When The Goal Isn't The Prize
The break that made me cry in a porta potty.
I am known for having changing special interests. I've cycled through many, and I probably still have new hobbies that I’ve yet to discover. Spending a few days in Washington this past week reminded me of the 2010s (2018ish) when I decided that riding a bicycle 200 miles from Seattle to Portland would be a good idea.
It wasn’t. Well… not entirely.
I bought a bike and paid for a “fitting”. This specialized process of getting the bike to match my body’s quirks, inflexibility, and just generally unathletic self. Measurements were taken, adjustments to the bike were made, new handlebars, and all the necessary and perhaps a few unnecessary steps to enter the world of cycling. Don’t forget the cycling pants, gloves, helmet, and high visibility “jerseys” with pockets for all the cycle snacks.
My Strava cycling map reveals someone who enjoyed going for a few bike rides here and there, slowly increasing the time and distance in the saddle. I watched videos to learn the ins and outs of cycling nutrition, hydration (of which my favorite continues to be carbo-hydration), and basic maintenance. There is nothing worse than a squeaky bike when you are riding for a few hours, other than perhaps riding the bike for a few hours.
I was working for a small college at the time and took students cycling with me. Julio was one of my cycle buddies, and we spent some late afternoons riding around San Dimas and Glendora, stopping for donuts on the way, and living life.
I’ve cycled through other physical hobbies, running, CrossFit, and lifting weights. I have a collection of gear that I should probably toss or give up at a yard sale. And, I also tend to be a bit sentimental about things, so it is difficult to let them go.
The time for the Seattle to Portland bike ride came, and I rented a big box, took my bike apart, loaded it and some snacks up, and put my measurements for saddle height and such in with the bike. I drove to the airport, checked my bike, and got upgraded from the last row of the plane to the emergency exit row; the dream was coming alive.
TSA had other plans for me. For what I presume was an investigation of my snacks, the TSA had opened my bike box and exchanged my paper with my bike’s measurements for their friendly little card, letting me know that my bike had been inspected. As I put my bike back together in preparation for the ride, I tried my best to reassemble it, but something still didn’t quite feel right. The handlebars were somehow “off” and I couldn’t remember which line on the stem marked where my saddle should be. I did my best, slept a little, and got up early to ride.
About halfway through the first day, I could tell something was really wrong. I slammed a mildly irresponsible but still within prescription ranges of ibuprofen. With another fifty miles to go, the damage was done. The Seattle to Portland bike ride is a 200-mile bike ride to be completed in two days, what the cycling community calls “back-to-back centuries.” It is a supported ride, meaning there are porta potties, donation-based bike maintenance stations, and places to refill water bottles. Somewhere in Washington, I stopped, called my bike shop, and asked to speak to the person who had helped me get set up, explaining my problem. My back hurt, my leg felt funny, and I needed some advice. He shared a few things with me to try, and I went to the maintenance stop and made a few adjustments, but, as I muttered to myself, “the damage had been done.”
After having some pasta and sleeping in a tent, I got up for day two. Some coffee, oatmeal, and I was off, riding another hundred miles into Portland. The bridge over the Columbia River was full of these knuckle-like joining braces between the longer stretches of concrete. They were sharp, jarring bumps that sent water bottles flying out of their holsters, popped tires, and rattled all of us. After the steep descent over the bridge, it was onto the shaky chip-seal of Oregon roads. The terrain was brutal, at some points it was challenging to know if I was cycling on flat ground, uphill, or somehow pedaling hard to go downhill. Something else had changed, and I was exhausted. Some twenty-five miles out, I was at the last water station, crying in a warm July afternoon porta potty, covered head to toe in cycling spandex.
I wasn’t going to make it in time.
Sometimes we work hard for things and have to take a risk to move forward to the next step, the next season, the proverbial better next.
As I got back to my bike, I decided to inspect it. I checked the handlebars and adjusted the angle—I just needed it to feel different. I raised the saddle, hoping it would alleviate my lower back pain. Checked the brakes and spokes on the tire. The spokes. It must have been on the bumpy bridge over the Columbia, but one of my spokes on my back tire was broken. I lifted the bike and spun the back wheel. I didn’t realize it, but the fractured spoke threw my wheel out of alignment, and it was bumping against the brake pad with every rotation—the faster I pedaled, the slower I seemed to go.
Twenty-five miles to go, and I decided if I was going to make it, it would require risking my sense of safety. Perhaps heightening some other senses, I completely disconnected my rear brake. I set it wide, so my rim can spin freely and, now newly free from what was intentionally slowing me down, I was off. The finish line closed at 7:00 PM, and I had to finish in time to get the finisher patch and free hat. Exhausted, dehydrated, perhaps delirious, I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled.
Every red light felt like an assault on my sense of self and of the goal I had set out to complete. I had to make it. As the clock grew closer to 7 PM, the sunlight slowly fading to my west, I didn’t think I would make it at all. Exhausted, gassed, and ready to quit.
Here’s the thing about that ride. I didn’t finish in time.
I crossed the finish line at 7:02 PM. I had failed.
Could I have trained harder? Sure. A million scenarios of “coulds” and all of them I can easily respond with, “Well, sure?”. But I offered the energy I had that day, and on that day, I came up short.
As I write this today, I find myself at a juncture where I have concerns, doubts, and fears. I have limitations, deliberations, and I have wonder about what could be.
What if the goal wasn’t just finishing “on time”? What if it were the deeper knowing, quiet resilience, and cherishing the inner fortitude that carries us when nothing else can?
I don’t recall much of what things looked like beyond the knuckles on the bridge over the Columbia. I kept my head down until I finished what I started. Hard work, grit, resilience, and determination are they all worth it when it means we miss the view and the prize?
I wonder if little me had the right idea all along?
