Hitting the Curb

My breath comes out in deep, regular puffs, a locomotive steaming down a track. Sweat runs down my forehead and into my eyes, making them sting. My legs ache, and my bum-cakes scream. Where the hell am I? This little afternoon jaunt has become more epic than I intended. I wanted to cycle an easy 20 miles, but now, by my reckoning, I have hit about 32 and I still have miles to go. It is 2:32 in the afternoon, and I have a client coming to my office at 3:00. I will never make it. This always happens. I take it a little too far, get a little too optimistic about what I can fit in and resist taking the time to study a map. Rather, I try to follow my innate homing instinct that is sure to guide me home. It never does.

I have hit a traffic-laden street. Lots of cars, going fast. I try to maneuver along the side of a jake-braking propane truck, a rattling old landscaping truck, and a string of vehicles with intense and/or distracted drivers. The cars push me against the edge of the road. Suddenly, on a down-pedal, my clipped-in foot knocks the curb, sending me into a wobble. My front tire snakes crazily. I grip the handlebars tightly and, by the grace of God, correct my position. I try to move away from the curb into the road so it doesn’t happen again, but the shoulder is narrow, and I feel like I am in everybody’s way. I know I should pull over and take some time to cancel my appointment, figure out where I am, and cool down before I do something even more reckless, but I have canceled on this client twice before. She is going to fire me.

Not a minute too soon, I recognize a landmark and realize that I am on Payne Road in Scarborough, probably 30 minutes from my office, provided I pedal just a little bit faster than the fastest speed I can muster, I might make it. If I really bear down I could arrive at my office on Commercial Street in Portland, Maine, only five minutes late. Taking another deep breath and digging in, I decide to go for it. My fight or flight response in overdrive. Stupid? Yes.

Thirty minutes later, when I step out of the elevator and into the waiting room, I see my client sitting comfortably on a leather wing-backed chair. She is patiently paging through one of the magazines on the coffee table. Her hair is nicely brushed, her lip gloss bright, and her clothes clean and respectful. When she looks up at me she smiles. “I will just be a minute.” I grin apologetically as I wheel my bike into my office. Quickly, I strip down and pull on a skirt, and a clean shirt and change my shoes. I drag a brush through my hair and wipe the sweat off my face. That is all I have time for. As I step back into the waiting room I feel the second wave of sweat pour out of me, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “Come on in,” I say, trying to exude nonchalance.

This little ride across town sums up my current state of mind. My bike adventure across America begins on August 1st, and, at this point, I feel like I am living a double life. It is all a little too much and a little over-stimulating but makes every day an exciting whirlwind. I am biking about 75 miles a week, trying to fit it in between working, spending time with my family, writing and planning for our expedition. I am in the process of telling all my clients that I will be closing my office. This is emotionally exhausting as I care deeply for them. At the risk of sounding unprofessional, it is like having to end 40 personal relationships, one after the other, day after day.

I am waking up nightly, into full consciousness, with lists and anxieties filling my head. I am excited and scared. I love being a mental health counselor. I love my job as a parent. I love biking. I love my friends. I love writing. I love my life, and I want to do it all. I am just worried that if I don’t slow down I will hit a curb and I might not be able to correct my wobble. Maybe, this is just the thrill of adventure?