February 11, 2016

Austin City Limits—or Bust

FINAL in a three-part series about cycling from Houston to Austin in the BP MS 150 to raise research funds for multiple sclerosis (MS). Shameless plea for donations at the end. 

           I awoke in a panic at 4 a.m.
           I’d have to be dressed, packed, and ready to roll by 7 a.m. In the black morning darkness, I fumbled around my mattress for my gear bag and, while still zipped inside my sleeping bag, I blindly wrestled against myself to pull on the sausage-stuffer-like jersey and gel-seated shorts. I didn’t want to be late. It didn’t matter that it would be three more hours until we rolled. I didn’t want to be late.
     
 Listen to ZZ Top's "LaGrange " here:

           At 5 a.m., ZZ Top’s “La Grange” blared on camp speakers. After the initial rock shock, I felt oddly happy. Recharged. Ready for the best meal ever—pancakes and coffee—since the best fajitas ever the night before. Breakfast made the biggest difference in quelling my fear by soaking it in syrup-induced comfort. With every stride back to the team tent, I felt steadily happier.
            Then I tried to pump up my tires in the dark.
            It took five people to help me.
            “Who has a flashlight?” a rider asked.
            “I have one,” one man said.
            I felt relieved.
            “But it’s already packed with my gear and on the truck,” he added.
            My heart sunk.
            “I have one on my cell phone,” a woman said.
            I felt hopeful.
            “Crap. The battery’s dead.”
            My heart sunk again.
            Finally, a passerby shined a mini-flashlight on my tire’s valve. A few pumps later, I was ready to roll. But rolling out of camp wasn’t easy. My legs were as heavy as reinforced cement and my fanny felt as though I had gotten one of Mamma’s old-fashioned whoopings. Soreness rode a zigzag path from neck to ankle. But I was going home, so I kept a positive attitude. And I thought of Karla. And I looked at the orange bandana—the one with the names of the many people whom I discovered in the last year had MS or knew a loved one or friend with the disease.
 
 
                                                                                      Photo by Cathy Chapaty
These people are why I ride.
 
 
            This is why I ride, I silently chanted. This is why I ride.

            Day 2 was a rolling hills rerun of Day 1: more riders with flat tires, muscle cramps, mechanical issues, and looks of defeat. But I was oddly riding well. It was as if I’d been awarded a do-over energy-wise. I had Crazy Christina thoughts:
            If I could do Day 1, I proved that I can do Day 2. I might even do the ride again next year!
            Ten miles became 20 miles, then 30, and 40, and a few mind games later, my fellow riders and I were inching closer toward Austin's city limits. I was making great time, and for once, excitement overtook fear.
            There weren’t many riders around when I pulled into the next rest stop and parked my bike in an empty field. The water rehydration lines were short; there was no wait for bananas, pretzels, oranges, trail mix, and M&Ms; and the port-a-potties still had plenty of toilet paper. Confidence took hold. A maniacal smile emerged. I was going to crush the rest of the ride. I just know it. I could feel it!
           When I turned to get my bike, though, a sea of madness emerged. Since I rolled in, the field and the street had exploded in activity, with hundreds of riders and a mass of bikes on the ground.
 
                                                        Photo courtesy of OnceAMonth4Ladies.com
O. M. G. Where the hell is my bike?

           The residual effects of fatigue-brain set in: I had no idea—left, right, front, or back—where I’d left my bike. I thought I'd left it in the field. I was sure of it. But...maybe not...
            I tried to stay calm.
            Surely I’ll find it.
            Searching the field, I was certain I left my bike near an electricity pole. I concentrated my search there. No luck. Maybe I left it closer to the road. No luck. Calmness collapsed into full-on panic as more riders arrived and left. My bottom lip quivered. Frustration rose. Worried Wanda thoughts flooded in.
            Good grief, how can anyone find anything in this mess?
            These bikes all look the same!
            Someone took my bike! That's what happened! Stole it because theirs was messed up! What jerks!
            I need to find my bike! Where IS it? (Insert stream of curse words here.)
            What if I don’t find it? I’ll never finish!
            That’s it—my ride is over.
            More riders left the rest stop, and the field was beginning to look as empty as when I first rolled in. I gave up, believing that it must be the Ride God’s will that I never finish—that I take a stupid sag wagon after all. But in defeat, I felt a twinge of relief. My shoulders dropped. A brewing frustration headache subsided.  I removed my helmet, stripped off my gloves, then looked for a place to sit down in the grass. And that’s when I saw the familiar image of a maroon Trek in the distance—in the complete opposite area where I’d been searching.
            And after I cursed myself in frustration for not finding it sooner, I pulled on my gloves, clipped together the chin strap of my helmet, and rolled.

            The lost bike incident actually allowed me more time to rehydrate, and now I was grateful. The afternoon sun channeled unrelenting heat rays onto my helmet, shoulders, and back. Salty sweat made a steady stream down my temple and into my mouth. Even my shins perspired.
            My mantra of just keep pedaling, just keep pedaling returned to don’t take the sag wagon, don’t take the sag wagon.
            Up ahead, I saw another mass of riders—this time stopped in the road.
            “Bad accident,” I overheard one rider tell another.
            “A biker?” his teammate asked.
            “I heard it was bike-car crash,” another rider said. (It turned out to be a stalled car.)
            I whispered a grateful prayer for being stuck in that field. Maybe I was going to get into an accident and the Ride God prevented it.
            Just keep pedaling, just keep pedaling, I repeated, and soon another rest stop was on the horizon.
 
 
             Photo courtesy of the Houston Chronicle
One of the many signs from supporters along the route. They get it.
 
 
            The day—the entire MS 150 experience—was beginning to take its toll. I. WAS. TIRED. But I didn't want to quit. What would my Taekwondo students think if I did? What would Karla think?
            As I gingerly pulled out of the last rest stop, a fellow rider met me, and we kept pace. At first our pairing was unintentional, but soon it became apparent that the guy needed someone to talk to. So he talked. And talked. He rattled on for miles about how he was riding for his wife, who suffered from MS.
            “She’s using a cane now. Finally out of the wheelchair,” he said. “This disease is like a gigantic roller coaster. You never know what’s going to happen next. One day, she’s getting around fine, the next she can’t get out of bed. No warning. Crazy.”
            He yakked and yakked about how proud he was of her—of her courage and hope. Suddenly, my little puny pains and aches began to dissipate. He reminded me of why I was riding.
            “She’s gotten a lot of assistance from the MS Society,” he said with a smile. “She’s been on some trial meds. Been pretty lucky.”
            Indeed. Karla had benefited from the same medical research.
            “Alright, well, it’s been nice riding with you,” he said. “See you in Austin!”
            And in a flash he was well out of sight. I wondered if he, too, was a Ride Angel.
           
The most glorious sight since seeing the sign for La Grange a day earlier.
 
 
           At the crest of another hill, the Austin skyline and the Capitol emerged in the distance. Home was within reach. If I didn’t faint, throw up, or crash within the next hour, chances were good that I’d cross the finish line.
            Those were the hardest and yet easiest miles of the ride: More hills to trudge, and yet so close to home that it didn’t matter. Until that last hill up Martin Luther King Boulevard. Oh, I was cursing the ride organizers at that point.
           Still, the closer I got to the finish line, the more excited I felt, for I heard the cheers, whistles, claps, and cowbells from spectators. Some spectators with MS cheered from their wheelchairs. Chills rippled through my body as I finally rolled over the finish line in Austin. The two-day ride seemed like a blur—an adventure that was over too quickly.
            I finally found Karla and her entourage, who met me with long, odor-rich hugs. Mare was there too.
           Then Karla promptly led me to an open space in the middle of Congress Avenue.
            “Gotta do the shot in front of the Capitol,” she said.
            It’s Team Karla’s after-MS 150 tradition to take pictures of everyone holding their bikes overhead with the Capitol in the background. I was so drained that Mare had to help me lift my Trek overhead.

                                                              Photo by Ed Frainie
Team Karla at the finish line, Year 3. That's me on the far right.

JUST KEEP PEDALIN'

            In April, I’ll ride in my fourth MS 150 in a row, and much is the same every year: Cyclists roll through the same City-villes with waving townspeople, eat the same white bread sandwiches and German potatoes at Day 1 lunch, and trudge the same hills that we conveniently forgot about until we have to climb them again. The ride begins to take on a comforting familiarity. You see some of the same riders every year: A slew of energy company teams from Houston; serious bikers with expensive, high-tech, aerodynamic gear; strong riders on fat-tire mountain bikes (who still manage to pass me); and the family members wearing purple jerseys that read “For Michelle.”
            Every year, more friends and coworkers thank me for riding, then tell me that a family member or friend has MS. Sometimes, they tell me that they have it. Every year, I add more and more names to my orange bandana.
            Though many things about the ride have remained unchanged for me over the years, the same has not been true for Karla. Each year, the ride has become harder. Heat aggravates MS’s fatigue symptoms, and I began to see the struggle in her face and eyes. At the end of each ride, Karla has been less of the bubbly, passionate, and energy-filled woman who recruited Mare, Diane, and me years earlier. The disease has slowly stolen some of her trademark spunk and spark.
            Last year, teammates took turns making sure Karla reloaded her neck bandana with ice at every rest stop. The ice kept the back of her neck cool—for a few miles anyway. Further down the road, a teammate periodically, and rather gleefully, sprayed Karla’s face with a water pistol when her cheeks grew red.
            Watching Karla struggle, I always feel a sad pang in my chest. Yet she doesn’t feel sad or sorry for herself. Though tired, she continues to ride with grace, humor, and heart. She has become my real-life Ride Angel.
 
 
                                                                                    Photo by Mare Kretschmar
This is Karla on the left. She's why I ride.
 
            Karla has been a constant inspiration—on and off the road. She has been a tireless fundraiser as well. In 2015, she was inducted into the National Multiple Sclerosis Society’s Fundraisers Hall of Fame. In eight years of rides, Karla raised $100,000 to help find a cure for MS. She remains a passionate spokesperson for the National MS Society and the MS 150. She’s always willing to take time to educate the public about MS by sharing her story—and by riding.
            “So you’re doing the ride again, right?” she asked last year with a sly grin.
            I didn’t hesitate. Sometimes peer pressure can be a gift.
                                                                                                                                      
DONATE NOW! Please help me make a difference in the lives of Karla and the 2.3 million people worldwide who suffer with MS by making a donation here: http://main.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR/Bike/TXHBikeEvents?px=9394915&pg=personal&fr_id=27003
 

February 9, 2016

Houston in My Rearview Mirror

SECOND in a three-part series about cycling from Houston to Austin in the BP MS 150 to raise research funds for multiple sclerosis (MS). Shameless plea for donations at the end.

            After training for almost a year, Mare, Diane, and I joined Team Mattress Firm, aka The Dream Team. We chose this group solely for the comfy twin mattresses the team provided.
            More and more, I was less and less afraid, and I’d almost convinced myself that the MS 150 might not kill me—that it might even be fun—until the day I found out that neither Mare nor Diane could ride that weekend because of last-minute, job-related responsibilities.
            I was on my own.
            This scared the holy crap out of me.

                                                                   Photo by Diane Siler
Start of Day 1. I tried to smile.
 
            As I climbed onto my bike at the starting point on ride day, I was in terror, barely breathing. But I tried to remember that Karla and her family, recognizable by their customary creatively decorated helmets, would be somewhere in the mass of riders. (This year they wore Mickey Mouse ears in honor of Mouseketeer Annette Funicello, who died of complications of MS a few weeks earlier.) And I knew there’d also be a constant flow of cyclists. I may have felt lonely, but I quickly realized that I wasn’t alone. And even though every dang biker smoked past me, I felt comforted by their presence.
            “On your left,” someone said as a group of cyclists passed me. I’m a slow poke on the bike, so I heard this phrase a lot.
            “Slowing!” riders yelled, holding an open palm down toward the road to warn others to slow down. The phrase was repeated to riders behind like a canyon echo.
            “Stopping!” riders screamed when movement was coming to a halt. That one word saved thousands of riders from crashing into one another at intersections.
           “Merging!” riders said when they were joining a group.
            “Debris!” riders yelled when there was, well, dangerous debris on the road.
            I’m a rules and regulations kind of gal, and I loved that most riders adhered to good communication skills.
           There was also a continuous wave of motorcycle-riding support crews, ride marshals, and sag wagons that picked up riders with mechanical issues, health issues—or who had just had enough and wanted to quit.
           Don’t take the sag wagon, I repeated as a mantra every time I saw a van or school bus on the horizon. Don’t take the sag wagon.
           I finally settled into long stretches of road, forgetting time, enjoying the simple, scenic, quiet, and solitary serenity of being on my own. By this time, I had enough confidence to lift my head up off the road for short glances at the beautiful wildflowers. Serenity eventually lost to the pain in my butt and the fatigue in my legs, though. As a distraction, I practiced a writing exercise, describing in as much detail as possible everything I saw:
           Yellow triangular sign, black type, “Ice on Bridge,” attached to silver metal pole cemented into ground. Green rectangular sign, white reflective type, Bellville City Limits. Green grassy field with Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets, possible stickers. Squirrel, brown, small, scurrying across the road. Big red barn in the distance, strong manure scent, the moos of cows discussing whatever it is cows discuss.
           This worked for untold miles and was a fallback strategy whenever my Tired Tina mind began to chatter.
           I’m so tired. I could quit. I really could. Karla’s nowhere in sight. She wouldn’t know if I caught a sag wagon to the next rest stop. It’s all about raising money for MS anyway. And I’ve done that.
           I kept riding.
           After one particularly hard stretch of road, I searched for a rest stop. In the distance a crowd of bikes littered the roadside. Relief was in sight! But as I drew closer, I realized it wasn’t a rest stop. Better: A gorgeous field of bluebonnets—wildflowers as far as my bifocal-aided vision could see. Hundreds of riders stopped, pulled out their iPhones, and took group pictures and selfies. I threw my bike down too, and a fellow rider took a picture of me with a tired, giddy smile sitting in a sea of vibrant purple flowers.

Gorgeous wildflowers painted the landscape.
 
            One of the best parts of the MS 150 is rolling through the small towns. If it wasn’t called the MS 150, the ride could easily be renamed the Tour de Ville. We went through towns such as Bellville, Fayetteville, Smithville, and Webberville. Families sat in lawn chairs along downtown streets or stood in pickup truck beds, waving American flags, holding handwritten signs (“Thank you, riders!” “My mom has MS.” “Kick MS’s butt!”), whistling, clapping, and cheering. Some held out drinks for the cyclists. One group offered ice cold Bud Lites.

                                      Photo courtesy of the Houston Chronicle.
You're welcome.
 

            Every time I thought I couldn’t ride another mile, I’d see a spectator holding a sweet sign, or hear the cheering of folks lining the streets of the next small town, and keep riding.
            And riding.
            And riding.
            My goal changed from completing the entire thing without taking a sag wagon to riding from rest stop to rest stop. I played more writing mind games: I described what food might be at the next stop:
           Crunchy, salty, thin pretzels. Clear, cool water. Tart, salty pickle juice in long, green packages (great for preventing cramps). Yellow bananas cut in half, edges browning, disappearing quickly.
            Food aside, my bladder yearned for the plentiful rows of blue port-a-potties. Though woefully lacking in air ventilation, they were always stocked with ample albeit thin toilet paper.
            I looked for Karla at every rest stop. If she was among the masses, I never saw her. Karla and her riding buddies were always faster than me anyway. I eventually rode on.
           Toward the end of the day, most cyclists had the same look of fatigue in their sunburn red faces. More gingerly walked their bikes up tough hills instead of gutting it out in the granny gear. Incredibly, I wasn’t one of them. I passed many riders plagued with flat tires, broken derailleurs, road rash, or muscle cramps. Worst of all was the garden variety looks of defeat: helmet off, bike on the ground, and a pained squint in the face—scanning the horizon for a sag wagon. They all had the now-familiar look of “enough.” Some wore it better than others. Tears were shed, and despite ride rules to “keep language clean,” some profanities were muttered. One woman on the side of the road released a litany of swear words that would make my dad blush.
            “You O.K.?” I asked riders as I approached. Most just sadly nodded. There’s an expression on the road: “Everybody suffers.” It doesn’t matter whether you have the most advanced, aerodynamic ride gear on the market. At some point on the ride, the wind, hills, and heat will get to you.
 
           
                                                                                      Photo by Cathy Chapaty
I was so freakin' happy to see this sign.
 
            I rolled into the overnight stop in La Grange 30 minutes before the course closed at the end of Day 1, barely able to walk to my team’s huge white tent. Most teammates had long ago staked out sleeping spots, and some were already snoring.
            Mare and Diane had warned me about this stage of the day. They called it “fatigue brain.”
            “You won’t be able to concentrate, you’ll be so tired,” Mare said.
            “You may not even be able to put two words together,” Diane added.
            They were right. I stood at the tent entrance like a satiated zombie, not knowing if or why I should move. I finally snapped awake and began looking for my sleep spot: a brand new twin mattress still wrapped in factory plastic. (Mattress Firm donates all the mattresses after the ride to various community organizations.) Fatigue brain struck again: Should I shower then eat? Eat then shower? I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t decide. Both took so much energy.
            Thank goodness for one of the estimated 3,500 MS 150 volunteers.
            “Hey! How’s it going?” a rather bright, red-headed guy asked excitedly with a smile.
            I thought about responding, but couldn’t. He intervened, “They’re going to break down the food tables in about 30 minutes. If you want fajitas, you’d better get them now.”
            I don’t know whether I ever responded. I don’t even know if he was real. Maybe he was a Ride Angel, for in a moment, he was gone. I eventually stumbled through the tiny aisles, over teammates’ bags, water bottles, and helmets, following a smoky marinated scent coming from the back of the tent.
            Once my mouth remembered how to chew and swallow, I was in food nirvana. Fajitas, pinto beans, and rice never tasted so good, and yet it took so much energy to grind my teeth and swallow.
            I thought about trying to find Karla, but fatigue beat out desire. So I ate and showered, arriving back at my tent just in time for the camp-wide lights-out at 10 p.m. Four hours had passed since crossing the finish line, and I had no idea where all that time went.
            Too tired to sleep, I tossed and turned. Doubting Debbie thoughts crept in. I prayed for a spiritual intervention:
            I’m so tired. I’m so very tired. I need help. I don’t think I can do this again tomorrow. Oh, God, please help me.
            I quietly cried big girl tears, and kept praying. My teammates’ snores became oddly soothing enough to eventually lull me to sleep.
                                                                                                                                      
DONATE NOW! Please help me make a difference in the lives of Karla and the 2.3 million people worldwide who suffer with MS by making a donation here: http://main.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR/Bike/TXHBikeEvents?px=9394915&pg=personal&fr_id=27003

Fall Off the Bike 7 Times, Get Back Up 8

FIRST in a three-part series about cycling from Houston to Austin in the BP MS 150 to raise research funds for multiple sclerosis (MS). Shameless plea for donations at the end.

            It’s all Karla’s fault. And I should throw multiple sclerosis in there, too. If my friend Karla Zielke didn’t have this wicked disease, and if there wasn’t a dire need to find a cure, I’d be spending weekends on the couch streaming some lame series on Netflix instead of bicycling on Austin-area roads until my butt was raw and my quads felt like reinforced cement.
            But one year I made the mistake of going to the Capitol in Austin to watch Karla and a human ant trail of 13,000 other cyclists roll across the finish line in the BP MS 150. These riders had pedaled 150 or more miles from Houston to Austin over two days. It was damned impressive.
           
                                Photo courtesy of Pixus.com
Some roll in with their teams, some roll in solo.
 
            The National Multiple Sclerosis Society organizes these rides nationwide to raise much-needed awareness and research funds for a disease that affects 400,000 Americans—2.3 million people worldwide. Since 1985, the BP MS 150 has raised an estimated $200 million for research and services for people like Karla. The ride also raised God-like awe in me for anyone—especially Karla—who could trek such a great distance on a tiny saddle.
            “So you’re doing the ride next year, right?” Karla asked me that first year, proudly sporting an orange and white “I Ride with MS” jersey. She smiled widely with energy and passion. Her body odor hinted that she’d been riding all day, yet she stood solid—fresh and alive.
            I mumbled an unintelligible excuse, but she planted a seed.
            Every April afterward, I went to the Capitol to watch Karla and the other riders roll in. I met more and more people with MS who shared stories of their struggles.
            Multiple sclerosis (MS) damages the coating around nerve fibers in the central nervous system, disrupting signals between the brain, spinal cord, and the rest of the body. Symptoms vary. One day a person with MS may feel tired and dizzy, and have blurred vision. The next day they may be in constant pain and unable to walk.
            I also met hundreds of sunburned, fatigue-faced riders—many of whom had love ones with MS. They rode for the same cause: To find a cure.
            One year I finally accepted Karla’s challenge.
            Peer pressure can be was an unexpected gift.
 
                                                                                         Photo by Mare Kretschmar
The moment I made the commitment to ride the MS 150--with a witness.


SPIN CLASS HELL
 
            Training for long distance biking began via a one-hour spin class in an unremarkable room at a local YMCA. The Instructor barked orders like a Marines drill sergeant. She had to. Otherwise, her voice would be drowned by the vibrating bass of Van Halen’s “Jump” as it boomed from the old stereo speakers. At the front of the room, she rode high on her mechanical horse, going nowhere, yet with an earnest urgency. Not one drop of sweat apparent. I hated her for that. She made the work look so easy. It wasn’t.
            Others on the Monday night spin class crew groaned yet kept turning their pedals faster and faster. As ordered, they cranked up the resistance on their cycles a quarter turn. Pedaling maniacally, I tried to forget that we were in a small, rectangular-shaped, teal-walled room, masterfully built to encourage a rise in body heat. Instead, I tried to picture a sunny open road with a cool breeze in my face, Texas mesquite trees to my right, and an occasional mamma cow with her baby calf grazing green pastures. But I could never stay in my dream world; the blare of Van Halen isn’t compatible with the image of scenic, serene country roads.

                                                                                             Photo by Cathy Chapaty
Spin Class bike from hell.
 
            The class kept up a brisk pace. Another bubble of sweat emerged at my temple and weaved its way down the curve of my exhaustion-red cheek until it dropped on the lap of my gray gym shorts.
            “Turn it one full rotation!” the Instructor yelled as she rose from her saddle. “Charge the hill! You should feel this climb in your legs. If you’re not feeling it and you’re not out of breath, you’re not working hard enough!”
            Before long, it was time for “up and downs,” eight rotations on the saddle, eight rotations off until quads and hamstrings threaten to divorce the body. Though I could see my classmates perspiring and wincing—even the bulky pimple-faced guy whom I suspected was on steroids—I felt alone in my struggle.
            I hadn’t been serious about biking since childhood days freely touring the neighborhood on my banana seat bicycle. I loved that bike. When I was on that bike, I was free from the chaos of our alcoholic home, in which Mamma yelled unrelentingly at Daddy every night for coming home drunk again. But one day, my parents decided that financial security was more important than my personal freedom and sanity, and they sold that bike so that I could open a savings account. We got $12 for my banana seat friend, and I remember feeling sad when the bank teller asked, “What can I do for you today?”
            Get my bike back for me, I thought.
            A jarring techno tune brought me back to spin class. I settled in for an imaginary flat road, starring at a worn decal on the riderless bike across the room. The edges of the decal were weathered and peeling, much like I imagined I would be at some point on the MS 150 route.
            “We’re on another incline,” the Instructor shouted. “Turn up the resistance!”
            I repeatedly wiped sweat from the slippery handle bars with a spare hand towel that I snagged from the bottom of the kitchen drawer at home. The towel was old, long ago made off-white from years of use, and its edges were frayed. I avoided using the towel at home because it wasn’t perfect. Yet every time I searched the linens for donations to the latest fire, tornado, or flood victims, I couldn’t part with it. I might need it someday. Like today.
            If that towel could talk, it might encourage me to keep pedaling. It might tell me that I would survive the upcoming ride. It might remind me that I’m riding for a worthy cause. It might even make a laundry joke that everything will come out fine in the wash. But it just lazily hung there, limp and silent, over the black handle bars.
            “Last hill!” the Instructor yelled over a Beastie Boys song. I wanted to give up, but I couldn’t. As a Taekwondo teacher, I had drilled the mantra “Don’t Quit” into the minds of my young students. That mantra was now my dry-land life jacket. I put my head down and pedaled as fast as I could.
            When my eyes finally rose, I realized that Toned Lady was staring at me from across the room. Toned Lady was everything I loathed and loved: trim and fit with sculpted biceps, defined calves, and a tiny waist. She looked so young and alive in her tank top and Spandex shorts. Spandex made me feel like a fat walrus. And I couldn’t risk wearing a tank top either. My flabby arms might push more of my body odor around the room.
            “Are you O.K.?” Toned Lady mouthed, her voice well-drowned out by the thumping music.
            I immediately felt self-conscious. Do I look all right? Does she think I’m about to faint or throw up? Or die?
            I pedaled faster to prove that I wasn’t yet dead and gave Toned Lady a reassuring nod, trying to smile. Then I began to compare my insides with Toned Lady’s outsides—always a dangerous venture. While perspiration flooded from every pore of my body, Toned Lady wore a glittery, pristine sparkle. While I struggled with every grind of the gears, Toned Lady seemed to pedal with ease, sitting blond and pretty in her saddle. I hated this woman, and yet wanted so much to be like her.
            Finally the moment I always prayed for arrived: Prince sang “Purple Rain” on the stereo. I’m not a Prince fan, but that song had become one of my favorites. It meant that spin class was winding down, and that I’d survived another grueling challenge. As the class rolled into the relaxing cool-down phase, my Negative Nancy mind shut up for a while and I felt calm. Accomplished. Peaceful. I knew the post-ride high wouldn’t last long, but it was a priceless gift nonetheless.
 
                                                           Photo by Mare Kretschmar
I rarely looked forward to training rides. I was often a Grumpy Greta.


TRAINING THROUGH GRIEF

            My mom died in August the year I signed up for the MS 150, and at some point on every long-distance Sunday training ride with teammates Mare and Diane, I blubbered so hard that snot ran down the front of my bike jersey. Bike jerseys are made from a synthetic microfiber material that’s meant to wick away sweat from the skin and keep riders cool. But I don’t think jersey designers accounted for a continuous, thick drool of mucous.
            Those first days out on the road were hard. Even though Mare and Diane were with me, I was afraid. Afraid I’d get a flat. Afraid I’d run out of water. Afraid I’d die of heat stroke. Afraid I’d have to pee with nowhere to go but behind a bush in front of God and a pasture of cud-chewing cows.
            I felt naked out on a country road with just me, two wheels, two friends, a water pack strapped to my back, and some salted smoked almonds in my jersey pocket. It provoked a terror that was not unlike being thrown in the deep end of a pool the day after learning to swim. Every Sunday I prayed for rain. Every Sunday I prayed for an ache, sniffle, touch of fever, pulled muscle, or jostled joint. And every Sunday, I was healthy.
            So I got out of bed, made coffee, ate a banana with peanut butter and a bowl of oatmeal, then pulled on one of those body forming bike jerseys that showed my tummy’s fatty bulge without apology.
            How can I wear this? I thought. I look like a stuffed sausage.
            I put it on anyway.
            The bike shorts were even more revealing, magnifying the size of my squatty-body legs and buttocks. I knew its gel seat padding would be a welcome comfort once on the saddle, but I always felt like I had a load of poop in my shorts. In time, I’d get used to the standard bike wear. In time, I’d learn to add “anti-monkey butt” powder to the short’s crotch to prevent chafing.

The cartoonish image is misleading. This stuff works wonders. Seriously.
 
            And in more time, I’d learn that no amount of powder or gel padding would prevent my butt from hurting after long miles on a saddle.

            Hills instantly became my nemesis.
            “These are just rolling hills,” Mare often said uneventfully.
            But they were still hills, and they were still hard. I slowly grunted upward in my hybrid bike’s lowest “granny gear” as Mare rode circles around me, waving one arm side to side to whatever song was playing on Pandora through her cellphone. She looked like a Pentecostal believer, lifting her hands up to the sky, singing and praising the Ride God. I loved yet deeply despised her with every heaving breath.
            There was one particular hill on our usual route that I just couldn’t climb. Out of breath and out of gas, I always got off the saddle of my bike and humbly trudged on foot the rest of the way. That bike never felt so heavy. But one day I made…it…up. I felt a strange push on my back despite the absence of wind. I felt Mamma’s spirit. It was a welcome visit, yet odd. She was never an athlete. Her idea of exercise was speed blotting multiple bingo cards. But Mamma was out there with me that day—and every day since—helping me climb those dang hills.

                                                             Photo by Mare Kretschmar
One day I rode over the Houston Ship Channel bridge. Now THAT was hard.
 
            Some days, though, Mamma’s spirit simply watched, careful not to intervene. Much like the day when I was six years old and she took off the training wheels of that banana-seat bicycle, then pushed me forward for my first solo roll. She had to let go at some point, so she did. I had to learn to ride unaided at some point, so I did.
            Forty years later, Mamma watched me learn the hard way how to use clip-in pedals. Mare and Diane bought me slick black clip-in shoes for Christmas. I loved clogging around the house in them. Though they made me sound like a Clydesdale horse, I finally felt like a real biker. Once on the road, though, the shoes, pedals, and I were at odds. And there was nothing Mamma would do about it.
            One Sunday my front wheel rolled into a gap in a worn country road. I tipped over into gravel: Thunk. My right tricep took the hit. A couple Sundays later, I slowed at a red light in traffic and didn’t clip out fast enough. I tipped over as if in a slow motion film: Pllllllunk. Again, my flabby arm took the hit. I tipped over another Sunday when Mare and Diane slowed in downtown traffic—and I didn’t: Clunk. But one good thing about having trained in judo in the past is that every time I fell, I instinctively lifted my helmet upward and let the big muscle groups bear the brunt of the impact. My martial arts instructors would have been proud.
            Though slightly embarrassed, I chronicled my falls publicly on Facebook. Turns out that those spills helped me generate much-needed donations to the National MS Society. I had already raised more than $2,000 via my MS 150 fundraising page.
            Eventually, I rode steadier and stronger, but it took about a year before I could concentrate on anything but the road.
            “Awe, how cute!” Mare said one Sunday.
            “What’s cute?” I asked.
            “The calf and her mamma in the pasture back there. Didn’t you see it?”
            “No,” I replied, lowering my head in self-pity.
            “Oh, wow! That’s huge!” Diane said.
            “What’s huge?”
            “That big hawk that just flew overhead. You didn’t see it?”
            I missed all the good scenery. I was too focused on the road, on not falling, on maintaining my mantra: “Just keep pedaling. Just keep pedaling.”
            But one day I gained just enough confidence to lift my head and look around. I saw eye-popping wildflowers, gorgeous green pastures, a donkey, and some chickens. I didn’t even panic when a Chihuahua tore out of a yard to chase me. I just kept serenely pedaling. I slowly felt more confident and was finally enjoying the meditative movement of turning pedals end over end. Before long, we were knocking out 20 miles, 30 miles, 40 miles, and I was saying crazy things like, “Let’s just do an easy 25 miles today.”
            Easy?
            It hadn’t been that long ago when I believed that 5 miles was life-threatening.
            I still cried occasionally—because there were rough patches of steadily inclining hills, because I missed Mamma, because I tipped over and landed on my funny bone—but even those crying bouts became less common.
                                                                                                                                                                 
DONATE NOW! Please help me make a difference in the lives of Karla and the 2.3 million people worldwide who suffer with MS by making a donation here: http://main.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR/Bike/TXHBikeEvents?px=9394915&pg=personal&fr_id=27003