The day I met the Bike the US for MS cyclists was one of my favorite days of the whole trip. They were the most refreshing group of people- some of them were significantly older than I was, and some were my same age. Most of them had more experience than me, but there were a few who didn’t, and that was a big relief to me. To be honest, the fact that I was no longer the only female in my group was one of the biggest selling points. After one day of cycling with them I accepted my new change of plans without a second thought about what I was leaving behind, which was uncharacteristically easy for me to do.
We rode out of Tempe bright and early; the sun was coming up over the cactus-capped mountains, and everybody was feeling optimistic. Those were always the best days; when we were all collectively naïve as to what was in store, and we were able to not only convince ourselves, but each other that it was going to be an easy day. Needless to say those days were never easy; they always turned out to be mega hot vertical inclines with no shoulders and ample big-rig traffic, paired nicely with minimal passing zones and no places to pee. What made them great was how hilariously ironic it was. Also how pissed off everybody was about it, including myself.
Luckily it was easy to find humor in these situations; the false summits and angry truck drivers who didn’t want to share the road; because it was hard not to be happy when I was with such an incredible group of people. Cycling van-supported was just so much better than the first week of my trip. Though I still found ways to completely stress myself out, at least I never had to worry about food, water, and bike repairs. For a little while, anyway.
Unfortunately, one of the things that has always stunted my ability to go with the flow is my restlessness; I have always felt constantly pinched for time in every aspect of my life. This might explain why I felt like I needed to ride my bike across the country as soon as I was old enough to do it without my parent’s permission; it always seems more practical to jump the gun than to wait. This didn’t change on my bike trip; I often felt more anxious when I wasn’t on my bike than when I was on it, I suppose because I was continually anticipating the act of moving on. Because of this I never really let myself look back- if I had no time for rest then I hardly had time for eating, and that was undoubtedly my priority 99% of the time. Even to this day it is sometimes exhausting to reflect on what I left behind in such a rush, maybe that kind of eagerness to escape is rooted in fear also. If nothing else, the fear of never having any of those experiences again seems justified.
Moving on was not only difficult emotionally, but in the literal sense as well. A common occurrence in those early days with the new cyclists was facing the challenge of whether to navigate on my own or try to keep up with the rest of the group. I was usually pretty confident that I was capable of finding my own way, but it was more than just a hassle, it sometimes meant the difference between having a helping hand to change a flat tire with, or being completely on my own. The difference between having to outrun a whole pack of watch dogs, or just having to outrun my fellow cyclists. The difference between being able to zone out and stare at the rear tire of the bike in front of me, or actually having to pay attention to keep from going off the road. There were pros and cons to both, especially since trying to match somebody else’s pace could be exhausting regardless of if they were faster than me or slower. It was kind of like choosing the lesser of two evils.
For everybody else, moving on didn’t seem to be so much of an issue in the sense that they didn’t have to mentally prepare for it. Everything would be moving at such a slow, manageable pace until suddenly it seemed that everyone would run out of patience at once. I guess by the end of the trip I started to get this way too; just another way we cyclists can be overachievers. But the difficult part was the fact that this sudden urge to get up and get moving was just that- sudden.
When the time to be leisurely abruptly ended the act of cycling could kind of become a race, and that was something that stressed me out to no end. Some balance in the world would be ever so slightly off and before we knew what hit us even the slow riders would be pushing to maintain 20 miles per hour, into the wind or with it, it didn’t matter. I would be one of them, drafting as much as I could and struggling to shake off the early morning fatigue as fast as I could.
I never regretted it once I forced myself to get going; in the desert it made a lot of sense to get on the road as early as possible, because the mornings were always so much cooler than the evenings. There was also a lot less traffic, which always seemed to brighten everyone’s mood. I think my favorite thing about those early morning rides was how satisfying it was to break the stillness. When the world was at its quietest, it’s gentlest; we were at our most lively. We were on a mission to breathe in the coolest, freshest air of the day while there was a never ending supply of it. While the earth was still catching up to us, we were already prepared for the day. That was the best part about the mornings; the fact that they were so unblemished, and so promising.
The dawn can be like that a lot; almost everything I do starts off really well, which might explain why my intuition doesn’t tell me to give things a second thought. Luckily the rest of my trip was generally incredible, so that first day was a good example of what I could expect for the next 2,500 miles. There were still some tough times though, of course there were, and the next day was one of them. We were moving along just fine, and then everything changed when one of us got hurt.
Rove & Ponder 