune. They were stopped by a light, and traffic, having lost the blessing of a police escort (bless those OHiPs!). I recognized Dave C. and Bob Kirk. Dave looked...bad. (Sorry to say it, Dave!) Bob looked...like Bob.
Bob's US Cycling racing age 63. The man's my idol (hereinafter known as MI Kirk). Twenty years from now, I plan to be as fit and centered as is he. In 2010 he was hugely supportive of me on Pelotonia Day 1.
I had no idea I was in such exalted company!
The guy's a stud. And incredibly generous, too.
When we finished last year—beating my five-hour goal by six minutes—I had something of a breakdown in Athens. Emotional floodwaters overwhelmed me, and I cried salty tears in a purging cry that emptied me. In 2010 I was completely invested in Pelotonia. I had come through a period of self-reflection—on this blog—that changed my life. Crossing the line in Athens was the culmination of so, so much.
And it all had to be released.
And release it did.
And as I stood there, banshee-howling, with tears and snot dripping from my face, there was MI Bob.
And here is what he said:
"I don't know who you're riding for, but you're a hell of a rider, and It was a pleasure riding with you."
Wow.
And here we were, once again, riding together.
What to Do?
As I recovered, drinking and eating and hiding from the wind, I sensed that I was surrounded by disappointment. Dave C. was hurting—cramps had gotten to him earlier—and he was distraught. For the most part, the others seemed to be suffering from ennui. There was no spark! No...something!
I moved to the front with MI Bob, pacing us through town. Dave C was in "game over" mode. For him, as soon as he lost contact with that lead group, his day was done. His ambition was to finish in 4:30. He'd worked for months to get ready. He was disconsolate.
I felt for him. He had, after all, been my contact with Rick. My entire PPPPP-PP strategy was built around my connection to Dave. I owed him a lot. And it was hard to listen to the tone in his voice.
Making things worse, we were in one of the most dispiriting places you can be when you're suffering: town. Stop signs, traffic lights, quick turns, railroad tracks, traffic: they're all obstacles; they're in your face; and they kill your legs with all the stop-start, stop-start.
And then entered the other worst place to be: flatland. A long, flat, wind-swept road endlessly unrolled in front of us. Misery. Pure misery.
I'd had a mechanical. He had cramps. Big difference. It's empathetic to state: when you're done, you're done. Dave C was done. It was only a matter of time.
So, what did that mean for me?
A standard paceline gives the point
man a lot of responsibility—
for good or for bad.
On the straightaway, our paceline was a mess. We just couldn't seem to get it together. Maybe I was being impatient, but I had bridged up to these guys, working hellaciously to do so, and I wasn't going to soft-pedal the remaining miles. I had my ambitions, too.
I knew Bob was strong, and there was a guy in an Ohio State kit (with 437 water bottles attached to him), who had good legs, so I suggested we try a reverse (rotating, rolling) paceline. It would enable us to get breaks, and it would pick up the pace.
This technique is different from the standard paceline. While the lead rider still sets the pace, he no longer determines the length and speed of the pull. It's the responsibility of the the overtaking rider to get to the front. Once on the front, that rider simply maintains, knowing that another rider is approaching from the rear at speed, and that a rest is soon to come.
When it works, it's an elegant flow. Bikes rotate with clockwork regularity, and the entire group glides forward with inevitability. It cycles beautifully.
In a reverse paceline, the overtaking riders
shoulder responsibility. It's fast and effective.
In our case, I hoped to spark something in the group. A reverse paceline mitigates the situation we were having—where riders got on the front, tired, and slowed the pace (or riders simply did not ride on the front). I wanted to ride. I wanted to see who wanted to ride. Someone had to try something.
It didn't take. A few of us took the point in turns. Onward we labored.
But I lit a small spark. The pace quickened.
One...More...Hill...
There was one more hill to come: Carbon Hill. We all knew it was out there; but I couldn't remember how far it was, or what led up to it. It's one of those landmarks that impresses itself on you, but that seems to come out of nowhere.
In Pelotonia's two previous editions I rode over it strongly—to the consternation of my companions. Like Starner Hill (whoa), it's perfect for my power-climbing style.
If only I could make it there!
Despite my PPPPP-PP, I had a problem. I was nearly out of water, and the thirst was upon me. Thirst is like...needing to pee—as soon as you acknowledge the sensation, you need to pee more. If only you could ignore it! In this case, as soon as I felt thirsty, I started seeing water everywhere. I just couldn't drink any of it. A stream here, a puddle there, water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink!
You caught me. I'm exaggerating.
I did have a quarter-bottle of water left. But I knew I needed much more than that to support my effort. And if I killed that reserve, I would find myself in bonk-town.
There's a literary/film reference you
didn't expect!
So I turned to Gunga Din, the previously-mentioned, Ohio-State jersey wearing, 437 bottle carrying, strong-legged fella with the aerobars.
"How are you for water?" I asked, fully knowing that he had several full bottles.
"Um, ok," he responded, confusedly. As in: why-is-this-guy-asking-about-water-this-can't-be-good.
"Can I have some?" I ventured. "I promise not to drink it all."
Kindly, and patiently, he responded: "Sure."
My faith in human nature restored, I drank lustily.
In seconds I felt stronger. I hadn't felt weak, but the speed with which the water had an effect told me that I was closer to the edge than I'd thought.
I thanked him, and we rode on—closer and closer to the hill.
Just like Starner Hill (whoa) I kept asking the locals where it would start. I knew there was a slight turn to the left (at least I thought it was to the left), but I didn't know where it would appear.
And just like Starner Hill (whoa) it was suddenly upon me—84 miles into the ride.
I shifted my gear, rose from my saddle, and found my rhythm. Just like Starner Hill (whoa), I told myself to ride, not to race. There were no King of the Mountain points here.
I crested and descended, relieved. The hard stuff was in our wake. Now we would run in to the finish.
And what a run-in it would be.
The Strait
We navigated Nelsonville and halted at the last traffic signal we would see before Athens. As we waited for the ruby light to change, I looked at my companions.
Tired: that's what we all were. Yet everyone was itching to go. When the signal did turn, we dashed off—across the railroad tracks, and up the gentle grade beyond.
Up we went, softly curving left, and then down to the long, flat, final road leading to the bike path.
This stretch was just that—a stretch. We shook out what needed shaking out, fed, and assessed. I felt good; Mission Control was still reporting a status of "Go!"
I finished my borrowed water and my own meager bottle. Rick was somewhere ahead. I was confident I would make good on my promise to Gunga Din.
Two dodgy twitches—left and right—and we were on the path—the Strait of Athens.
And there was Rick!
Looking for all the world like a goateed boy hosting a summertime lemonade stand, he had set a table lined with bottles. I screeched to a stop, swapped bottles, and surged away, to bridge back to Gunga Din and those others who hadn't stopped.
I was sprinting down the path when I realized: I was sprinting down a bike path.
It's not the tunnel of love, I can assure you of that!
Really? Is this a good idea?
Anyone planning to fly through Pelotonia's course (such as the lead group with their 4:30 ambition) is challenged by the course itself. While the last ten miles are smoothly paved and on an aggregate downslope, they're mostly on a bike path. Even if you had a police escort through all the previous roads, you would need to share these miles with local runners, dog walkers, kids, and cyclists.
It was a short sprint, but it gave me much to think about, as I slowed from 30 mph.
Ok. It's not yellow, and not merely a pole,
but you get the idea. Road furniture is the
stuff of cyclists' nightmares!
The group re-formed and we pacelined through the canopy. I glanced down and saw that our speed floated between 24 and 25 mph. On the open road, that was lovely! Here? I was so tense, I was waterproof.
Adding to the excitement, at irregular intervals we encountered "traffic furniture"—cycling parlance for "shit that can hurt you."
At each road crossing—the path intersected a number of minor roads and other paths—we dodged around yellow-painted posts. These were placed to keep motor vehicles off the bike path—a noble idea. But they had a devastating effect on our group.
Nope, no-one crashed (thanks, Holy Spoke!).. Instead, we became rubberband men.
Stretching, Stretching, SNAP!
We WISH we had rubber-band propulsion!
Curious things happen in traffic. When the head of a line of vehicles slows, the line compresses, with everyone filling the micro-space between bumpers. When the head of the line speeds up, the line elongates, with large gaps forming between vehicles, due to uneven reactions and accelerations. Then—as speed normalizes—spacing normalizes.
In our case, every time we would come to one of those crossings, we'd compress (to mere inches), expand (to several feet), and normalize, returning to our one-foot spacing, with each rider adjusting his speed accordingly.
This elasticity is a horrorshow, if you're not ready for it. Especially for the guy on the back.
On the front? You call the shots. You control the line. In the next three? Get gunslinger-ready! You're going to be braking blindly, and you'll need your fast-twitch reactions to not crash. On the back?
Well, that's where it gets bad. If you're near the rear you have the greatest distance to cover when the line accelerates. You're a rubberband man.
Why?
Let's say the line is eight riders long. Normally, in the paceline, you have a one-foot gap between your front wheel and the rear wheel of the rider in front of you. When the line slows, that gap shrinks to inches (centimeters!). But when the line accelerates, the gaps can grow, the rubberband stretches until there's an average of a six-foot gap in between.
Then it the rubberband contracts; it normalizes.
The second rider in line only needs to close five feet (from a six-foot gap to a one-foot gap for a total of five feet). The third rider needs to close twice that (two six-foot gaps are closed to two, two-foot gaps—one for his gap and another for the gap of the rider in front of him. Rider three closes a gap of 10 feet).
Confused yet?
Here's the important part: On the back = bad.
The 8th rider needs to close a 40-foot gap. That, dear readers, is work—especially at the speeds we were sustaining.
The guy in yellow is off the back.
He's got some work to do,
or he's going to be in the hurt locker.
So, being on the back hurts. But it's part of your paceline responsibility—everyone takes a turn on the front and drops back to the rear, rotating through the entire line.
But, sometimes you're on the edge. You're tired, cramping, sore, and just this side of being cooked. If—God forbid!—you are stuck on the rear and can't move up in the line, then every time the line slows, you're going to be sprinting for your life.
I don't know how many crossings that path had. I do know this: I never got out of the top four—I was happy to take pulls, rather than become elasticized. I was pushing the pace, despite my misgivings about racing down the path (BIKE UP! MOVE LEFT!).
And at some point we lost Dave C and others.
I'm not proud of it, but it's a fact: they was gone. I knew it would happen, though I'd hoped it wouldn't. Even so, in my hyper-aware, are-we-really-going-this-fast-on-a-bike-path (RUNNER UP!) mode, I barely noticed.
IM Bob, a few others, and I took turns pulling on the front. Gunga Din was there—and I had returned a full bottle to him at some point on the path—as was Riley Adams, with his escort and confidante, Richard Lewis. I know very little about Richard
The final stages of the path include a long straightaway with woods tight to the right and open fields to the left. It's a fast runway that leads to a long, sweeping left. we hit this stretch and I knew we were home free—it was just a matter of completing the run-in. A shorter-pitched curve to the right carries you to a short rise and more traffic furniture. Careful, careful boys!
Then, POP!, you're on the street. You can feel the rubber bite the road as you bank hard-over, keeping your speed in a tight, fast left.
For more than a few miles I'd been thinking about the finish. Who was going to do what? Did the group have an unspoken commitment to finish together? Was is every man for himself? How was this going to go? Would some folks get cagey and slow, looking for draft position in anticipation of a sprint?
I had no idea.
Until we came off the path, and all hell broke loose.
It was just like a Cat 5 race—everyone went, and they all went too early. We were a good mile or so from the finish—a long way!
I came onto the road and instantly got passed by IM Bob, in full-out sprint mode. Maybe he was trying to break away, I dunno. I stopped thinking. I reacted.
I jumped his wheel and tucked into his slipstream. We were surging ahead when he suddenly pulled up and slowed.
Shit!
Somehow I didn't crash. I was hyper-aware, and I was lucky. I shouted something guttural as I slowed, losing top-end speed. I watched several riders sweep past us.
What to do?
I stayed in the saddle and re-accelerated without sprinting. I needed a moment to recover and view the situation.
Everyone had sprinted out of the bike path. Now, they all slowed. We made the final right turn into the finishing sweep. Everyone was gassed, or they had simply stopped racing. Gruppo compacto. Or becoming so, at least.
Perfect.
That's a look of joy...intensity...desire...focus...passion.
I owe this photographer for capturing the essential me on the bike
I was behind the bunch as it re-settled. And I had no intention of joining them.
When IM Bob flew past me earlier, it triggered me. All my ambition came forward. All my hard work justified it, and the group's disintegration cleared my conscience.
I was going to finish. I was going to finish alone. I was going to finish strong.
It had been a long day. My abilities and my mettle had been tested. My planning had paid off, and Dame Fortune had looked upon me with favor.
