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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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