I would tie together two of my passions: futbol and cycling.
I would work with DC United, Sporting Kansas City, and the Columbus Crew to do a cancer charity ride.
I would ride from RFK to Livestrong Sporting Park, via Columbus Crew stadium.
I would seek sponsorship for the logistics, and I would raise money, splitting the donations 50/50 between Livestrong, Pelotonia, and (yet-to-be-determined Washington, DC-based cancer-related charity).
It would take place during the summer, and I would time my Kansas City arrival to coincide with a DC United match.
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.
(Stop snickering in the back there, you naughty boys!)
It's a dull ache. A lingering ache. It's the kind of ache that reminds you of something you've done not quite right.
It's like the morning after you moved some furniture. You know the feeling. You pulled, or stretched, or strained *something*.
It's an "owie".
My feet hit the floor (gently...) and I reach for my sock. It's a long sock. It's a knee sock. Sometimes it's polka-dot. Other times it's plain black or white.
I reach for my boot.
At this point in the narrative you're uncertain what image to conjure. "Boot". It could mean a lot of things. Is it a cowboy boot, crafted from exotic leathers and inscribed with patterned stitching? Is it a Doc Martin? Have I brought forward my adolescent punk years? Is it a Timberland? If so, is it a fashionista Timberland—all style and no substance? Or, is it a Timberland —a rugged, deeply dirt-encrusted symbol of a hard work ethic?
So many possibilities. So many images.
The mind's eye stalls. It blinks. What could it be? And how do I resolve the polka-dot sock?
I carefully insert my foot into the soft polyester cocoon. The hard shell surrounding the foam clunks against the wood floor. I pick up the plastic covering shell, insert it over my shin, and tear open the Velcro straps. Their ripping sound tears at my heart as I loop the straps, pull tight, and smooth the fabric down upon itself.
It's my orthopedic boot.
I hate it.
And so my day begins.
It's my reality—no longer new. It's a life of stormtrooper jokes. And pain. So much more pain than I'd expected: chronic hip, back and neck pain; intermittent hip flexor, knee, and calf pain; constant bruises from kicking myself with the shell.
