America's Most Beautiful Bike Ride is today. It's happening right now. If I were there, I'd likely have recently left the lunch stop at King's Beach and would be mentally bracing myself for the long, slow climb up Spooner Mountain. I was supposed to be there.
I look forward to the ride around Lake Tahoe every year, and it disappoints me that I had to pull the plug on this ride about six weeks ago. 50/50 Club aside, even after the weather became temperate this spring I was far too busy to train adequately and to raise the money. And most significantly, I doubted that I would even be able to take the time off work to make the trip, which turned out exactly to be the case. So for the first time since 2003 I am at home in Virginia on the first weekend in June, wishing I was in the mountainous west.
The thing about the long bike rides is that even though they may not be enjoyable for every single moment I am on my bicycle, they are always enjoyable after the fact. There is something deeply satisfying about completing a goal that sounds borderline insane. Below is a recap (as long as I've gotten to rehashing older material) of my second tour around the pond and I think it's about the best job I have ever done of capturing exactly why these rides are so important to me. I'm generally not so great with words, but I do get lucky sometimes.
Heartbreakers
There
are two types of travelers in this world: those who choose comfort,
convenience, and style, and those who choose America West. After last
years' near fiasco, I wanted to arrive at the airport earlier than
would logically be necessary. I rose at 5AM to pack a few last things
(my shorts,
incidentally, were the second thing to go into the suitcase - right
after my pedals) and arrived at National Airport by 6:50 for my 8:35
flight. As our eight o'clock boarding came and went and we approached
our departure time while still sipping coffee in the waiting area,
things began to look grim.
I
heard rumblings of a missing part on the captain's chair. Our flight
was delayed until 10:30. 11:00. 11:30. Cancelled. Julie O. heroically
worked with the presumably inept America West crew to find alternate
transportation for fifty cyclists. The coaches and a couple of captains
were sent on the first available flight to retrieve our bikes from the
truck. The rest of us were rerouted through anywhere that could get us
to Reno: Dallas, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Minneapolis. I was a member
of the only group that had to change airports. At one o'clock, after
six hours at National, seven of us hopped in taxis to
Baltimore-Washington International. I should mention that after too
many rotten experiences, I normally refuse to travel from BWI. I hadn't
been there in four years and I regret to say that things have not
changed one iota. In fact, I was nearly grateful for our three hour wait for our flight,
because we would almost certainly make the boarding despite the best
efforts of the BWI staff.
All told, I spent eleven hours
in four different airports last Friday, and arrived at my destination
at 4AM EDT. I once spent twelve hours in JFK and was awake for about 40
due to a cancelled flight, and I can say without the risk of hyperbole
that this was a million times worse. At least when I touched down after
that marathon I was in Shanghai, rather than the self-proclaimed
Biggest Little City in the World. And American gave me 50,000 miles for my trouble. America West didn't even buy us lunch. A wise man once said "The waiting is the hardest part." After Friday, I was inclined to agree with him.
Saturday,
fortunately, passed almost entirely without incident. I retrieved my
bicycle from Ziva's room to find it had come off the truck with a flat,
but I managed to change the tube in about five minutes - a far cry from
the feature-length comedy of errors that was my first attempt not so
very long ago. We went for our short ride and then I met up with Bill,
who drove up from San Francisco for the penny slots and a beer at the
Hard Rock Cafe. After the pasta dinner, I prepared my gear for the next
day's ride and shut off the light at about nine-thirty to get some
sleep.
Except I didn't. I tossed and turned all night. I didn't
sleep well last year, either, but at least I slept some. I may have
drifted off for a few minutes here and there on Saturday night, but I
got absolutely no meaningful sleep. And as if to add insult to injury,
Sunday morning the toilet in our room backed up, limiting us to the
casino bathroom.
I couldn't for the life of me recall anything of last year's climb at Emerald Bay save for the small puddle of somebody else's breakfast at the top. I figured this meant that I either flew up the hill in my post-Mt. Weather
euphoria or I blocked it out almost entirely. I must have blocked it
out. And perhaps this time next year, I won't remember the wind, but I
doubt it. This was easily the windiest ride I have ever done. I heard
the official estimate was forty mile-per-hour winds, but I can't vouch
for it. I do know that it was brisk, relentless, and came from every
direction except directly behind us. I can think of few things more
disheartening than pedaling downhill at nine miles an hour. Even
Spooner Summit seemed to taunt me: after a long eight mile and 800'
climb, my reward was a short break and a gusty descent that was even
more nerve-wracking than a year ago. And yeah, I had to pedal a couple
of times there too.
I don't mind telling you that two days ago
was not my best day on a bicycle. Well, on second thought, yeah, I do
mind a bit. I am trying hard not to be disappointed that I got my ass
kicked eight ways from Sunday. I know I am a stronger cyclist than
that, but I had a rough day. It happens. It's unfortunate when it
happens on ride day, but those are the breaks. I am already looking
forward to a better ride next year.
I didn't have a personal
connection to the cause when I first got involved with Team in
Training. I just thought riding my bike around Lake Tahoe would be a
cool thing to do - and yeah, it's for charity, so that's kinda cool
too. But after sixteen months and three centuries, I have met so many
wonderful people that I am
personally involved by now. I'll be honest, more than once on Sunday,
when it seemed that there was no gas left in the tank, I thought about
calling it quits. But I knew I couldn't. The people that we all ride
for - they can't quit; it's
simply not an option. And as much as I was miserable - and I was, trust
me - quitting was not an option for me either. So I kept on until I
crossed the finish line, as did so many others, even though it was the
furthest thing from easy I could possibly imagine at 4:30PM PDT, Sunday
June 5, 2005. Two days later, I feel fine, and the Leukemia and
Lymphoma Society - thanks to you and me and the friends and family of
1,900 other cyclists - is seven million dollars closer to finding a
cure for cancer. For me, that's enough to gladly endure any minor
heartbreak life throws my way.
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