Walking Alone

This past Saturday, I had a scheduling problem of being double booked: A 45-mile ride and a surprise birthday party. The solution: Do the ride early and then go to the party.

It was a simple solution, sound and well-thought out, except for leaving a key factor, the Sun. Its twofold function of light and warmth doesn’t really kick in until later in the morning. This minor detail slipped my mind when I fumbled for my slippers at 6am yesterday. The error of my way began unfolding first when I glanced out the window and it was still quite dark out. (You see, most of my cold weather gear is black, head to toe and I have no reflectors on my bike, which makes me nearly invisible in poor light. Playing “invisible biker” with drowsy drivers isn’t my idea of fun. Strike One.

So, as I mentioned, 6am, groggy, dark. And I can not get my stuff together. I wanted to get out of the house fast, and on the road. But it didn’t happen. I got dressed, checked the weather (“chance of flurries, feeling like 27 degrees with the wind chill…”) and got dressed again. I couldn’t find my water bottles, I forgot my socks and then I walked out of the house without keys. Not one of my finer moments. Strike Two.

I didn’t even look at my watch to see what time it was before I got over to the Oak Street School parking lot, where we gather before each ride. As I was going early, there was no one to greet me or ride with when I started. I slipped on the rest of my gear, clipped on my cue sheet that tells me where to turn, put on my glasses, hat, helmet, wrist gaiters, and then turned on my computer. I was ready to go, and it was past 8am, and I needed to be gone by 7am. Strike Three.

I kicked off the ride and the cold quickly seeped through my clothes and into my chest and arms, and I wondered if I shouldn’t have just bagged the whole thing and just stayed in bed. Beds are warm. Beds are quiet. Mmmmm, beds. Beds, beds are good. They don’t judge you when you want to be lazy, comforting understanding beds.

But I figured if I picked up the pace a bit I would warm up in time and be OK. Sadly, in this I was correct, and I kept going. The first 10 miles are always the worst. My eyes panned down the cue sheet. The first rest stop was around mile 18, a pizza place. It’s important to have things to look forward to, especially when you are by yourself.

Something was gnawing at me, though. What pizza place was open in the morning? And when I got to Sorrento’s, it didn’t open for another two hours. I hadn’t planned on taking that long a rest, so I bit off a piece of my delicious Spiced Pumpkin Pie Clif Bar (sort of like a walnut brownie and carrot cake), sat for a few minutes and hit the road again. You tend not to linger when there’s no one to talk to but your bike. And Cannondales are terrible conversationalists.

The next rest stop was Kevin’s workplace, the town’s police station at mile 28. I did have to use the restroom, but felt weird about wandering through a police station dressed like a cross between a storm trooper from Star Wars and a ninja in a wetsuit, so I rolled on by.

A few miles down the road, with my back teeth floating, I found a spot, which can be hard to do in suburban New Jersey, with a house every three feet.

In between the rest stops, the ride itself reminded me of the Ramapo Rally (see last year’s “Rally of Pain”), lots of short hills and descents ending at stop signs where you have to come to a complete stop to make a turn, then build up momentum again as you head up a hill. Starting from a dead stop over and over again, coupled with incessant hills wears you out.

When I managed to get in a good clip, it gave me time to think.

I was out here by myself, just as my uncle Ed was as he rested night after night in his hospital bed. I wondered what he thought about when he sat there, whether he peered out the window, or wished for some one to stroll in and strike up a conversation. Mind you, my family kept a pretty sound vigil, but there must have been times when he was alone, in that room, at that hospital, away from home, away from his own bed.

When my uncle Ed was diagnosed (that's him on the left in India in 2003 above), things accelerated rapidly and for the worst. Leukemia weakens your immune system to near nothing, which could make a slight cold a lethal proposition, so visiting was never recommended. I never saw Ed while he was sick, while he was still with us. I saw him when he was gone, when the disease had taken so much from him, leaving a hollow shell and a room full of brothers, sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, grandchildren and friends quietly mourning his passing.

Then a stop sign would spring up, and break me out of this thought, and I’d focus on getting my speed up to keep on going. I wanted to finish in three hours, with a 15 mph pace, but I couldn’t do it. Too many hills and very little training during the week had me get back to the parking lot in just over three and a half hours, with taking very few and very brief breaks.

I have until the end of May to get my body comfortable with spending six hours on a bike, with an hour of it spent going up a long and steady ascent. And if you like reading my misadventures in getting into this sort of shape, a great way to show your appreciation and contribute to a great cause, would be to crack open that checkbook or make an online donation. Like my training, I am pretty far off in reaching my goal. But unlike my training, I can’t do it alone.

Oh, we were two and a half hours late to that party. Ooops.