5:00AM: Awake,
goddamnit.
5:20AM: Rage at
the cosmic injustice of my being awake melts away when I step out onto my
balcony and am blinded by the beauty of the sunrise.
5:24AM: Sunrise
admiration takes a back seat to panic when I remember that I broke my flip flop
last night. Why, you might ask,
would a simple flip flop failure provoke full-on panic? Because, for reasons that are unclear even
to me, the only other shoes I brought along for the Ride were four-inch high
bright red hooker heels. Not
standard uniform for a 14-hour long athletic event. And how, you might ask, did I break my flip flop? This occurred while jumping the
concrete barrier that separated my hotel from the extremely illegal place where
I was forced to park my car when I found my hotel parking lot entrance
obstructed by a vintage Mustang.
Despite much honking and cursing, the Mustang stayed put – doesn’t it
know that it’s cruiser weekend, which implies, you know, CRUISING??? As opposed to sitting in one place with
the loud-ass engine on, blocking everyone else?? Apparently Mustang didn’t get this memo, so I was forced to
take poor Pugsley around the corner where I wedged him onto the sidewalk
between a bench and a fire hydrant, hoping like hell that the police have more
important things to worry about, like maybe TOWING AWAY THE FREAKING MUSTANG!!!
5:40AM: Have
strapped on the hooker shoes and strutted my goods back to the car, which is
mercifully still there. I get
another blast of sunrise, and find I’m having a hard time staying angry. Me and my shoes scramble over the sand
to photograph the blazing sky with dune grass silhouetted in front of it. Life is good.
6:00AM: Route
50 Starbucks!! I am the best
domestique ever.
6:08AM: Attempt
to deliver Becky’s venti quad-shot vanilla latte using a Tour de France style
in-motion car-bike handoff maneuver.
Mercifully recognize disaster potential at the last moment, and opt for
a stationary parking lot handoff.
Am nonetheless greeted with astonishment and gratitude, because what
could be better than the latte unlooked-for? Between the caffeine and the shoes, I’m pretty sure that I’m
fabulous. Plus Becky has just given
me a stuffed seahorse. Life is
really good.
6:12AM:
Fabulousness confirmed! In
a sea of lycra and cycling cleats, four-inch red heels really stand out. Plus they’re just the right shade to
complement my Team Atomic T-shirt!
I receive gushing praise from riders and crew, and pledge to wear them
all day, or perhaps forever. Life
is great!
6:34AM: Oh
hell. Fuck. Oh fucking hell. Becky just gave Joe a harmonica. Seriously. A straight up harmonica – the kind that you stick in your
mouth and it makes noise. The kind
through which you can inhale or exhale, meaning that you can operate the damned
thing through your entire respiratory cycle, meaning you never need to stop
playing it. Ever. For any reason. Life is decidedly no longer good.
6:50AM: Okay,
enough with the damned shoes. Lisa
Harbin, angel of mercy, has lent me flip flops. Able to walk normally again, I’m off to the start line for
team photos.
7:05AM: Somehow
the team photo thing is running with military precision. None of the usual cat herding – they’re
lining up, they’re facing the right way, they’re looking awesome, then the next
team comes. The only problem is
the occasional appearance of the beach Zamboni (Sandboni?). All the teams are so shiny and
beautiful that I want to cry, but the unicorns of BikeCurious are the ones that
actually bring me to tears.
7:31AM: And
they’re off!! 200 cyclists with
hearts of gold, each one riding to feed a fellow human. Each one riding for someone who
can’t. In past years on the bike,
all I feel at this point in the day is nervous about the miles ahead and
relieved that the anticipation is ending.
Off the bike, I feel humbled and honored to be part of this incredible
event, with these incredible people.
And yes, I’m crying again.
7:40AM: Joe
appears not to have lost the harmonica.
In fact, there is no indication that it has left his mouth at any point. No, he will not let me play it, he is
worried I may “lose” it. I take a
moment to mourn this tragic end of my lifelong friendship with Becky. Goodbye Becky.
7:52AM: Route
50 Starbucks!! Déjà vu.
7:53AM: First
flat of the day. Seriously? A helpful fellow cyclist is trying to
turn this into a teachable moment, patiently explaining the subtle art of the
tube change process. In
recognition of the fact that we are at mile 2, with 103 more to go,
Joe nips that shit in the bud. Thank
god - it’s too damned early to be
learning things.
8:12AM: My
on-road photography has gotten more daring, and I am now hanging my entire
upper body out of the passenger window in search of the perfect action
shot. Soon I am just hanging my
entire upper body out of the passenger window just because I can. I totally get why dogs love this. Hello, Ladies!
8:17AM: I have
filled a 4GB SD card. Joe puts
down the harmonica long enough to do the math on this, and concludes that I
have taken a photo at least every 3.7 seconds since waking up at 5:00. I can’t help it – the Ride is just so
pretty this morning! I attempt a
photo of him, and get the paparazzi hand-in-the-lens treatment. It will truly be a miracle if we both
survive the day.
9:35AM: First
pit stop!! Everyone looking so strong
and happy, no medical needs more complex than a Band-Aid. SAG Army has taken to the seas this
year and begun dabbling in naval operations. In the Navy…they can sail the seven seas!
10:40AM:
Countless flat repairs, another full SD card, but mercifully light on
the medical front. Riders are
still all smiles, at least for the camera. Life is good.
11:07AM: Yellow
Submarine harmonica sing-along!
11:18AM: Well,
we’ve figured out why Becky’s knee hurts.
Its because she appears to have actually completed a full Iron Man in
her cycling cleats. I mean the
swimming and running parts too.
Either that, or they were mauled by a bear. It’s hard to tell.
Fortunately I have a phone that’s smarter than me, so a couple of Google
hits later, we’re off on a quest for a bike shop and new cleats. I only hope that by solving the cleat
problem, I can avoid performing a battlefield knee replacement.
11:42AM:
Unicorns on bikes spotted at drive-thru espresso stand in
Salisbury!! Joe!! Turn around!!! Photo op!!!!! My valiant knight launches our steed in a hairpin turn
across six lanes of traffic, yielding a moment of magic. I found out later that not only were
the unicorns prohibited from paying for their coffee, but the staff of the
espresso stand now plans to form a team for next year. One of us…one of us!!
12:20PM:
Lunch. Things are not
uniformly rosy. Sprinkled amongst
the still-chipper are the exhausted, the nauseated, the overheated, and the
chafed. I work the room with the
inexhaustibly fabulous Sara, handing out cold packs, chamois lube, Icy Hot, and
approximately 14 pounds of ibuprofen.
Sara diverts a few of her postpartum Percocet to the seriously pained –
don’t tell the DEA. I provide a
bit of massage here and there, though in this crowd, that gets way too dirty very
quickly. Lifeline is deployed for
a Walgreen’s run, since we’re running low on everything that matters. Not one of us eats, drinks, or pees.
12:34PM: After
stalking me for the past half hour, the Harbins have finally moved in for the
kill. Roland has pinned me to the
side of the car while Penny smears sunblock on my very pink skin. I squirm a bit at first, but ultimately
realize how very badly I need a little parenting, and how lucky I am to get
it. Love you, mom and dad!
1:10PM: On the
road again.
1:17PM: My
first forced SAG of the day. Yes,
there is arguing, albeit halfhearted.
Sorry, Love - but pale, sweaty, and lightheaded is simply incompatible
with riding 140 miles. Trust me,
I’m a doctor…
1:39PM: I pour
yet another bottle of water over somebody’s road rash. I reflect briefly that I really should
be drinking some, and not just using it all to irrigate wounds. This may explain why I’m getting a bit
pale, sweaty, and lightheaded.
2:06PM: No way - a flat tire!
2:19PM: I have
grown accustomed to the harmonica, much as I imagine that in hell, one would
grow accustomed to the heat.
2:41PM: I’m
still photographing, but the smiles are getting more strained, the fist pumps
more feeble, the horns not quite as…horny? Everyone is seriously tired, myself included, but this is
the part of the day that I love.
This is the part where it gets hard, but people keep going anyway. The part where people have to confront
their demons, tell their legs to shut up, and just keep riding. They do this – defying all rational
explanation – for themselves, for people they love, for people they’ve lost,
for a cause they believe in.
Fortunately, I am WAY too tired to cry.
3:19PM: Medical
is quiet for now, and an endless string of mechanical mishaps has pushed us
back into the tail end of the pack, where I’ve photographed everyone seventeen
times over. This leaves me with
little to do but watch Joe in action.
After a full day of fighting over the harmonica and listening to his
heated rants about everything from gun control to EZ-Pass, I didn’t think there
was much to learn from him at this point.
But I listen as he explains how gears work to a woman who has clearly
never felt empowered to shift before, and it’s obvious that she gets it for the
first time. She rides off, head
held high and finger on the trigger – I feel bad for her that it’s so flat
here. He manages to make big macho
straight guys feel okay about having their tires changed by another man. He hugs the dispirited, massages the sore,
and flirts with women who feel fat in their spandex – the occasional man too, for that matter. Nobody leaves Joe without a smile, and
I remember why I wanted to spend today with him in the first place, why he’s my
friend. If only my bedside manner
were that good.
3:52PM:
Eyedrop-a-palooza! Chemical
weapons attack, or just spring on the Eastern Shore? Hard to tell, but in either case, there’s an epidemic of
giant googly red eyes in need of treatment at the 80 mile pitstop. There’s also strained backs, scraped
knees, numb hands, and general exhaustion. But there’s also beer, so I guess it all evens out in the
end.
3:59PM: Becky
was nauseous before, and I didn’t have any antiemetics in my bag-o-tricks. Once again, technology saved the day –
I Googled a local pharmacy on my phone, called in a prescription, and Wayne
navigated to said pharmacy using his iPad. We were feeling pretty smart about all this to start with
(at least as smart as our smartphones), but when Wayne returned with a slightly
loopy but less nauseated Becky, they clued me in to just how smart we
were. The cost of said
prescription? Exactly 26
cents. Let the record show: America’s healthcare spending crisis
cannot be pinned on me!
4:16PM: Name
That Tune! Hint: it's Inna Gadda da Vida.
5:29PM: Leaning
against the car, staring at the pretty scrolling numbers on the gas pump as
though I was high. We’re almost
back to Chesapeake College, and half of Team with a Purpose is waiting at the
intersection, presumably ready to stage a triumphal team finish. My glazed eyes are attracted to a
yellow blur cresting the hill – the glorious reunion of TWAP is about to
occur. But one yellow blur veers
away from the pack, heading into the gas station. I wrench myself back into focus. It’s Derek, and he’s airborne. I watch in horrific slow motion as he sails into the air,
over his handlebars, lands on his neck and shoulder, crumples to the
ground. The rest of TWAP is
watching too, and I see Laveta – a gifted triathlete – sprinting toward
him. I’m back in full-on doctor mode,
and am certain that Derek has broken his neck. Laveta will not know this. Laveta may move him.
I do not like the idea of a quadriplegic Derek, so it becomes imperative
that I beat her to the scene. I
break into a sprint too – it’s like a rhino racing a cheetah. But I charge on, head down, horn at the
ready. Apparently a really
determined rhino can occasionally outrun a cheetah, so I arrive first,
stabilizing Derek’s neck while Joe disentangles him from the bike. The cheetah appears to consider eating
the rhino, not yet having recognized it as me, but Pete intervenes, and I am allowed
to live. I examine Derek, steeled
for the worst, flashbacks of his fall pulsing through my brain. I remove his helmet, clear his neck,
examine his shoulder and ribs, pour the last of our drinking water over his
wounds, and find…nothing! I
officially pronounce Derek one lucky mofo, and promise to dress his scrapes and
bruises after he showers. I
apologize to Laveta for rhino-charging her, and we agree that Derek is certainly
worth chasing each other across the savannah for. After giving his team (and the poor medical director) the
scare of a lifetime, Derek is back upright for a strong finish. I seriously need a beer. Or at least some of that water that I just
poured all over Derek.
5:44PM:
Chesapeake College – the Ride is over, AT LAST!! YAY!!! No – wait, the Ride is over for the RIDERS. Except a whole mess of riders aren't even in yet. And in either case, for me the fun is just beginning...
6:32 PM: Last rider in - I feel my anxiety level plummet. Plus she looks awesome!!
6:51PM: Look at these people. Seriously, look! Ride for the Feast is the most amazing event ever, and it's because of the people. Our riders and volunteers alike are here because we care about Moveable Feast - more than any other charity event I know of, the Ride is about the cause. Ride for the Feasters want to feed people, fight disease, and foster hope...for REAL. Yes, there are some great athletes here, probably some for whom this is just another distance event. But most of us are just regular people, fully prepared to have our asses summarily handed to us by riding 140 miles. We're here because we want to feed someone for a year. Or to make a small sacrifice in honor of someone we've loved and lost. Or to show a disease that we've kicked its ass. Or because we want to remember that our struggle to keep pedaling is nothing to the struggle to keep hope alive for someone who's sick, poor, and alone. Which is what Moveable Feast does. What WE do, every one of us who's part of the ride.
8:40PM: All right, I may be awesome, but I'm ass-tired. I’ve had
anaphylaxis in the women’s locker room, GI bleeding on the lawn, a herniated
lumbar disk propped up under a tree, and one unfortunate rider with ulnar palsy
trying unsuccessfully to hold a fork at dinner. Everyone’s bandages needed changing, icepacks were melting,
eyes gone googly again. I’ve
busted out the bedside manner to explain to more than a few people why they
can’t ride tomorrow, running the full gamut of the gentle to firm
continuum. I’m pretty sure the
crickets are chirping, “when can I take more ibuprofen?” I want a hot shower and a cold beer
more than I’ve ever wanted anything. The wounded have all been triaged, and the battlefield is
clear. I’m blessedly off to my
hotel…
9:06PM: WHERE
IT TURNS OUT THAT I DO NOT ACTUALLY HAVE A ROOM!!! My reservation was cancelled. Why? No idea,
but there’s a cancellation code right here, so it must be legitimate. And by the way, there are no vacant
rooms, in my hotel or in any other hotel in Easton. Or Cambridge.
Or Denton. Fatigue
forgotten, I become a viper, coiled and hissing, moments from sinking my razor-sharp
fangs into the Econolodge guy.
Having witnessed the transformation, Wayne courageously invites the
viper to share a room with him and Sarah.
Poor, foolish things.
Miraculously, despite my indiscriminate desire to sink my fangs into
something or other, I manage to avoid biting either of my saviors. Showered and beered, we somehow all survive the
night. And wake up bright and early for...DAY TWO!
