I had no idea what 33 miles on a bike meant, because the most I'd done before was maybe 15. So, I had no choice but to feel a strange mixture of terrified and grandiose about the whole thing. "Yeah, I got this mixed with Oh, crap"...a common state of being for me, actually.
We couldn't have asked for more beautiful weather. Warm, dry, almost no wind. The leaves were cliche...oranges, yellows, reds created a backdrop for the harvest, which was in full swing. At one point I passed a combine crossing the road and truly did not know who had the right of way, but I figured it should probably be the 122 ton vehicle.
The route started with a hill, and my fresh legs made quick work of it. Excited now, because I felt strong and athletic. We got to our first covered bridge and stopped for a minute to admire it. 1904. Cross at a Walk. Paul loves Sheila. People always put the most interesting things on bridges.
Snap a couple pictures and we're on our way. My riding buddies are much more in shape than me. This could be a problem, my fearful inner voice whispers. Or I could hang with them, my confident inner voice retorts, in more of a question than a statement, because this ride is getting more real.
After the first rest stop things get tougher. I fall back a bit while fumbling with my headphones, but this is okay because I wanted to sing anyway. And I do. Tentatively at first, lest I am actually louder than I think I am, (one never can tell while one is wearing headphones), but pretty soon I am belting it out. I've got The Heritage on, and "my soul it overflows, it's echoing the sound of your heartbeat, sound of your heartbeat". I imagine I sound as cool as the lead singer and laugh, partly because I know better but mostly because I'm having fun. And I keep pedaling.
Always the pedaling. After the second rest stop I don't pretend to try to keep up with my friends anymore. My ego says I could if I really wanted to. My body says nothing, probably because it is too busy pedaling. And watching the distance between us increase.
Now I'm singing about God's desire "to break every chain, break every chain", and somebody passes me. I want to shout out, 'not that kind of chain', but i laugh instead. And I think about how ludicrous an eternal, omnipotent God looks when stuffed into our minutiae. And I want Him to spill out of the edges. That is my only deep thought during this trip. Unless you count my musings on bike seats and shocks and padded shorts, which were probably just more relevant than they were deep.
Worst of all are the optical illusions. The terrain looks flat to the naked eye, but my increasing need to downshift often can only mean one thing...ghost hills.
Not to mention the real hills. I must have gotten lighter, because I can't even stand and use my body weight to push the pedals down anymore. So I walk up the last two hills. My Jello legs don't even want to do that, but I force them to wobble their way up, because I am in charge of my legs. My hair, not so much.
Suddenly, I'm done. No fanfare, no medal, no one even notices me. I coast in and lay my bike next to my friends' bikes. I hobble triumphantly up the last hill.
And I get in line for my pulled pork sandwich.
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