Andi — my cousin — was born knowing how to make instruments come to life. Raised in a music and dance school founded by her mother in Pennsylvania, Andi excelled at playing string instruments from the time she could hold them.
By the time she was 25-years-old, Andi spent upwards of six hours a day perfecting the viola. Shy, but humorous and quick to laugh, her brown eyes often twinkled as if she was plotting a prank or bursting to share a secret. Andi heard music when none played. She didn’t just walk into a room, she danced; there was a rhythm to her every movement. You couldn’t help but smile around her.
Andi became an accomplished musician, a kind, caring and brilliant person with a doting boyfriend, close friends, and a loving family. She attended Rice then Julliard, received a Fulbright in Greece, played a concert with Yo-Yo Ma in Carnegie Hall, and recorded her own folk album aptly titled, “A Life of Colors.”
When Andi performed, time stopped. To witness her play was to see the unity of instrument and master.
When not playing, severe depression, stress, and anxiety weighed on her. She worried about her place in the music world and about making a living in it. She felt tormented by pressure to constantly outperform herself.
Emotional pain and turmoil ate away at her self-esteem, at her core, and began to rob her of the joy of playing. She told herself that she was a failure. Not just as a musician, but as a person. Andi desperately sought to heal, to “fix” herself. She confided in her mom and sought help from doctors.
The illness grew. Andi shaved off all of her thick auburn curls and cut herself off from playing. Instead of spending six hours a day practicing, she became withdrawn and locked herself away in her room writing.
Her mom advocated for Andi and kept her as close as possible. They went through therapist visits, a misdiagnosis, imposed psychiatric clinics, and multiple medications. What was missing was a collaborative, holistic response from the professional medical staff. So, mother and daughter developed therapeutic routines together of going to a local gym and taking long walks in nature.
Early in August 2014, Andi and her mom went to the gym as usual. Andi seemed upbeat and told her mom she was going to swim and then they could meet and walk together as they did every day.
Andi had visited a new psychiatrist the week prior. He diagnosed her with borderline personality disorder: an incurable mental illness that she’d have the rest of her life. Andi was drifting out into the open ocean. Instead of offering her a lifeline, he threw her a boulder.
Andi left the gym while her mom worked out. She walked to a nearby bridge above train tracks in Swarthmore and jumped. She was 30 years old.
***
I know Andi’s story because, in a way, it’s my own. I’ve had dark thoughts, fears, and anxieties. I’ve gone through pressure and stress that seemed like too much.
Her death by suicide woke me up to the mental health issues I have. They became more real. I had tried and failed to wish away depression. Wounds on our bodies often heal themselves with time, but the mind is more complicated.
Many people seem to have it all together, to laugh and smile externally when they are crumbling on the inside. Andi never confided in me about her struggles with depression, nor did I confide in her. We knew only of each other’s talents, and accomplishments.
When jobs, relationships, life feels disappointing or out of control, when I cannot understand people or situations, there’s cycling. Cycling makes sense to me as music did to Andi. It’s constant, dependable. It offers structure, solace, solitude, and also connections, a home, an identity, a family.
When I’m on the bike, I can hear Andi, still playing, still making instruments come to life.
My phone alarm goes off. It’s 5 a.m. and 37-degrees outside. I feel like I never fell asleep. I sit up in the dark under a thin, itchy motel blanket. My motel-mates grumble, moan and stir under their sheets and sleeping bags. Two of us are in real beds, two are on a lumpy, slumping pull-out couch, and one is on what I’m certain is a pee-proof baby crib mattress on the floor. Resettling, no one gets up immediately to turn on the lights or make a claim for our single bathroom. The lull of a charged, nervous stillness fills the air. Silence. Then Max exclaims, “Let’s go home.” All five of us crack up, hard. It feels so good to laugh.
Job uncertainty, a sick family member, bouts of insomnia and anxiety; life stressors abound and surround me, and I worry that my undertrained body and overworked mind aren’t ready for this.
Back in August, a friend in New York mentioned an organized hilly gravel ride, “The unPAved of the Susquehanna River Valley” with promises of beautiful gravel roads and leaf peeping. Enticed by a ride through fall foliage in my home state, I was immediately interested. My New York friend had signed up for “The Plenty,” the 90-miler. I saw online that there was an even longer distance option that my friends from Cadence Cycling in Philadelphia had signed up for, “The Full,” 120 miles. Race-fit or not, there was no doubt about which distance I’d attempt.
As the only girl between two brothers, I developed the “I can do anything you can do” mentality from an early age — always wanting to do anything my older brother did: wear “boys” hockey skates, not girls, wear pants to church, not dresses. I tried to run as far, climb the jungle gym as high, and take the zip-line in our backyard as fast. Though I often failed in my attempts to emulate my brother, it didn’t stop me from trying.
If the guys were doing “The Full,” so would I.
Lining up
There are a million reasons why I should not be here: for starters, I don’t own a gravel bike. My body weathered three major injuries within the past two years — a separated collarbone and a badly fractured right thumb and wrist on a steep and slippery descent. I still can’t fully bend my thumb; it aches and loses circulation and mobility in the cold. And apart from a sand ride adventure through the Mojave, I lack any off-road riding experience. I rode the borrowed Specialized Cruz I’m on only three times before today. And yet, here I am; lined up next to some of the world’s best gravel riders: Alison Tetrick, Selene Yeager, and Vicky Barclay.
I’ve pinned on numbers before with specific goals: finish in the top five, go for the Sprinter’s Jersey, or attack off the front to help my team. But today, it’s all about finishing.
Knowing I’m not really racing takes some pressure off. The energy is on the heavy-hitting lady studs next to me, not on me. I’m in awe of these female pros and excited for them; they have the strength and potential to beat everyone in the entire 157-person field, men included.
My goal? Make the time cut-offs and finish “The Full” in one piece before dark. If I don’t make the cut-offs, I risk being rerouted to one of the shorter courses or shuttled to the finish. There are only 15 women starting “The Full,” and beyond testing myself and seeking fun and adventure, I feel a sense of honor and obligation to finish strong. Perhaps by facing my fear of riding off-road, I can prove that those of us new-to-dirt can handle the tough stuff.
Beginning
7:15 a.m.: We’re off. Down a narrow, paved, leaf-covered rail trail. “Watch out, bollard!” Arms point out yellow 4-foot poles sticking up out of the middle of the trail. “Who came up with the name ‘bollard’?!?” asks the guy to my right. “Ha! I know, why not just call it a ‘pole’?” I reply. “I bet we’re saying it incorrectly,” I add. “I bet it’s a French word and we’re butchering it. Sounds more like the name of a bird or a duck.” We chuckle and I shiver. It’s 40-degrees, a real feel of 35 with the wind. I’m wishing I wore a long sleeve wool base layer instead of a tank under my jersey.
One guy squeezes past me despite the neutral, 5-mile start meant to be a double paceline on the narrow rail trail. I see a rider with a kit I recognize from NYC. “Hey, New York!” I say. He turns his head and offers a small, closed-lip half grin, but no reply. Not really the friendly vibe everyone told me to expect at this off-road gravel grinder, but ok.
We settle into a decent pace. A group of about 25 riders goes off the front with four or five fast females among them. My cheeks freeze in a nervous, rictus smile and my eyes water in the wind; I hope it warms up. I ride in a small pack of six guys and one other female, a cyclocross racer, Rebecca. Rebecca is tan, slim and looks fast, with a tattoo on her right calf and a shiny slate-blue Cannondale cross bike.
We don’t talk much as the road turns into the first of many long, unending climbs. But still, our pace is steady.
I hope there aren’t hunters out here. I keep thinking we’ll see bear, deer, or fox, but none present themselves. What we do see before we ride far into the Bald Eagle State Forest and away from civilization is a white sign with blue and red lettering and an American flag in the front yard of one of the few houses we pass; it reads: “TRUMP” “Keep America great!”
Then, to our right are ten jovial, bearded guys who resemble Santa Claus sitting and standing around in flannel shirts and jeans, drinking beers on the small porch of a one-story house. Hollering and cheering loudly, they offer us beers. It’s 8:30 a.m. I wonder if they’re out here in support of our ride or if that’s their usual Sunday morning routine.
Not sure if it’s nerves, the cold, or the constant, uneven terrain bouncing me about, but I have never had to pee this badly. I really don’t want to stop so soon. My mantra becomes, “Don’t pee your kit. Don’t pee your kit.” I hope it’ll subside. I went three times this morning — once in our motel and twice at the athletic center near the start line — but the urge overtakes me. I have got to go.
Mile 50.Must stop.
I peel off over to the left side of the dirt road, lean my bike on a big tree and hunker down on the other side of it. I’ve never been more grateful to have bibs with a rear zipper fly. This means that my upper body can stay warm and only my derriere freezes. I pee continuously for what must be a full five minutes, and wonder, “How do I have so much liquid in me?” It’s freezing and I haven’t been drinking much. I’m in a low crouch. I thought the tree was big enough to hide me and my bare bum, but before I have time to pull my bibs back up I see some of the guys I’d just passed come whizzing down the hill. They see me too. “Sorry!” I wave and yell.
I feel like I just lost 15 pounds. I’m a new and improved human: lighter, faster, liberated, exuberant, and exhilarated. “Ok, now, I’m in this,” I think as I zip along for the next few miles.
Mile 53. Aid Station 2. Cut-off time made.
A volunteer hands me my drop bag. I grab an extra Clif bar for my pocket while eating a sliced orange from the aid table and pour a new packet of electrolyte hydration powder into a bidon. I had put a short sleeve jersey in my drop bag to change into, anticipating warming up with the climbs and the rising sun, but it feels colder, not warmer. Another volunteer, “Bob,” pats me on the back on my way out and says, “It’s going to be a tough next 30 miles.” I grossly underestimate what he means by “tough.”
While riding this unfamiliar and uneven terrain, I don’t want to take my eyes off the ever-changing trail. I’m so glad that I thought to unwrap my Clif bars before putting them in my jersey pockets. Crumbs in my pockets be damned. I wish I’d done the same with the UnTapped Waffles. I can’t bend my right thumb and my other numb and shaky fingers are barely cooperating. Even while stopped briefly at the aid station, it takes me three tries and my teeth to tear open the waffles.
Mile 55: The Gnarly-Rocky-Pitchy-Mud-Puddle Section: The GRPMP
Soon after the aid station, we hit a hill of rocks.
I hear someone say, “Oh my God, it’s a rock garden.” This is no garden. “Garden” is much too gentle a word. This is an endless minefield of sharp, pointy, edgy, uneven rocks, boulders, steep climbs, and steep descents into puddles. Or as I dub it: the ‘gnarly-rocky-pitchy-mud puddle section.’
A mountain biker’s dream lies ahead of me. I lose Rebecca.
A few pedal strokes up one of the rockiest, steepest pitches, I feel an awkward sensation. My butt feels lower and lower. I try to sit and I feel like either I’ve grown or my bike has suddenly shrunk. Something is very wrong. My quads ache from trying to climb in this lower position. I glance down and I see the nose of my saddle pointing up toward the clouds. “What the…?” The friend who helped me change out the men’s saddle on this borrowed bike must not have tightened the bolt enough. But I should have double checked.
We’re on a climb. I can’t stop; if I do it will be too hard to gain traction again. I mash my pedals until I’m on more even ground. I feel in my back jersey pockets: no tool. I feel in my saddle bag: no tool. “Shit.” I keep riding. Scanning the riders in front of me, I spot a fellow travel mate who works as a bike mechanic. What luck! I call his name. No reply. I call it again. Nothing. A third time. This time I add, “I…NEED…HELP!”
I had packed two multi-tools for this ride: the one I thought was in my jersey isn’t. The other that I thought was in my saddle bag might have fallen out when we hit the rocks. Either way, I’m in trouble. I take pride in being able to fix my own flats and handle minor mechanicals. I hate that I need to ask anyone for help or slow someone else down, but I must.
He finally stops, glares, “Where’s your tool?”
No one around me is in contention to win this thing, but I understand the desire to place well and maybe beat a friend or foe. Whatever the case, he makes it clear through his repeatedly questioning me on the location of my multi-tool that he’s unhappy about stopping to help me. His reluctance is palpable. My heart sinks. I feel so bad; I wish I’d asked a stranger for help instead.
He agrees there’s no way I could keep riding with my saddle so askew.
“I owe you many beers,” I thank him profusely. He scowls in silence. Not even the promise of beer or homemade Greek treats puts a smile on his face. I stand and wait as he puts his tools away.
I wait another moment, hoping he’ll say something like, “no sweat,” or “don’t worry about it,” but he doesn’t. So, I go. A minute later he whizzes downhill past me. He’s an accomplished mountain biker and clearly fear-free on descents. I don’t see him the rest of the ride. I feel like a berated kid.
Here’s the thing: at some point, every one of us will need help in a race or on a ride. The more you ride, the higher the chances are that you will make a mistake, you will fall, or your bike will break. It sucks to be the one in need, the one asking. As a fellow cyclist, you could welcome the opportunity to help. You could make it a pleasant experience and put some good bike juju in the bank. Or not. Who knows? One day it could be you burning out your quads mid-race with a broken spoke, bent derailleur, or a saddle suddenly pointing up toward the North Star.
I try to employ what I learned on the adventure ride through the Mojave Desert about keeping my weight over my rear wheel on descents and in the middle of the bike on climbs so that I don’t lose traction and skid out.
My thighs and forearms burn as I’m out of the saddle pushing down on the pedals and trying to steer and maneuver my handlebars around the sharp rocks covering every inch of the steep climb in front of me. We descend into puddles. “I so wish I had taken a mountain biking clinic before this,” I think.
Breathe and keep going. I’m reminded of the Albert Einstein saying, “Life is like riding a bicycle, to keep your balance, you must keep moving.”
My feet get soaked. They turn into big ice cubes at the bottom of my legs. Once wet there’s no way to get warm. There are people behind me. I feel bad; they must be trying to get around me. I must be ruining their lines. I apologize several times. “Sorry guys, I’m not a mountain biker.” One replies: “You’re doing great, keep it up!” And another, “It’s ok, I’m a triathlete.”
Fear of flying over the handlebars makes me death grip the brakes. I’m bouncing over the rocks, like human popcorn. I’m up in the air at a faster rate than I’m descending the hill. I wonder if I put too much air pressure in my tires — 60 psi in the back and 55 in the front. I inch up the rocky climbs and kerplunk down the descents.
Though I’m no mountain biker, I know enough to know that my equipment is lacking. Added to my growing wish-list are tubeless tires, which can be run at a lower psi for a cushier, grippier ride and better rolling resistance, and a bigger cassette with more gearing options than my current 11-28t.
The term ‘send it’ enters my mind. I know it’s associated with mountain biking, but I never knew what it meant. Now, I think I get it. Release the brakes, swallow your fear, and send it.
Only, I don’t know this bike; I don’t know its limits, and I don’t trust its abilities. I’m terrified of losing control.
But I try: I let go of the brakes, say a prayer, and fly. Exhilarated, a rush of adrenaline and a thousand thoughts flood my brain: “This is it; I’m going to die!” “Well, I’ll die doing what I love!” “I don’t love this, I hate this!” Muddy water hides the depth of the puddles and the jaggedness of the rocks in them. I blaze through the next puddle without pedaling. Milk chocolate looking mud water sprays up over my feet and calves.
Thankfully, I’m still on the course and I haven’t yet flown off into the middle of the woods. Within what feels like seconds, I’m down the hill. My heart is beating in my ears. And then I see it: another steep hill of rocks to climb.
Mile 83. Aid Station 3. Cut-off time made.
“I’m beyond happy to see you guys.”
“Are there any more technical sections?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, thank God!”
I see other riders huddled around tables of sliced bananas, oranges, and GUs, Stroopwafels, and large orange jugs of water and a Rocktane mix, all alongside smiling, bundled volunteers in neon yellow reflective vests. I hear, “Good job! Good job!” I didn’t realize how hungry I am. I’m mentally fatigued. I lose a sense of just how much I’m eating but am overcome by an urge to devour anything I can get my hands on. I become a human vacuum, a gorging Cookie Monster; a cup full of M&Ms are the best tasting candy I’ve ever had, “When did they get so good?” A quick pee in the privy, a downed vanilla GU, and a devoured UnTapped Raspberry Waffle and I’m off for the final 40 miles.
Onward
We ride by horse-pulled buggies full of Mennonite families staring wide-eyed and silent. They must think we’re lunatics. Wait, we are lunatics; we paid money to ride this grueling, mountainous 120 miles on dirt.
I see few signs of civilization and fewer fellow riders. For miles, the only sounds I hear are the wind, the gravel crunching under my tires, and the birds. The air feels cooler and cooler against my hatless ears and in my lungs.
I welcome the quiet solitude; I feel an overwhelming sense of calm and gratitude simply to be riding here surrounded by this huge, lush forest with diverse, tall trees, every shade of green, and views of a flowing river. I feel alone — like I’m not a part of an organized ride at all, but rather just a passerby, a witness to the beauty of the Susquehanna woods.
At this solo time — when there’s no one in front of me to catch or to stay with — the pain in my legs sets in and I have to dig the deepest within to not give up.
Mile 90
I’m tiring. I haven’t seen any other riders for a while. An excruciating, massive tight knot develops in my left glute and resonates up into my lower back. Stopping to stretch could help. “You can’t stop,” I think, “if you do, you won’t be able to start again.”
I give myself little mileage equations: “Just 30 more miles, like a ride to Piermont and back, only much hillier.” “Twenty miles – like three laps of Central Park.” “Just get to mile 112; it’s all downhill from there.”
Mile 111: So close, but so off-course
I anticipate arriving to whoops and hollers from course marshals and volunteers at the final aid station at mile 112. To my surprise, I don’t see anything but a school — no course signs marking “wrong way X,” and none of the blue and orange arrows that have directed us thus far. I slow, roll over several speed bumps, look around, and then I arrive at an intersection.
Still, no markings. I come to a complete stop and look back. I don’t see anyone. I make a hail-Mary guess to turn left. I have absolutely no idea where I’m going. I turn my head again and see a cyclist with a bright neon yellow jacket about 200 feet behind me. I ride a little farther and find a rail trail that looks like the one we rode out on at the start, but no course arrows. I stop and ride toward the cyclist behind me, happy to see that he too has a number on his handlebars. “I lost the arrows,” I exclaim. “I didn’t see an aid station or any course marshals or volunteers.” We’re both tired and frustrated to have made it this far only to go off course just 10 miles from the finish line.
My Garmin is old, water-logged, and only shows distance, speed and time, not location. Brian lacks a fancy GPS device as well. He tries to open Google maps on his phone. I age a year by the time we can get enough cell service to learn that we’ve been heading in the wrong direction. We wait another eternity for his Google maps to load the most direct, bike-friendly route back to the elusive finish line. Though we initially gripe about the route we had found to be so well marked and supported until now, we use the final miles to get to know each other.
Mile 120: 5:00 p.m.
Even if we hadn’t gone off course, and even if I hadn’t had a single mechanical issue with my saddle, I know I’m not remotely close to placing among the top finishers. But that wasn’t my goal, not today. Today, for ten hours out there, I wasn’t thinking about any of the life stressors I have, or anything other than what was right in front of or around me. Today, I just kept pedaling.
Some races, I’ve been out there to podium; today I was there to finish, to survive.
Maybe it’s about getting out of my head, trusting the bike and my body, releasing the death grip on the brakes, and letting go: full send.
People say that “home is where the heart is”. I agree. My heart is in many places, however. So is my “home”. I’m home with my brothers in their respective houses in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I’m home with my parents and grandmother in Bryn Mawr, PA. I’m home in New York City, in New England, and in parts of California. Home is in nature and on a bike.
Lately, and I’ve felt it before, I’m just not sure where I belong. Even from a young age, I’ve always had a strong sense of self. I know who I am, and how I want to be. I know where I feel at home. And even though I do not yet own an apartment, a condo, or a house, I’m fortunate to have little nests of friends and family on both coasts. But, “where am I supposed to be? Where do I belong?” I ask myself and God.
Some might say, “you’re supposed to be where you want to be.” The choice is a privilege that I don’t take lightly, especially in this day and age where masses of people are displaced by wars and natural disasters – I’m truly grateful for all that I have.
While on a ride, I confessed feeling a little lost to a friend and he offered these words by Maya Angelou in response:
“You only are free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all.”
100% of the profits from the Unity Jersey will go to four non-profits: Amnesty International, the American Civil Liberties Union, the Human Rights Campaign, and the World Bicycle Relief.
I wrote, THERE WILL BE SAND, this past Fall, 2016. I’m still tinkering with the words, but my story of bikes, sand and grit is here on Pretty Damned Fast’s website.
There will be sand.
The final stretch.
Photo contributions by: James Cowan, Steven Walter, and Andy Bokanev.
“Love is supposed to be a little scary because it is uncertain,” states Arthur C. Brooks in his New York Times article, Taking Risks in Love.
When you are in a relationship – whether it’s new or not, you have a choice: you can choose to see the obstacles, focus on them, let them hold you back from pursuing something deeper, or you can choose to see the possibilities, fully engage mentally and emotionally and give it your all.
We teach new cyclists that their bikes follow their eyes. If you want to go up a hill, look up the hill, and your bike will follow. If you want to ride into a tree, fixate on it and chances are you will head straight into it. Stare down at the ground and you may soon meet the pavement. Sounds simple, but we often tend to overcomplicate things. On a bike and in a relationship, look and focus on where you want to go – not where you don’t. The choice is yours.
I don’t expect a relationship to be filled with juicy peaches and effervescent roses every day. I know it will be amazing one day and challenging the next. I am ready for that. In fact, I welcome it. I am more afraid of not fully experiencing life than I am of staying out of it – out of something potentially great due to fear of the unknown or fear of failure.
With the use of modern technology, you can plan a ride down to your heartbeat. You can have a GPS computer with you that tells you where to go and alerts you when you get off course. You can have a heart rate monitor beeping at you to let you know when you’re in certain zones. You can plan your nutrition and hydration. You can perfect your bike, components, training, everything down to a science. Hooray. But still, there are risks.
The best of everything that money can buy, precise planning, and thorough training can only go so far. You could flat. Break a spoke, your chain, your derailleur, or a shifter. You could get hit by a car, a deer, another cyclist, or a UFO. You may freeze or overheat. On any given ride, as in any relationship, there are innumerable risks, and factors out of our control. One thing is certain: there is no way of knowing what will happen if you never get on a bike and go. You might have an epic fail or you might have the ride of your life. And just because you hit a pothole once on a road and flatted, does not mean you’ll hit it again and even if you do, I guarantee it’ll be different from the first time. And bless me, you might even learn something new about yourself.
According to the film Bright Star, John Keats compared poetry to swimming in a lake: “The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it’s to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought.” The same is true of relationships. What is the point of getting into one, if you’re not going to luxuriate in it for a while and take it in for all its glory and murkiness?
Pro cyclist, Jens Voigt, says not trying means 0% chance of success, yet if you try, make a move, go for a break, you have a 10% chance of success…Going for and sticking with something scary and uncertain in a race, on a ride, or in love offers far greater reward than abstaining from the risk.
You can surround yourself with big, fluffy airbags, might be tough to walk, but you’d be safe and secure and you’d never get hurt. You can protect yourself from feeling pain by staying single, playing the field, not committing, remaining indifferent to others affections, and not getting into a relationship, or by ending one abruptly. But you’re also keeping yourself from the possibility of feeling the greatest love you’ve ever experienced.
Me? I’ll take the risk: Fully present, fully engaged, relishing the ride. Giving the best of our complete selves in a relationship is imperative not only for the other person’s benefit, but also for ourselves.
Taking a chance, falling, getting back up, giving someone my heart and having it broken may hurt a lot for a week, a month, or a year. But our bodies, minds and souls are ever more resilient than we think and are capable of enduring and overcoming seemingly insurmountable pain, especially when you have amazing friends and family to cushion the falls and help make sense of the senselessness.
If friends or family aren’t or can’t be there for you, you can always hold your own hand through painful experiences and pull yourself back up and into a new chapter of life. (Thank you for that tip dear Jennifer N. Miller.)
Let’s be bold and brave like Jens and Mr. Brooks. And “live everything,” as Rainer Marie Rilke encourages. Every experience, every relationship becomes a part of us. They help us learn and grow. It’s all a part of the ride, the journey to ourselves.
Tour de Fort Lee. Women’s pro/1/2/3. Sept., 7th, 2014 Photo by: Dylan Lowe
I was a runner. Not elite by any means, but determined. Captained my winter track team in high school, played field hockey and lacrosse in college, ran 10Ks for charities and yearly Turkey Trots for tradition, raced outrigger-canoes off the California coast, hiked through the Andes, attempted and failed to summit Mount Rainier…new challenges and the pursuit of different skills often beckon, even if I fail. Running was my favorite way to connect to nature, bond with a friend, clear my head and maintain endurance for other sports. A daily run was like having a good cup of coffee or eating breakfast: without it I felt off.
I had never ridden a bike for competition, but given my eclectic sporting history and propensity for scaring myself, I didn’t think twice about entering a biathlon just a few weeks before the event. Raced with a 1996 Gary Fisher “Zebrano”, a heavy hybrid bike, my running shoes, a Camelbak hydration pack, and a mountain bike helmet. I passed people on fancy, sleek triathlon bikes, and figured they were in a different field than I. Had a blast, finished with a grin and headed home. A week later I received an award in the mail; I had won my division. Surprised, I chalked up the win to beginner’s luck.
After several years of riding heavy, ill-fitting borrowed bikes, I finally saved for and financed a Cannondale Six13 (I knew nothing about bikes and components, but the bike was lighter than anything I’d previously ridden, and much more fun to ride up hills). With no coach, no structured training program and no idea how to approach a race tactically, I placed third, second, and then won my division in the only three races I entered with my new bike: two biathlons and my first triathlon, a half-ironman. The ride was my favorite part.
Bitten, smitten and stoked as a surfer, I vowed to improve, better my times, and hone my skills. I had a plan, but…
Returning from a training ride on a warm Saturday afternoon, a van struck me (see A Bit of Styrofoam and a Band of Angels) and among my injuries, I suffered damage to my knee, which diminished my ability to run well. My plan shattered, I spent three years in physical therapy and away from any type of competition. With time, I was able to ride again and fell in love with cycling. Though I miss running and the days of pain-free knees, I enjoy spending more time on two wheels than on my two legs. After all, isn’t it true that one “should only run if being chased. And even then, one should only run fast enough to prevent capture,” as per rule #42?
In 2012, I braved my first season of bike racing. I nervously rolled up to more than one start line with my number pinned on the wrong side of my jersey, successfully “un-tacked” off the back of the pack and made several “solo reverse breakaways” in local races (terms coined by BikeSnobNYC). The Tour of the Battenkill, 65 miles of hilly terrain on dirt and paved roads, was my first road race. Scared sleepless, but overcome with the thrill of racing, I was unaware that if I went as hard as possible for 3 plus hours, I wouldn’t have much left for the sprint finish; I gave a good lead-out. I couldn’t reach my drops for half of the season because unbeknownst to me, my bike was three sizes too big, and I thought people yelling, “Two minutes! Two minutes! You can do it!” from the sidelines of a race in Central Park, meant the onlookers thought that we, ‘the pack’, could get around the 6-mile loop in two minutes. Little did I know, there was a “break” of racers two minutes up the road. I now know the meaning of a “time-gap”.
After numerous failed attempts to hold someone’s wheel in races, I sought to ride like Jens Voigt and attack with fearless abandon. My baklava laden Greek legs somehow responded and I upgraded from a category 4 to a cat. 3 in my first season. I didn’t race in 2013 to try to heal the tendonitis in my leg and to focus on pursuing work in the arts. But I missed riding and racing. I returned this past summer with more knowledge and understanding than in my rookie year, and with a renewed vigor for the sport. Whether in a break, soloing off the front or finishing dead last, racing is always more fun with good, supportive mates who value teamwork, have your back in races and make you laugh on and off the bike.
Oh and I name my bikes: “Gordito,” the aforementioned Gary Fisher hybrid (my graduation present from high-school) is my trusty, albeit rusty, beater bike. Then there was “Flaca,” the Cannondale Six13 who, though svelte and lovely, was a few sizes too large for me and had to go. “Negrito,” a 2012 Cannondale CAAD 10, took her place as my dark-like-the-night road bike/race machine.
I learn something in each race. And I know I am still a newbie in the grand scheme of the cycling world. But riding and racing are about the experiences and the love of the bike, not just about the results. No carbon fiber frame, no coach, no fancy wheels, but with support from my family, teammates and friends, I did alright and managed 11 top 5 finishes and 6 podiums in 19 races this past summer and am on the cusp of a cat. 2 upgrade. Passion and perseverance can produce results and I dare say Negrito and I are meant for each other.
Now that the 2014 road season has concluded, I hope to gain some technical off-road riding skills so that I can race cyclocross and not just take tumbles and become familiar with the ground (as I’ve gracefully done several times in my first few attempts.) I have two left feet when it comes to ‘cross. But I’m determined. One day I will master the art of the remount so that I’m no longer passed by everyone in our field and the field after ours. Yes, I’m that slow at remounts.
Who knows, mountain biking just might be in my future as well. One thing is certain: I’m genuinely grateful each time I get the opportunity to swing my leg over a bike and ride. Sometimes in life fate steps in and the stars align to help you say goodbye to one part of yourself and hello to another. I was a runner; now, I’m a cyclist.
5 years ago my life was forever changed. I came close to death. Thanks to my helmet and a higher power, I survived.
Pure, sweet, simple; life makes sense on a bike. My mind quiets. Wildly spinning thoughts slow and harmonize. The jarring rhythm of traffic, the sounds of life, car horns, alarms and cursing, and the hot exhaust of buses and trucks fade into the background with the rush of air as I pick up speed. Simplicity of movement, feet tracing one circle after another, is my meditation. If nothing is happening exactly as I want in my life, if I’m closer to forty than thirty, if I’m dreaming of a man I don’t know and a house, car and dog I don’t have, and a life that may never be; it all recedes, if only for an extended moment, when I mount a bike, buckle a helmet, and ride. Wars, natural disasters, diseases, people and relationships are complex. But on a bike, things are simple. Everything clicks, just like cleats into clipless pedals; the air, the freedom, the pure joy of motion. Runners’ high, bikers fly. No doubts. No questions. Harmony.
A warm, sunny Saturday morning around 9am, the entire day free to ride, one water bottle of water, one with lemon-lime Accelerade, ID, credit card, cell phone and 10 dollars. Tires aired. Gloves, Specialized shoes on, Giro helmet snug and buckled.I make the hairpin right turn off the GW bridge pathway into the Washington Heights neighborhood. Head and heart clearer and calmer as I re-enter the city. Having unexpectedly placed third in the Philly Women’s Triathlon the summer before, I am excited to test myself at the same race next weekend. A beautiful summer day, a good ride. I look forward a long, hot, soothing shower and a movie with my friend Michelle in the evening. All is well, until…I turn right off Fort Washington Avenue around Columbia University Medical Center to go home.
I did not know that I was going to be hit.
Through the one eye I can open I glimpse a police officer sitting next to me in the fluorescent haze of light. He’s holding my left hand through the cold silver bars of the hospital bed. My right eye won’t open. It’s swollen shut. Hands adjust plastic air tubes under my nose. A second police officer paces urgently behind his partner like he has somewhere to go. He holds a two-way radio, a clipboard and my cell phone. The officer seated next to me says, “It’s going to be okay.” And repeats, “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be all right. Don’t worry.” Why is he saying that to me? My face feels wet. Was I crying? The officer behind him asks, “Do you know your name?” They seem far away; I see their mouths moving. There is a delay between them speaking and my hearing them. “Do you know where you are?” Silence. He speaks slowly, without emotion, just the facts.“You were riding a bike, Chris…you were hit…by a van. You are at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital in New York.” How does he know my name? Is this a joke? Am I dreaming?A little laugh of disbelief becomes a bubble of terror in my throat. My head aches as if my brain is swelling and pushing it’s way out of my too small skull and the right side of my face is numb like someone struck me across the face with a cement block and all I want to do is go back to sleep. The officers are staring at me, “Is there someone we can call?” I feel like there’s an extra-large sandbag weighing down on me, but in this seeming reality all that covers my body are a thin white sheet and blanket. My neck and spine feel stiff as if I’ve been lying on a cold board of ice. I’m petrified. If I reply, then this is real. Dry mouth, I swallow and attempt to part the left side of lips and speak, “My older brother. My brother. Lives in New York.” I give his name and pass out again.
I do not know how long I was unconscious. My mind was drifting in and out: every time I was aware that I was awake, there was a strong pull towards the peace and comfort of indefinite sleep. Sometimes I gave in and slept. A blank black hole of time in my life remains. I don’t know where I went. It’s difficult to accept things if you don’t remember experiencing them. I have no memory of what preceded my waking up in the hospital. No memory of being on my bike or on any particular road. I do not remember hearing, seeing, or feeling an impact. I would not have known I had been riding if they had not told me. I have no memory of being neck braced, back-boarded, or transported by ambulance. No memory of my cycling jersey and shorts being sliced off me in the emergency room, of the trauma exams and tests for internal injuries, of IVs, blood work, and doctors and nurses talking to me.
Every time I wake, my face is wet with tears. Cold, alone, and really confused; none of this makes sense. I can’t open my jaw enough to speak, only mumble. All I want to do is sleep and wake up to the life I was living before this. I’m terrified that I might not have the medical insurance to cover this. I’m aggravated that this happened, that I’m here, that I don’t know why I can’t remember anything and I hate that I’m alone and that there’s no one here to tell me what is going on and that I will be okay.They transferred me. A different small gray room, same hazy fluorescent light. I understand what it’s like to be born, to come out kicking and screaming, gasping for air, incomprehensible that anyone would disrupt a peaceful, protected, warm slumber. I come not from a warm womb, but from a silent darkness void of any memories or awareness of who I am. Just a mangled mind and body in an anonymous hospital room. The cops are gone. I lay motionless so the sheets won’t rub against the open abrasions or “road rash” that covers the entire side of my right knee and lower leg. Fluorescent lights. A curtain. White walls. White sheets. Beeping. Hospital workers in dark blue scrubs speed walk by. The woman next to me groaning. Fear, confusion, and loneliness overcome me and escape in an audible sob. A kind woman visiting her elderly mother in the bed to my right undoes my tight elastic ponytail for me. I guess I asked her. There aren’t doctors and nurses attending to me any more. I wonder why.
The CT scans and X-rays showed a grade III/IV concussion (a severe brain bruise with loss of consciousness and amnesia), two fractures of the maxilla bone, (the orbital bone surrounding the eye which at a follow-up doctor’s appointment was found to be displaced and later required a surgery through my eye to smooth down), bruising to the lower jaw, nerve damage, a contusion to my right knee, and road rash down my right leg. I wasn’t awake to experience the blows, but I would have to live with the repercussions consciously from then on. Police reported that at 3pm on Saturday, July 5th, at the intersection of 165th and Riverside Drive, a female driving a van made a left turn at the light, crossed the double yellow lines on 165th and entered the lane of opposing traffic, the lane where I was descending to turn left on Riverside Drive. I was 15 minutes from my apartment.
A few images and memories came back, but I’m uncertain if they were memories of that day or another because the ride was so familiar to me. I had been doing the ride at least 3 times a week for the past month because I loved it and I was preparing for the triathlon. I think I ate a banana chocolate chip muffin at my mid-ride stop at The Runcible Spoon bakery in Nyack, NY, 25 miles away. I had worked on July 4th, the day before, and I know I had been eager and excited for a long ride. A doctor who graduated from my high school a few years ahead of me happened to be a resident in the St. Luke’s emergency room and trauma unit and he had been the one to receive the call that a female cyclist had been hit. He called a week later to check on me and he told me that I had screamed every time they moved my leg. (Three weeks later an MRI revealed partial tears of the ACL, LCL, and a fracture in the lateral tibial plateau in my right knee. They had only x-rayed my leg in the St. Luke’s ER and had not seen these injuries.)
Coming close to death. The accident changed everything. Job gone. Self-confidence and sense of self diminished. Hope questioned. Emotional endurance tested. Dreams turned upside down. My face and leg will never be the same. The right side of my face is now and will always be uneven and higher than the left because the right orbital bone was fractured in two places and displaced. Never had knees problems before. Now, I have chronic pes tendonitis in my right knee which started to degenerate and develop arthritis after arthroscopic surgery to remove the plica, scar tissue, blood and debris from the fracture and to shave down the underside of my kneecap. Running, once a beloved sport, is now painful, difficult, and discouraged by my doctors. Hearing the siren of an ambulance still sends a shiver up my neck as my mind flies to the aftermath of my accident. My hand often unconsciously goes to cool the area under my eye as if it were still warm and tender with swelling. And I often find myself standing like a flamingo with all my weight on one leg or massaging the painful area of pes tendonitis under my knee when doing other things like standing or sitting, talking, working or reading.
Recently, riding on the shoulder of interstate highway 9W, the route toward Nyack and the same one I’d ridden the day of the accident, I counted eleven men and one woman riding without a helmet. Twelve people in two hours riding helmet-less next to a major highway. I can only ask, why? A helmet is to a cyclist what a PFD or Personal Floatation Device is to a white water rafter. Instead of unpredictable white water rapids and rocks, we have unpredictable people, uneven asphalt, poles, tree branches, other cyclists, tourists, car doors, mirrors, deer, dogs, children, frisbees, pedestrians, or anything that may unexpectedly fly at us and our head. Fingers, bones and toes we have many to bruise or break, but brains—we have one. A helmet is our personal brain saving device. There are no guarantees that either a PFD or helmet will save your life, but why not up your chances for survival and lessen your chance for serious injury?
Research shows that cigarette smoking is habit-forming and leads to nicotine addiction. Is helmet-free riding a habit-forming addiction? Other than the powerful pull of a physiological or psychological dependence, what other reason can explain not wearing a helmet? A desire for the cool breeze flowing through your hair? A hankering for the ladies and gents to see your entire attractive head? An expensive haircut? You like playing chicken with fast-moving vehicles while you have absolutely nothing to protect you if the car wins? If you can borrow or buy a bike, can you not borrow or buy a helmet? I am a single female, and when I see guys (and 90 percent of the time it is men) sans helmet, I am not drawn to the snazzy team cycling kit, svelte quads, ripped biceps, or loaded carbon fiber frame; I only see their helmet-free head and think, “What an idiot.” If you spend enough time on a bike, statistics are high that at some point you will go down. The best of the best fall. If you’re as elite a cyclist as a Grand Tour rider then you possess the most fluid and advanced bike handling skills in the world. The bike is an extension of your body, an extra limb that you manipulate (or use to navigate) with ease and precision, threading safely through buzzing rush hour traffic, bunny hopping curbs and potholes. Fantastic. Well done. Are you invincible? Can you, the super-duper bike handling cyclist, avoid a crash that you cannot see coming or even predict?
Many drivers should not be behind a wheel. Ever. Bad drivers—distracted, inconsiderate, unpredictable, multitasking, unskilled drivers – populate cities like New York where space is small and shared with people rushing to their next thing. Have you ever seen a conscientious cab driver who avoids using the bike lane to maneuver ahead of other traffic? Are the bike lanes in NYC solely reserved for cyclists?
Here is the truth: when we ride we take our lives into our own hands. We are at the mercy of the road and all the vehicles on it. If you think otherwise, you are guilty of dangerous and possibly life-threatening hubris, and your ignorance throws salt into all the wounds I bear from my brush with death. Five years, two surgeries, and endless physical therapy and doctors’ visits later, I would like to report that I am fully recovered; I am not. But, I manage. There are worse things in life that happen to people, much worse. I know that. Angels surrounded me that day. I was not lucky enough to get up, take pictures, acquire witness information, walk or ride away from the accident, but I am fortunate. I am grateful. I wore a helmet. I am alive.
The Ride, The Journey 