the ride

All summer, my friend Steve had been asking me to join him on a long bike ride between Columbus and Cincinnati. He had discovered the joys of bicycle commuting and wanted to put his re-kindled love for riding to a serious test. None of this tooling around the neighborhood or short jaunts on the bike path. Steve had a dream, and when he dreams, he dreams big.

He is also relentless. At least twice a week he would ask me if I was still up for riding from Columbus to Cincinnati and at least twice a week I would say it sounded great, but I would have to check my schedule, which, while honest, wasn’t exactly the truth. That’s not to say I wasn’t interested; three years ago I had followed my own desire to do a century – riding a 100 miles in a day – and it was one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had recently. But as the summer dragged on, I realized my goal of losing the extra 20 pounds I’d packed on since my last ride remained only a goal and by the time Labor Day rolled around, I hadn’t been on a bike since I’d had my gall bladder removed – in July.

So I looked for ways to get out of it. I hinted at my lack of training. I pointed to the stress of beginning a new school year. I alluded to the logistical problems involved in biking between cities. But Steve would have none of it. He was determined and I had made a promise, and though logically it was stupid for someone as out of shape as I was, I was taking this ride, one way or another.

After crashing in Columbus at the home of two kind and generous souls, the alarm went off at 5:00AM and we loaded up our bikes and hit the streets of Columbus well before the sun began to rise. Riding through the darkened neighborhoods in the cool of the morning got my adrenaline going and by the time we stopped to take a couple of pictures along the river, I was actually looking forward to the rest of the ride. I felt good. I felt rested. I felt ready to conquer the trail and emerge triumphant at the end.

And then the pain set in.

I don’t know if you’ve ever felt the burn of muscles not used to being used, but in many ways it’s similar to eating especially hot salsa – you’re better off if you keep going because when you stop, that’s when the real ache begins. We were just past West Jefferson when my body began to revolt. I had hoped it was temporary, but while Steve moved ahead at a comfortable pace, I was struggling to keep my bike moving forward. This was bad. No, seriously, this was really, really bad.

By the time we coasted into London and found nothing but fast food restaurants open for eating, I was a wreck. Steve could tell I was hurting and so could the bikers (motors, not pedals) who pointed us toward a restaurant in the next town, South Charleston. Hard to hide the fact that your body is ready to curl up into a fetal position until the pain goes away. But in the interest of finding an eatery with local flavor, I agreed to wait to eat until we went a few more miles down the path.

This, too, was a mistake. See, I hadn’t eaten anything all day, other than some trail mix. I figured out later this was why my legs were burning. But those few miles from London to South Charleston was the worst. pain. ever. I kept alternating between cursing and saying the Jesus Prayer over and over again (Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me and my stupid legs). By the time we pulled into the Blue Point Café, I was ready to give in and admit I was too out of shape to go any farther. I’d figured it all out – someone could come and get me and the bike, drive me back to Cincinnati, and I’d be recovering in my bed before the sun set that night.

Luckily, I decided to see how I felt after eating before announcing to Steve my plan to abandon him. The protein from the burger and the pitcher of water I drank soothed the burn in my legs and after a break down by the head of the trail, I felt human enough to pack up and ride again. I popped on my iPod, determined to make it to Xenia before dark. I wasn’t going anywhere fast, and the burn got bad a few times, but I was able to push through the pain and even began to enjoy the ride a bit as the sun beat down on us. Unfortunately, this part of the ride wasn’t so kind to Steve’s bike – he lost three spokes and his back tire wobbled like a drunken clown. So we loaded his panniers on my bike, called ahead to find an open bike shop and took it easy the last few miles to Xenia.

While Steve’s bike was fixed, I called my friend Candice and got the phone number for the Xenia Holiday Inn. The thought of a bed and a pool excited me in ways I wasn’t completely comfortable with. We got one of the last rooms available (stupid soccer tournaments) with no discount, but I probably would have paid any price at that point. We walked the bikes up and I collapsed on the bed while Steve took a shower. Lying there, I was sure there was no way for me to make it any farther. I could be proud of my ride – 65 miles with no training is nothing to be ashamed of. And I knew my parents would be in Beavercreek for church the next morning and could come and get me with little hassle. But again, I kept it to myself because, well, I hate confrontation and I didn’t want to spoil Steve’s mood.

We got on our bikes one last time (much to my chagrin) and headed down to the Mexican restaurant next to the bike shop. After a filling and tasty meal, we went back to the room. We both toyed with hitting the pool, but sleep won out and we crashed – Steve around 8:00, me and my insomnia around 10:00 PM. As usual, I woke up five hours later at 3AM and practiced in my head how I would tell Steve I wasn’t going in the morning. I knew he’d be disappointed, but I also figured he’d understand after my misery of the day before. I had it all worked out – he could take my phone and I would take his extra weight so he could make it back to Norwood quicker than having to wait on me all the time. For me to go on would just be to save my ego and I knew that was a stupid reason to risk serious harm.

But then we walked to Bob Evans for breakfast and it never came up and we got back and the next thing I knew Steve had his bike all loaded and ready to go. It was now or never. I told him I didn’t think I could make it, that I would wait here and my parents would come and pick me up. It was for the best. He looked sad and simply said maybe I was just in a food coma after breakfast and would feel better once we got on the road. That’s all it took – I sucked it up, put on my riding clothes, loaded up my Camelbak and we hit the road for the final 55-60 miles.

Day two was rather uneventful compared to day one. I was far more familiar with this stretch of the path from my earlier rides. Plus I did a much better job of staying hydrated and fed and while I had serious saddle sores, my legs and conditioning did much better. At least until we hopped off the bike path just south of Loveland and headed into Indian Hills. I should have known I was in trouble because of the name. It felt like all we did for the next several miles was climb and climb and climb some more with no downhill on the other side. I think I spent more time walking my bike than I did riding it. It didn’t help that it was the middle of the afternoon and close to 90 degrees. When I started getting chills, I knew we had to stop before heat exhaustion set in. So we stopped at the Kenwood Chipotle where I drank some juice and water and Steve ate a burrito and tried to convince me to get my picture taken with the Red Bull Girls who had walked in. I barely escaped the embarrassment.

Thirty minutes later we pulled into Norwood, and though exhaustion seeped out of every pore of my body, the thrill of having ridden 124.44 miles reminded me that sometimes you can do far more than you ever imagined, though it might mean you have to go through severe moments of pain to get there. And never underestimate the power a friend’s encouragement can give – even if you didn’t want to hear it. Æ

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