…so far into an intensity you didn’t think you could manage that you found yourself crying?
I was thinking of the “dirty secrets” thread on my ride today, and that led to the thought “I like crying every once in a while, it makes me feel alive in some strange way. (Men Today! Bunch of Pussies!)” The stream of consciousness flashed back to summer of '02 when I was living in Eugene, Oregon. I had just recently moved there and didn’t have a job, or a car. I had a road bike, which was way too big for me, that I’d cruise around and check out the city on. I didn’t actually train on this bike, I just liked the feeling of going fast, and would ride for an hour or so most days racing the cars for short durations, which was possible because the speed limit in downtown Eugene is in the 25-35 range.
Anyhow, an ad popped up in the paper for this little hippieish resort called Breitenbush Hot Springs. I checked out there website and I wanted the job, which included living there. When I called the people up they asked if I’d ever been there, and I hadn’t. They said I should check it out first. So, not knowing anybody in Eugene, and with no bus routes that went there, I had the bright idea that I could just saddle up and ride my ass up there.
They serve dinner at 6pm, so I figured leaving at 6am would give me plenty of time to make the 120 mile trek to this little mountain get-away. I loaded up on a box of some type of peanut butter cereal, took a fat rip from my bong and then left promptly at 6am, doing all of about 12mph. I knew it was going to be a bitch of a ride and didn’t want to kill myself out of the hole by doing 20mph for the first hour or so.
The first 50 miles, done in about 4 hours, was simple, considering I had been riding about 50 miles a week, and never longer than about 10-15 miles at any one time. By 70 miles it was around noon and I recall thinking it was time to pick it up, because I was only about 50 miles out and still felt pretty good. I went from my steady 12mph up to about 17-18mph. That lasted all of an hour. I was then fried. In a bad way. I could hardly turn the pedals over, so I stopped at a gas station and loaded up on reeses pieces and gatorade.
It was about 1:30, and I only had about 30 or so miles to go, which was reassuring, as I knew I had 4 1/2 hours to make it to dinner. No problem. I was off once again and feeling much better. About five minutes later, I came upon one of the first hills. Oh shit. About five minutes after that I was laying on the side of the road, laughing hysterically. I’d never felt better than when I laid down at that moment. My thumb went out to ask for a ride, and I figured it was Oregon where everybody is good and nice and I was sure to hitch a ride further up the road. After a good 20 minutes of that, and having been passed by scores of pick up trucks, which pissed me off, I saddled up once again.
I don’t remember the next 20 miles, but it took me about 2 1/2 hours because I arrived in Detroit, the last city before Breitenbush, at 4:30. I didn’t have a cabin reserved at Breitenbush, and knew I’d have to come back to Detroit to sleep for the night, but damn I was hungry and the sign said it was only 12 miles to my destination. Plus a lady at the gas station said the hard part was all over. That 12 mile stretch is the longest road I’ve ever ridden. In reality, it probably gains 1000’, tops, but I’ve never done a climb that hard to this day. It was murder turning the cranks over and when 5:30pm rolled around I thought for sure I had passed the turn-off. There was absolutely no way I was turning around though, only to have to backtrack again if I hadn’t passed it. So I kept going. I was getting super-emotional. Cursing the lady at the gas station, cursing the peanut butter cereal for not providing me with more juice, cursing myself for having smoked before I left, cursing the road, just plain cursing to curse.
Finally, I see the sign saying Breitenbush in about a mile. Redemption. A shot of energy runs through me. But that only lasts for about 10 seconds. I soon find out I have to traverse a dirt path with loose rocks everywhere, and it’s much steeper than the road I’d been riding. Whatever. I move on.
I couldn’t turn the cranks over while sitting down at that point, not even close. So, I was out of the saddle, probably at about 20rpm or so, just enough to not fall over. The back wheel would slip every few rotations of the cranks, and this pissed me off so bad that my eyes got real moist-like. By the time I got to the entrance, my eyes were ready to burst and full-on crying was to commence. However, I didn’t quite reach the point of having those little guys running down my cheeks. I got there about 5 minutes before 6, and one of the girls who lived there was quite inspired by my story/escapade and invited me to stay at her cabin for the weekend so I wouldn’t have to go back to Detroit after dinner. Nice.
I kind of regret the fact I didn’t push myself to the point of crying. It seems like there would have been some type of, forgive me for the new-ageiness, emotional release or something.
I’m not the greatest writer, I know, but I’d be interested to hear your “I kicked my own ass so hard I broke down in tears, or nearly did” story.
(I weighed almost 90kg at the time)