The Weekend I Didn’t Spend at a Buddhist Temple

When I pray, The Universe listens. When necessary, it answers. I don’t have to be chanting in a Buddhist monastery to receive the answer. I can be sitting at my cluttered kitchen table, my bags packed by the door, ready to take a short drive to the outskirts of Austin for a four-day silent retreat at a Buddhist temple when I get a voicemail from a monk going on and on about communication issues, dignitaries making a surprise visit, and the decision—with apologies—to cancel my stay. (This a whole 90 minutes before the retreat was supposed to begin.)

Stunned in silence, I sat at my kitchen table for about 30 minutes; my car keys still in hand.

I’d reserved my spot at the temple a month in advance. The silent retreat was part of the spiritual development portion of an upcoming fourth-degree black belt test. But I’d said a couple prayers earlier that week along the lines of “…and if for any reason I shouldn’t go on the retreat at the temple, please intervene on my behalf.”

The Universe answered.

And though disappointed—on the verge of crushed—I knew that there was a reason for the intervention, even if I may never know why.

While planning for the retreat, I’d tried to apply my kung fu Sifu’s advice of “never expect; never compare.” I didn’t think I had any expectations of how the weekend at the temple was supposed to go. But I did expect to go to the temple. If there was an underlying expectation beyond that, it was the acceptance that I’d likely be uncomfortable at some point during the retreat.

The Universe has a wicked sense of humor. I was uncomfortable alright.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I was looking forward to living at the monastery for four days of silence. I had told coworkers before leaving that ever since watching Kung Fu as a child, I’d wanted to shave my head and move to a Buddhist monastery, just like “Grasshopper.”

 

 

What was I supposed to do now?

·       First thought: Go see my niece Amanda in Corpus Christi. She gave birth to a son six months ago. I hadn’t yet met my great-nephew, Landon.

·       Second thought: Get dressed and go to work. No since in wasting a perfectly good vacation day.

·      Third thought: Go get a donut.

I went with my first instinct: I quickly reserved a hotel room near the Corpus Christi bay front, grabbed an extra pair of shorts and my comfy white ALABAMA T-shirt, and decided to make “lemonade”—spend as much of the weekend in silence as possible. New rules: No radio, no television, no social media, calling Mare and responding to texts within a one-hour span in the evening, and “speak only if spoken to.”
 

Day 1 Observations: Sadness

On the drive to the beach, without the radio blaring, I note:

·      The terrain changes from tall trees to short, stubby bushes. The grass along the frontage roads takes on a dry brown hue typical of summertime in Texas. One burning cigarette tossed out a car window would start a wildfire.

·      Two semi-trucks fly by me with Bible verses printed on their cabs. Never seen that before.

·      This day 28 years ago, I made the same drive to interview for a newspaper job in Corpus Christi. (Weird coincidence #1)

Upon entering the lobby of the hotel:

·       I realize I’m in the exact place that the newspaper put me up at 28 years ago during my interview. The hotel has changed ownership and seen better days, but it is definitely the same place. (Weird coincidence #2)

·       I’m a tad annoyed that I have to speak to the hotel clerk at check-in (the nerve!), but she is really nice, and it isn’t her fault that I’d rather be at the temple.

In the room, I’m silent:

·      The only noise comes from the hum of an air conditioner and my annoying, chronic tinnitus.

·       I reach for my cellphone repeatedly out of habit, then pull away at the last minute as if it were hot coals.

·       It feels weird to be at the beach and not plan fun outings.

·       I feel sad when I realize that when I woke up this morning, I thought I’d be ending my day in a completely different place.

·      Through the hotel window, I watch seagulls fly around the building—because I have nothing else to do. And I’m sad again because, while the seagulls are entertaining, this is not what I want to be doing or where I want to be. Then I notice a baby seagull. How cute. Pretty sure I’d have never noticed the little sucker if I weren’t just watching in stillness and silence.

At sunset, I take a walk outside:

·       I wonder if this silent weekend counts toward my test if I’m not at the temple.

·      A humid, hot bay breeze hits my face as seagulls chirp overhead. I hope the birds don’t poop on my head, but then I think that it’d be fitting considering how the weekend is going thus far.

·       I become sad all over again. Lots of sighs and deep breaths. After all these years of sobriety, my go-to emotion in times of disappointment is still sadness.

Back in my room, the sun now gone, I toggle between studying a book of quotations from Mother Teresa and another from the Dalai Lama.:

·       I read about the “Tree of Self-Defeat,” and notice how often I feel empty and inadequate.

·       I read about forgiveness, and realize that on many levels, I’ve refused to make peace with myself—that I won’t let myself off the hook for certain imperfections.

·       I read about “freedom from mental anguish.” Boy, do I want that.

I’m so ready to not be sad anymore.

Day 2 Observations: Water, People

I’m ready to go down for the hotel’s free breakfast when I realize that I have a dark T-shirt on, and that if I plan to hike in 100-degree heat, I best put on something lighter. I choose my trusty white ALABAMA tee.

Now down at the breakfast bar, I grab some oatmeal and coffee and try to find a place away from everyone. I see an empty spot at the bar, but the moment I sit down, I know it’s not the right place. I get up and move to another table in the corner.

Two boys—a teenager and another about age five—come sit at the next table. Their mom quickly follows. She eventually leans over toward me: “So how do Alabama beaches compare to those in Texas?” She’s looking at my T-shirt.

I look down at my T-shirt. I had forgotten what I was wearing. “Oh, I don’t know. This is a souvenir.”

She was from Alabama, hence the conversation starter. We talk for AN HOUR. Turns out she knows my ex-brother-in-law. (Weird coincidence #3) Had I not changed T-shirts at the last minute and moved seats, I might have never met her, and her conversation was a welcome reprieve from sadness.

After breakfast, I take a long stroll along the bay front, where there is a fascinating display of the planets, placed much like the Stations of the Cross.

I’m in awe at how much the information seems perfectly suited:

·       The sun is one big bunch of hot air—a lot like me!

·       Mercury has a lot of craters. “Craters cover the surface,” the display reads. “Most are scars from the dawn of the solar system, when asteroids and comets pounded the planet. Now all is still and silent.” I’ve “cratered” before, I have a lot of childhood scars, and I’m still and silent this weekend. Hmmm. Who knew I had so much in common with Mercury?

·       “Jupiter’s beauty masks turbulence… Between its colorful bands of clouds swirl hurricane-like storms.” I look at the Great Red Spot in the display’s photo. I know that Inadequacy is my Great Red Spot. Like Jupiter, I mask it pretty well. I think that everyone probably has a Great Red Spot, though. They just don’t blog about it.

As I continue to stroll, I notice a banner for the Corpus Christi Hooks, the city’s minor league baseball team:

·        Sadness and inadequacy are “hooks” that keep me stuck. Whoa…

I go to a restaurant for lunch. While eating, I write a letter to myself—an honest account of how I’ve held myself back all these years:

·        You’re unfairly hard on yourself.

·        You’re a good person. Other people see it. Why don’t you?

·        Will you ever let yourself off the hook? Life is short, you know.

After lunch, I walk to the edge of the bay, tear up the pages of my letter, lay down near the water, and toss the tiny pieces of paper in the water. I watch the individual pieces slowly sink to the bottom, some quicker than others.

I gave my worries to the water. Which is Earth. And now I think it was fitting that I saw that planetary display earlier. (Weird coincidence #4) I learned that the Earth and its water are huge—big enough to absorb my little worries and take them out to sea, far away:

·        I can already feel some distance from the pain.

·       The sun feels good on my skin.

·       The coastal breeze feels good on my face.

·       The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping up against the shore is comforting.

On the walk back to the hotel, I realize that I’m a naturally social person—with a generous side of depression—and that staying away from people on a long weekend on the heels of disappointment probably isn’t the smartest thing to do, and may be a tad unhealthy. As I wait for a traffic light to change, I hear the whine and howl of the wind as it pushes the street signs back and forth. The hotel is located on the corner of Water and Peoples streets.

Back in the room, I’m restless:

·       I want to turn on the TV.

·       I want a soda pop.

·       I’d LOVE a donut.

·       It’s hard to stick with the silence when I’m sad. And again, the thought occurs to me that doing a solo silent retreat may not be the healthiest thing for a person prone to depression.

·       I meditate for 40 minutes.

I decide to break my silence, calling my niece to see if little Landon is awake. He is, so I go visit for a couple hours. He is cute and giggly and adorable. My spirits lift.
 

My great-nephew, Landon

I return to the hotel later in a better mental place. Some people and water time was just what I needed.

People.

Water.

I remember that the hotel is on the corner of Water and People streets. (Weird coincidence #5)
 

Day 3 Observations: Peanut Butter Deprivation

I’m wide awake at 5 a.m., so I get up and write about some awakenings with old-fashioned pen and paper:

·       I actually like early morning silence.

·       I need to make more time for silence and meditation, daily reflection, and spiritual study.

·       I’ve enjoyed studying my books.

I meditate for 20 minutes, then get dressed and take another walk to the shoreline to watch the sun come up. While I wait, I practice the two martial arts forms I’m working on at the moment: Taekwondo’s Pyongwon and ving tsun kung fu’s Siu Nim Tao. It feels good to be out this early. I watch the sun rise, take some pictures, and stroll back to the hotel.

In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering why I thought it was so important or necessary to do a silent retreat. What am I trying to prove?

I remember a day that Mare and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She asked me why I spread the peanut butter so thin.

“Slather it on thick!” she urged, taking the butter knife, digging it deep into the peanut butter jar, and emerging with a clump the size of a squirrel. “Otherwise, it’s not a peanut butter sandwich. It’s a bread sandwich.”

It was my first awakening to a warped sense of deprivation:

·       I think that suffering or going without basic comforts is a noble endeavor—that by going without, I’ll somehow be stronger.

·       I’ve told myself for a lifetime that I don’t need much—that I can get by with very little. And I have. Now, though, it’s working against me. (It never really worked. It was just a coping skill that I used to get through a childhood living amid the family disease of alcoholism.)

·       I hear the voice of my mom, saying, “Don’t use too much. We have to make (fill in the blank) last.”

·   When other people go on the No Sugar Challenge, it’s about cutting something horrible from their diet. When I do it, it’s about punishing myself because I like cake and donuts.

Sitting on the bedside, I realize that while the silent retreat was born out of a challenge to become more centered and present, it ended with me depriving myself of all contact with people. I had gone to the opposite extreme—from community to isolation—and, as suspected, it indeed wasn’t healthy. Because I went into a deprived state of being on the heels of disappointment, I really set myself up for unnecessary pain:

·       The Plan B retreat deprived me of talking, of connecting with others—something that I truly need and love. I like people. I see now that I got it wrong.

·       It’s not silence I need as much as stillness. Peace. Reflection. Observation.

I decide to return home a day early.

All packed, I walk through the hotel room one last time for any forgotten items. And that’s when it hits me. By the door, I see my packed bags, stacked the same way they were the morning I thought I was going to the temple. I can’t stop the tears. I wanted to go to the temple so bad. I was looking forward to it. I excitedly told my coworkers and friends about it. I had my heart set on it. I cried hard. “Little girl” hard, because that’s probably the last time I really got this excited about something.

On the drive home, I feel numb. The drive feels familiar, though—not because I’ve driven it so many times, but because 25 years ago this month, I drove away from Corpus Christi having had my last drink of alcohol. I’ve been sober ever since. No wonder this has been a hard weekend.

As soon as I walk back through the door at home, greeted lovingly by Mare and our furry pack of puppies, my spirit lifts.

I’m imperfect—still a work in progress. Though the weekend didn’t turned out the way I’d planned, I am oddly grateful. If I hadn’t decided to take the stupid fourth-degree black belt test, and as a result go on a silent retreat, I may not have ever learned that:

·       Sadness and inadequacy are my “hooks.”

·       It’s O.K. to need and want to be around other people.

·      The beach is not always the solution to ever problem, but it’s good to check.

·       I don’t need to spend the weekend at a temple to practice stillness—to reflect in silence.

·       As usual, I have everything I need right where I am—and that’s enough.

·       I’M ENOUGH.

And Acceptance is the Key

As an adult, I’ve had an odd attraction to Christians. The most fundamentalist kind.

My wife Mare says if I’m at a party and there’s a Christian in the room, we will be drawn to each other like a moth to flame and spend the entire evening in a deep, meaningful spiritual conversation.

She’s right. I've always been drawn to anyone who lives a spiritual life.

My best friend at a publishing company I used to work for is an Assemblies of God member. Coworkers would see us bop off to lunch on a near-daily basis and shake their heads. I was an out lesbian then, and everyone knew my coworker’s beliefs.

“How does that even work?” a coworker asked me one day. “You’re gay and she’s…”

“I don’t know,” I said. “And I don’t care.”

My most profound martial arts influence remains a Buddhist-turned-born-again Christian. Today he’s a pastor. Years ago, after coming out to him, I was hurt and angry because I didn’t feel accepted. I sat in Alcoholics Anonymous/Al-Anon meetings for months, crying my eyes out because I loved him so deeply and felt rejected. I eventually moved to Austin, stopped commuting to classes, and time took care of the pain. We never discussed the matter again.

It took me years to realize that the only acceptance that really counted was mine—and that of my Higher Power. At that point, I decided to agree to disagree with my beloved mentor.

When I opened my martial arts studio, guess who was the first to be invited to teach a guest seminar? Yep. My students absolutely loved him, just like I always did. And today, though in my 24 years on the mat I only trained with this man for about three years, I pass on more of his essence and knowledge to my students than all my many instructors over the years combined.

I don’t know how all this stuff works. I’m spiritual, I pray, and I’ve been known to break into tears upon crossing the threshold of a Catholic church. Mare calls me a freak because I have coincidental interactions with strangers that turn out to be powerful God moments. I’m friends with people who society might say I shouldn’t be. Whatever. Today, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I continue the hard work of acceptance—of accepting myself and others as they are, not as I would have them be.

I suspect it will be a lifelong exercise.

Black Belt: Not for Sale

Sacred.

This single word uttered repeatedly at a meeting yesterday has helped me understand on a new level why I struggled so much when I ran Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute, and why black belt factories grate my nerves and test my compassionate spirit.

Yesterday at an AA meeting, the day’s topic morphed into how we must etch out time in our busy days to honor the things we find sacred.

Time to honor the sacred.

And it got me thinking:  This is why I get so angry at martial arts schools that charge outrageous tuition and churn out black belts like an assembly line—or worse, six-year-old black belts who don’t yet have the mental capacity to understand the weight and responsibilities of the belt.

The process of getting a black belt in many schools is no longer sacred. An important, life-changing rite of passage has been put on speed dial in exchange for a hefty monthly bank draft.

Now before you get all hot and bothered and prepare to write a Facebook rant in defense of your style and your school, know that I’m most likely not talking about you. (But you know who I’m talking about, right?)

I know a city full of excellent martial artists who run reputable schools. Through many martial arts conferences, I’ve met the finest martial artists and instructors from around the world who don’t belong in the aforementioned league. They’re the real deal, and it shows in how they conduct themselves and in the students they produce.

So, sorry. This post isn't about you. It’s not really even about them. It’s about me. It’s about why I have—after five years as a school owner and 15 years as a Taekwondo teacher—always struggled to take money in exchange for lessons.

Because to me, martial arts knowledge is sacred.

If a six-year-old cannot comprehend the meaning of sacred, I don’t understand how that kid can become a black belt. It’s as simple as that. (Unless, of course, that kid is the next Dalia Lama.)

I know so many good martial arts business owners who don’t have a problem with running a martial arts school as a business. By doing so, they are able to support their families and their communities, and they run great schools. And we NEED great schools. I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without a great school and instructor in San Antonio and many others right here in Austin.

Can martial arts be sacred and still a business?

Let me be drill down another rabbit hole: At what point does it cease to be sacred? When the belt is essentially sold and the process rushed along? When students are cheated out of a profound mental, physical, and spiritual experience because they are walking the path a little slower than expected—and the school owner needs to cover bills?

This is my issue. Again, my issue. Black belt factories have taken away what’s sacred about a martial arts life and have soiled the work that so many great martial artists do on a daily basis, like those who:

·        Speak at schools about combating bullying;

·        Teach self-defense at women’s shelters; and

·        Raise money and then travel hundreds of miles to an impoverished area of Alabama and work to revitalize the community.

I’ve tried to make my personal peace with martial arts and business for a long time. I may never get there. Because now I know that to me, it’s sacred.

But I applaud all who are doing the good work of teaching martial arts on a daily basis. I’m glad they can do it, because the world desperately needs more people who practice and pass on the full-circle skills that come with this way of life.

But for those who are selling us out—for those who are tarnishing our names and our way of life—in the words of infamous Honey Badger Mom Kelly Muir:

Stop it.

Finding Closure for a 30-Year Regret

Toward the end of every May, a seasonal sadness comes to visit my psyche. This year, the sadness is stronger than usual, and it wasn’t until Friday night that I figured out why. As part of my annual talk with tweens and teens about the dangers of drugs and alcohol, I revealed a deep, 30-year-old regret:

“I never walked across the stage when I graduated from the University of Texas at Austin,” I told the small group of former students. “I was drinkin’ then. I didn’t think it was that important. I got my degree in the mail.”

“Whoa,” one teen said. Two others’ jaws dropped.

Per usual toward the end of May, I view photo after photo on Facebook and Instagram of smiling college professor friends and some of my own former students in their college regalia and I feel a sad powerlessness. In my whatever-year-long sobriety, I’ve been able to make right many wrongs and wipe clean many regrets. I doubt, though, that there’s a do-over program out there for Old College Graduates Who Didn’t Walk the Stage.

Yesterday I tried to remember through a 30-year-old fog of alcohol and depression why I felt as if I needed to put up an “it’s not important to me” wall back then. Maybe I was sure no one in my family would come to Austin to see me walk across the gradation stage. Maybe I was still hurt because my alcoholic father didn’t attend my high school graduation. Maybe the alcohol and depression really skewed my perception and priorities to the point that graduation, life, etc., all seemed meaningless—like I could care less.

Well, big surprise: On the 30-year anniversary of completing my bachelor’s in journalism, I now care. And there just isn’t much I can do about it.

Today I’m hearing the echo of one of several promises of the program of Alcoholics Anonymous: “We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.”

But some days I regret the past. Do you? Am I alone?

Regardless of whether I’m alone in feeling this way, do I want to continue feeling this way?

Hell no.

Besides, my AA sponsor has drilled into my brain that I can feel sorry for myself for 15 minutes every day, but then once that 15 minutes is up I have to look for solutions and get on with my day. So now that my pity party time is up, I’m wondering:

How does one have a college graduation do-over?

Maybe I invite my college professor friends, former students, friends, and family into my backyard, where someone funny and outrageous like Spike Gillespie gives a keynote speech and I walk across a platform in a UT cap and gown. Maybe.

Maybe I toss the cap up into the air with a “Yipee!” and my dachshund-mix snatches the hat and quickly hides it somewhere in the yard. Maybe.

Maybe I host a graduation party afterward with vegan cake and alcohol-free punch. Maybe.

Maybe there IS a way that I can avoid a recurrence of this regret on the 31^st anniversary of my graduation. Maybe.

More will be revealed.

There's No Pouting in Greensboro

My book will haunt me until the day I die.

Life has always repeatedly handed me reasons to complain, except now there’s a fan of No Pouting in the Dojo two feet away, and she believes that I’m a super Pollyanna who doesn’t ever give in to whining.

Silly fan.

Life indeed still hands me lemons. It’s kinda a joke between me and The Universe now. And I try my best to make the best gosh-darn lemonade around, hard as it is sometimes. I’ve had a lot of practice in making lemonade. How do you make a great batch? I recently found a secret ingredient.

Latest lemonade-making opportunity: The Alabama Build-Vention. This annual charity build event in Greensboro, Ala., attracts martial artists from all over the United States and Canada. Participants each raised thousands of dollars and traveled hundreds of miles to perform manual labor tasks for citizens in this impoverished community who either can't afford to pay someone to help or who are too elderly or fragile in health to do it themselves. This year we scraped off decades-old paint from Main Street Greensboro, built out the interior of a new schoolhouse that will help residents earn their GEDs, and painted downtown buildings.

I was stoked to get started the next day, so my first night in town, I found an open spot on the floor of the Greensboro Baptist Church gym and pumped up my air mattress. Everything was going well. I was hydrated, fueled, and motivated to start work the next day. But after the lights went out, I realized that my brand new air mattress had a bad leak. Compounding that was a wicked case of insomnia, rare for this snore-a-holic. Compounding that was a growing anxiety every time a nearby city bell clock clang, reminding me that I was still awake. I tossed and turned on the air mattress, which by now had lost so much air that I began to feel the chilly gym floor beneath me. I was cold and annoyed. And then that dang clock bell would ring again. Just hours earlier I had admired the serenity of the bells. Now I cursed them.

Hours passed before I stubbornly decided that sleeping on the martial arts mats was a better option than sleeping on a cold, hard floor, so I dragged my blanket to the edge of green mats that my jiu jitsu colleagues rolled on earlier in the evening. But I still couldn’t sleep. And those dang bells still rang. And I realized that I’d start my first full work day in Greensboro tired. Frustration grew.

This was not what I expected to happen. This was unacceptable.

I started to panic. And then I remembered what our trusted leader, Tom Callos, said at our first group meeting: “This is a no-complaint zone. If we don’t have it, we don’t need it.”

Then my damn kung fu Sifu’s words wafted in: “Never expect. Never compare.”

Of course I had an expectation that I would sleep. I’m a good sleeper. I love naps and take them often. But I wasn’t sleeping. Sifu was right: I was upset because my expectation didn’t fit reality.

“So. O.K.,” I said to myself in a snotty tone, “if I don’t get sleep, I must not need it.”

And that was the moment that I fell asleep.

Seems that acceptance is a key ingredient in making a great batch of lemonade.

Hours later, as my fellow campers stirred, I felt strangely awake and energetic. A colleague took one look at my now completely flat air mattress and could only utter, “Oh, nooooo!”

And The Universe intervened, saying for me something that I wouldn’t have said for myself years ago: “That’s O.K. Last night’s bad sleep is insurance for tonight’s good sleep.”

The rest of the work trip was a sweaty, exhausting, paint-chip dirty, fantastic experience. And every night, like clockwork, my air mattress lost air. Whatever.

“My bad sleeps in Greensboro are insurance for sleeping great once I get home,” I began to say to myself.

I don’t think that I would have been in the correct mindset to see all the wonderful people and events if Callos hadn’t set the tone for the Build-Vention and if Sifu’s four words hadn’t settled into my psyche.

And if I hadn't added acceptance into the lemonade...

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:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vppbdf-qtGU

           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