My Training: Leah’s Perspective

Today, my husband Twain, my friend June and I are cycling 90 miles up the coast of Maine, from Portland to Jefferson along the East Coast Trail. We will then ride 57 miles to Liberty on Saturday, enjoying some magnificent hills, and on Sunday, complete the ride with 90 miles home. It sounds like a lot, but the truth is, the biking component of this adventure is the easy part, and the miles fly by. I am comfortable on my bike and feel strong.

The three of us banter about issues with children, work and assorted island gossip of which there is never short supply. We laugh at our exhaustion and get the giggles when a hill presents itself to us that seems absolutely ridiculous. If we didn’t laugh, we might cry.

We pass fields of lupines, beautiful farms and cross over marshes and rivers that meander from the mountains to the sea. Twain and June even catch a glimpse of the elusive “Ghost Cat of Maine” — a large feline that roams the forests and fields of the north. I feel like I could bike forever.

Biking provides a lot of time for thinking, and when the three of us grow quiet my thoughts begin to perseverate on Oakley and our trip.

I am not sure he will laugh at the big hills or fully appreciate the long periods of time for inner reflection as we bike for 6 to 8 hours a day. I worry that he will resent me for pushing him into this. He will undoubtedly drive me insane with his yammering, going on endlessly about a YouTube video he has seen or regaling me with tales of his exploits that grow greater and greater with each retelling. How will I handle it? Will I be driven over the edge? We are looking at a whole lot of togetherness.

I am no super-mother, not by a long shot. I am not going on this bike adventure with Oakley with any sort of assumption that I know what I am doing, because I don’t. The truth is, I beat myself up daily for some parenting failure: I yelled, I was irritable, I didn’t listen, I was overly critical. The list goes on and on. I am bossy, controlling and overly involved in my children’s lives. I’ve been told. Maybe it is because I am trained as a mental health counselor and I spend my days getting all up in people’s business. I can’t turn it off when I get home. I hope I know what I am getting into.

Thankfully, before I spiral into the abyss of self-doubt too far, we arrive at our night destination, a little cabin 20 feet from Damariscotta Lake with a screened-in sleeping porch. The water laps at the shore and creates a soothing rhythm that lulls us into stillness after hours of sweat and exertion. The sun is setting, and a golden light bounces against the waves. My racing thoughts quiet. Totally worth it.

Twain, June and I end our day with Cranberry Vodkas and fish sandwiches at a local bar. We are joined by another friend and the four of us spend the evening chatting and listening to some great guitar music. My legs feel like sand (in a good way), and we linger over our dinner and drinks. Talk is easy and comfortable, and there is a true sense of camaraderie. This might be one of my favorite parts of biking. But even in these moments, I separate myself from the group, and I wonder, will Oakley linger? Ever? Will we find peace together?

This will be the true challenge of the trip, and there is no way to train for it. Oakley and I are going to have to find a rhythm, a cadence that feels comfortable to both of us. He is not a contemplative fellow, but rather a man of action. We might drive each other insane. That is my real worry. The biking is just one pedal after the other.

I hope Oakley appreciates it someday. I hope we make it. I hope I am doing the right thing. I hope, I hope.