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