It has now been two weeks to the day that we returned to Kemmerer from our ride across Washington State. I can thank my boss for two weeks chock full of projects and deadlines that kept me from suffering post project blues.
Hard to believe it was two years ago that I was first inspired by Cheryl Strayed's book Wild, and 17 months ago that I bought Cycling the Pacific Northwest with the thought that I could pedal my way through one of the four sections of that ride.
I have so appreciated the love and support I experienced throughout this -- still amazed that anyone other than me actually reads this blog, and more amazed at the 3300+ hits it has accumulated as of today. Thank you so much to all of you who have commented, shared, laughed, inspired, prayed, encouraged and believed. My cup runs over.
One profound observation I have made is that when you stretch yourself and set a difficult goal, there is tremendous growth that comes so incrementally it is almost imperceptible until you look back over the change. I saw this in the physical... I didn't see myself daily getting stronger, but when I look back the progress is clear. I remember the first time I tried to ride up the hill just outside town on 233 (right before the llamas). I got about 2/3 of the way up and stopped because my heart was beating so wildly that it was a very real danger that I might have a heart attack on the side of the road. Today, that hill is nothing.... something that I don't even need to shift all the way down for and that hardly raises my heart rate. Amazing. At one time, riding 5 miles was epic. Today, riding less than 20 is an easy, short ride.
Emotionally, mentally, psychologically there have been changes, too. I had a lot of fear 17 months ago -- fear of going too fast, fear of falling, fear of getting stranded, fear of failing, fear of my own body and how this chubby woman would be perceived in full riding gear on the bike. Not anymore. I now love the feeling of flying on the bike and want to seek out more interesting and difficult rides. I could not care less what people think I look like in my cycling shorts and helmet -- after all, I am out doing it, and by doing so I am contributing to a better, fuller, richer, healthier life, and that is the main thing.
In my work I have the attitude of "How hard can it be?" But now I find myself saying that in the physical as well. I am more willing to try physical challenges even within my limitations. "I can do this... I've got this.... I'm going to try it... why not?" These are the phrases that have more frequently and naturally entered my vocabulary.
In the end, the ride was not perfect. We did not reach the 323 miles, for a host of reasons that include weather, unforeseen problems (ie. Fred's shoe breaking), at times disorganization and not realizing just how hard we could push ourselves. I am confident that we can fix all of that (well, maybe not the weather!) in our future rides. And oh yes, there will be future rides. We are already talking about the next one. (Still not feeling smurfy about "Riding the Rockies", Dianne!)
Adam and Aislynn have watched me take this on. I think it's such a good example to my daughter about setting longer term goals and working steadily to reach them. Adam is sufficiently fired up to want to get a road bike for himself, and to get me a better touring bike, which would allow Aislynn to use my current road bike so that we can do some family cycling.
I still have much work to do on my body and my health. I am convinced that I need to set a new goal and set it soon -- apparently I am of the nature that without set goals and deadlines, I will not be able to stick to or maintain a healthy routine. I have made peace with this part of my psyche, and know I need to work within who I am. (I'm reading The Happiness Project right now, and the author talks a lot about setting and reaching goals while "Being Gretchen" - herself. I need to "Be Jennifer" and stay realistic about how I approach things in order to give myself the most chance for success.)
It is not a secret that I was closer to my grandmother, Angeline, than I was to my mom, Jeorgi. For most things I have accomplished in my life, it is my grandma I rushed to tell, because so often she could really appreciate and enjoy my successes. But this one.... this one my mom would have really gotten and celebrated. So here's to you, Mom. And here's to learning from the challenges you faced and working to do things differently while still appreciating who you were and what you've taught me.
My friend Layne talks about each person having a hero's journey in his or her lifetime. He says that when it happens, that journey defines us and changes us forever. Layne, this was not that journey for me, but it was the precursor -- the adventure that has made me positive that my hero's journey is out there and that I will find it and accomplish it.
I have a lot of thank yous to give.
1. To Adam and Aislynn, for indulging me with our time, our budget, our conversation. Adam, you always allow me to reach for goals and support them in your quiet, steady way. Thank you, especially, for letting me fulfill this one even as you were reeling from your mom's unexpected passing.
2. To Jean and Ann and Jenny... you ladies have offered so much support and love through your comments and faithful reading of my posts. I'm not sure what interested you in them, but I want you to know that I got lots of encouragement and energy from all of you.
3. Janelle, thank you. You are such a role model for me with your healthy lifestyle and what I call your "high health intelligence quotient" (HHIQ). I really appreciate your advice and help.
4. To Nancy, being a support driver is a pretty tough role... lots of hours alone, just waiting, waiting, waiting. Having plans change on a dime and having to adjust to our aches, pains, moods, energy levels, whims, etc., could not have been easy. We could not have done the ride without you, and your presence allowed us to focus on the ride in a way that we really needed to and appreciated.
5. To those of you who checked in on the blog from time to time, thank you. You made me accountable to finish what I started, and you gave me a place to think, consider, vent, cry, rage, laugh, and share. And more than you know, you made me get back on the bike time and again when I might have otherwise ditched the whole project.
6. To my friends in Kemmerer, thanks for asking me how it was going when you saw me. Thanks for being excited as the trip got near. Bob, thanks for taking me out to practice and for picking me up. Kathy, thanks for rescuing me with fluids and carbs when my idiocy and lack of planning threatened my stamina and health. Thanks for your prayers and thoughts toward our safety the week we rode -- so glad to be back safely.
7. Matt, thanks for all the brotherly advice and for lending me your expertise when I needed answers. Bec, thanks for listening to me drone on and on and on and on about this. So lucky to have siblings who are also my close friends.
8. Sharon, thank you for the prayers. I know you don't always understand my whims, but I can always count on you to pray for me and share your love and concerns.
And finally...
9. Fred.... thank you. The greatest show of love, friendship and support was you agreeing to do this WITH me. Especially awesome is the fact that you weren't even a cyclist and took it on so I wouldn't have to do it alone. You are a wonderful riding partner, an easy travel partner, and a great mentor. Did you ever think that two months after your 70th birthday you would be pedaling your way across Washington? Thank you for saying yes, with all the time, expense and effort it entailed. We did it!
And so I have come to the final entry of this blog. I have tried to write blogs many times before and have never been able to keep them up, so this is another first for me embedded in the journey. It feels so strange, and a little bittersweet, but I am comforting myself with the thought that this is not an end, but rather a beginning of sorts.... of great things to come.
What other way is there to finish this than to say..... Thanks, blog.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Friday, October 4, 2013
Day 6 The Second Last Post for This Blog (Punting is Still Points)
It was hard to believe how quickly the week went.... kind of like a wedding or big party -- all that planning for months and months, and then it's over before you know it. I try to remind myself that this is why it's the journey that's so important... because all told we spend more time along the way than at any given destination.
I woke up on Friday exhilarated from the previous day's success and ready to go. This was it. The final piece that would culminate in a victory ride across the bridge of the Columbia River as we entered Oregon. What a thrill... what a rush... what an ending to an incredible trip... what an accomplishment... what a cold, wet, crappy, rainy, foggy, zero visibility day.
It rained. And rained. And rained and rained and rained. And then it rained some more. And not the rain of the previous days -- the fine mist that permeated everything but caused no real damage or delay. No, this was honest-to-goodness knock down, drag out hard rain. The kind you don't ride in. The kind that makes you stay inside with quilts and movies and popcorns. That kind of rain.
As we ate breakfast, there was a general testiness and anxiety among us, although as usual the conversation was good. When we finished eating, I took over at the wheel, needing the focus on driving to calm my nerves. We headed south on 101, reasoning that we might be able to outdrive the weather and get close enough to at least make the ride into Oregon.
By the time we got to Seaview, which was about 30-40 miles from Astoria, it became pretty clear that there was no way in Hades we were going to complete the ride anytime soon. It wasn't just how wet and slippery everything was; I had a hard time seeing 15 feet in front of me, and I knew that crossing a shoulderless, busy bridge in this rain would be akin to tattooing "Very Stupid" across my forehead.
We stopped at a gas station, filled up, inquired about the nearest latte and considered our options. I knew Fred would defer to whatever decision I made because he was so in tune to the significance of this experience for me.
On one hand, my frustrated perfectionist determination was coming out. I needed to ride across that #$%#$% bridge. On the other, my pragmatism was standing in full arms-crossed, eyebrow-raised skepticism -- this rain wasn't going to stop anytime soon. So did we try to wait it out or not?
I thought about it, going back and forth. Then I found myself thinking about moments throughout the trip... how I felt the very first time I clipped into my pedals on San Juan Island, telling the couple in the pick-up truck we had "only" done a 25 mile ride so far, falling on the road out of Oak Harbor and getting back on my bike, making it over the final hill on the Egg and I, riding into Aberdeen on a high I have never felt in my life, seeing the purples and blues of the sky reflected in the water next to the road, hearing Fred say he never wanted to get in a car again... and then I thought back to the training days, when 6 miles seemed interminable.. the first time I rode back to town from 12 miles out.... riding 30 miles to Viva Naughton and back.... climbing out of the canyon in Grand Junction... all of it.
At that moment, it dawned on me that the bridge to Astoria was not the end all, be all of this trip. In fact, it wasn't an end at all, but rather a beginning of a new lifestyle, new confidence, new goals, new dreams, new things to see and do.
Those thoughts allowed me to calmly, contentedly turn to Nancy and Fred and say, "Let's head back toward Mount Vernon. It's not about the bridge, it's about being on the bike. If it clears up on the way back, we'll get out and ride. It's all good."
And that's exactly what we did. We drove toward Mount Vernon. I reclined in the back seat, looking out the window at the towering pines passing as I listened to music through my ear buds. "On Earth As It Is In Heaven" by Ennio Morricone came on. It's from the soundtrack to the movie The Mission and is this incredible piece that combines orchestra, choir, percussion and a haunting oboe solo. It's incredibly powerful, and as I listened to it while watching the scenery of the Pacific Northwest, I felt overwhelmed by the beauty. I played it several times and then leaned forward, put my ear buds in Fred's ears, told him to look out the window and pushed play. He got it and didn't say a word as he listened to the entire song. "It's almost enough to make one a believer, isn't it?" he asked. Yes, Fred, it is indeed.
We got stuck in the traffic in Seattle, and I started climbing the walls of the truck, thinking I was going to lose my mind if I couldn't get out. So Nancy pulled off the interstate and we stopped at a McDonald's. The weather had cleared a bit. I went in to use the bathroom and get yet more coffee, and when I came out I told Fred I wasn't getting back in the car. "I need to get on my bike," I told him. We were south of downtown.
Fred looked toward the urban center of the city, which was maybe a mile or two from where we were standing. "Wanna ride to Pike's Place?" Oh, hells yeah. When Nancy came out of the restaurant, I was already straddling my bike in full riding mode.
And so it was that Fred and I raced through downtown Seattle on our bikes, weaving in and out of traffic, riding through plazas, looking at the buildings, skirting through the parking lots of Safeco (Mariners) and Century Link (Seahawks) stadiums and loving every minute of it. SO. MUCH. FUN. And we got to walk around Pike's Place Market to boot.
It wasn't the Friday we planned, but it was still a great experience and wildly fun. For me, riding through a city is actually LESS scary than riding along country roads with logging trucks whizzing by. I mean, city drivers are used to watching for cyclists and pedestrians, and the very heaviness of traffic forces them to crawl along slowly. (This is when I hatched the idea to do some kind of urban bike tour, exploring a new city by bike every 2 to 3 days and then moving on to the next city -- it could work!)
When we'd had our fill, we got back in the car and drove the rest of the way to Mount Vernon. That evening we had celebratory dinner where we all toasted each other with champagne and reflected on our epic adventure. (I ate a lot -- because when you are cycling 4-6 hours a day, you CAN eat. That, as Dianne noted weeks before, is a very good reason to keep it up.) I kept trying to think big thoughts about the experience, but found I hadn't yet digested it enough -- it hadn't sunk in that we had actually finished the week and our ride.
I felt surprisingly okay about skipping the final leg of Washington. I guess sometimes you just have to punt, and punting, after all, still brings in points for the team.
One more post to go, blog, to complete you. Thanks for everything -- conclusions to follow.
I woke up on Friday exhilarated from the previous day's success and ready to go. This was it. The final piece that would culminate in a victory ride across the bridge of the Columbia River as we entered Oregon. What a thrill... what a rush... what an ending to an incredible trip... what an accomplishment... what a cold, wet, crappy, rainy, foggy, zero visibility day.
It rained. And rained. And rained and rained and rained. And then it rained some more. And not the rain of the previous days -- the fine mist that permeated everything but caused no real damage or delay. No, this was honest-to-goodness knock down, drag out hard rain. The kind you don't ride in. The kind that makes you stay inside with quilts and movies and popcorns. That kind of rain.
As we ate breakfast, there was a general testiness and anxiety among us, although as usual the conversation was good. When we finished eating, I took over at the wheel, needing the focus on driving to calm my nerves. We headed south on 101, reasoning that we might be able to outdrive the weather and get close enough to at least make the ride into Oregon.
By the time we got to Seaview, which was about 30-40 miles from Astoria, it became pretty clear that there was no way in Hades we were going to complete the ride anytime soon. It wasn't just how wet and slippery everything was; I had a hard time seeing 15 feet in front of me, and I knew that crossing a shoulderless, busy bridge in this rain would be akin to tattooing "Very Stupid" across my forehead.
We stopped at a gas station, filled up, inquired about the nearest latte and considered our options. I knew Fred would defer to whatever decision I made because he was so in tune to the significance of this experience for me.
On one hand, my frustrated perfectionist determination was coming out. I needed to ride across that #$%#$% bridge. On the other, my pragmatism was standing in full arms-crossed, eyebrow-raised skepticism -- this rain wasn't going to stop anytime soon. So did we try to wait it out or not?
I thought about it, going back and forth. Then I found myself thinking about moments throughout the trip... how I felt the very first time I clipped into my pedals on San Juan Island, telling the couple in the pick-up truck we had "only" done a 25 mile ride so far, falling on the road out of Oak Harbor and getting back on my bike, making it over the final hill on the Egg and I, riding into Aberdeen on a high I have never felt in my life, seeing the purples and blues of the sky reflected in the water next to the road, hearing Fred say he never wanted to get in a car again... and then I thought back to the training days, when 6 miles seemed interminable.. the first time I rode back to town from 12 miles out.... riding 30 miles to Viva Naughton and back.... climbing out of the canyon in Grand Junction... all of it.
At that moment, it dawned on me that the bridge to Astoria was not the end all, be all of this trip. In fact, it wasn't an end at all, but rather a beginning of a new lifestyle, new confidence, new goals, new dreams, new things to see and do.
Those thoughts allowed me to calmly, contentedly turn to Nancy and Fred and say, "Let's head back toward Mount Vernon. It's not about the bridge, it's about being on the bike. If it clears up on the way back, we'll get out and ride. It's all good."
And that's exactly what we did. We drove toward Mount Vernon. I reclined in the back seat, looking out the window at the towering pines passing as I listened to music through my ear buds. "On Earth As It Is In Heaven" by Ennio Morricone came on. It's from the soundtrack to the movie The Mission and is this incredible piece that combines orchestra, choir, percussion and a haunting oboe solo. It's incredibly powerful, and as I listened to it while watching the scenery of the Pacific Northwest, I felt overwhelmed by the beauty. I played it several times and then leaned forward, put my ear buds in Fred's ears, told him to look out the window and pushed play. He got it and didn't say a word as he listened to the entire song. "It's almost enough to make one a believer, isn't it?" he asked. Yes, Fred, it is indeed.
We got stuck in the traffic in Seattle, and I started climbing the walls of the truck, thinking I was going to lose my mind if I couldn't get out. So Nancy pulled off the interstate and we stopped at a McDonald's. The weather had cleared a bit. I went in to use the bathroom and get yet more coffee, and when I came out I told Fred I wasn't getting back in the car. "I need to get on my bike," I told him. We were south of downtown.
Fred looked toward the urban center of the city, which was maybe a mile or two from where we were standing. "Wanna ride to Pike's Place?" Oh, hells yeah. When Nancy came out of the restaurant, I was already straddling my bike in full riding mode.
And so it was that Fred and I raced through downtown Seattle on our bikes, weaving in and out of traffic, riding through plazas, looking at the buildings, skirting through the parking lots of Safeco (Mariners) and Century Link (Seahawks) stadiums and loving every minute of it. SO. MUCH. FUN. And we got to walk around Pike's Place Market to boot.
It wasn't the Friday we planned, but it was still a great experience and wildly fun. For me, riding through a city is actually LESS scary than riding along country roads with logging trucks whizzing by. I mean, city drivers are used to watching for cyclists and pedestrians, and the very heaviness of traffic forces them to crawl along slowly. (This is when I hatched the idea to do some kind of urban bike tour, exploring a new city by bike every 2 to 3 days and then moving on to the next city -- it could work!)
When we'd had our fill, we got back in the car and drove the rest of the way to Mount Vernon. That evening we had celebratory dinner where we all toasted each other with champagne and reflected on our epic adventure. (I ate a lot -- because when you are cycling 4-6 hours a day, you CAN eat. That, as Dianne noted weeks before, is a very good reason to keep it up.) I kept trying to think big thoughts about the experience, but found I hadn't yet digested it enough -- it hadn't sunk in that we had actually finished the week and our ride.
I felt surprisingly okay about skipping the final leg of Washington. I guess sometimes you just have to punt, and punting, after all, still brings in points for the team.
One more post to go, blog, to complete you. Thanks for everything -- conclusions to follow.
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