Bikemum

There is a saying about the sea-the sea is a fickle lover. Well, I think the southern deserts of New Mexico make the ocean sound like Romeo.

Maybe it is because there used to be an inland sea here. If you squint carefully you can still see it-the sandy floor, coral like cacti, the wide expanses, but for sure you can see it in its temperamental nature.

Today, I woke again freezing, despite sleeping in all the clothes I have packed. Within hours, however, I was a sweaty mess, the sun searing my skin and forcing me to wear clothes that made me even hotter. Desert trick number one.

Then there is the wind. As I peaked over the continental divide, I saw the desert stretching out before me-a bicyclers dream. After so many days of hills and mountain passes, here was flat as far as the eye could see, and it was beautiful. My heart sang. Down and down I coasted, euphoric, spellbound by its beauty- the pink sands, platinum grasses and sentry like yucca. I was waiting to be welcomed into this desert I love, that I have missed…but no.

Instead the wind greeted me. not just a breeze hear and there, but a full on assault. The pink sand that had lain so quietly, came up off the desert floor creating clouds that reduced visibility so much that the cars used their headlights. Tumble weeds blasted by, some as big as my bike! Often I found myself barely doing four miles an hour despite a slow, gentle decline. It was ruthless.

There are no services in this area, so I was forced to continue on. Wind scares me. It makes me jittery and tense. And the desert had beckoned me so from above! Trick number two.

So tonight, I feel kissed by the beauty, but slapped by its power. I am sun burned, wind burned and dirty. Very, very dirty.

*A little disclaimer-I am only on the Southern Tier for a week! Wish it could be longer-that is why I dropped in in El Paso. I will finish in Phoenix.

*Thank you to those who have offered me support-I will respond to you when I get home. It means a lot to me

Tonight I am too tired. Too tired to tell you about my day. How I woke before dawn and and left my cozy Scamper camper behind to pedal into the desert and watch the morning come. How I was greeted by big black bulls in the road that still had sleep in their eyes.

I am too tired to tell you how the mountains rose up above me. A lesson in geology onto themselves. Towering peaks worn down thought the ages, some of them have come to resemble old mens crumbling teeth rather than their former majestic selves. If you stop to rest beside one, you can hear their erosion happening, the pebbles falling down the rubbly sides, knocked by a lizard or a mouse. It has been happening for eons-just like that.

I am too tired to tell you how the road from Hillsboro to Emery Peak winds and climbs, taking you first through scrub and yellow grasses, then up among groves of Alligator Juniper with their reptilian, scaly bark and then how the towering pines fill in, thrusting upward just like the peaks. Snow fills in too. But, don’t worry, I didn’t get cold. My inner furnace burned, and so did my hands, knees, neck and back.

For nineteen miles, I climbed, the sky getting bluer with each one. And then finally I was there. The elevation made me light headed-or maybe it was the euphoria. The air seemed thin and shimmery.

Then down. Sluicing through the forests on the cold, northern side, snow and rock and tall pines all in the shadow of the mountain. My hands sore from gripping the breaks, the wind chilling me, and then out, into the desert again. A different desert though. Tall mountains always seem to create separate worlds.

I am definitely too tired to tell you that after all that, I still had 40 miles to go-up and down again and again over the foot hills, nearly bringing myself to tears before I realized that it was way past lunch time. Then sitting on the side of the road and delightedly eating last nights left over Alfredo sauce on bread thins, and apricots-they are like candy-and my first ever energy drink. It worked.

Now finally, I sit in my tent in the courtyard of a closed hostel ready to sleep. This was an exhausting, grueling, most beautiful, fantastic day. Good night.

.

Two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, two shirts, a fleece, a wool cap and me, all cocooned inside my sleep bag like some sort of frozen larva. That’s how my day started. The desert gets so cold! Never-the -less, by the time the sun reached the horizon I had already made some bad coffee and was on my way.

It feels like Mexico here. Most of the people I meet speak Spanish as their primary language and as I passed several border patrol stations, early in the morning, I was left feeling that the United States is more of an intruder in this area than vice versa.

The Pecan trees that lined the roads yesterday have been replaced with red chilies. Miles upon miles of them, each farm bearing a huge sign proclaiming that their chilies are “World Renown!” That is a lot of famous chilies.

As I began climbing into the Black Hills, the less farming there was and by early afternoon, I found myself deep in the desert with narry a farm in sight. In fact, there wasn’t even building of any sort, nor a person, nor more than one car every 15 minutes. I was alone. Absolutely alone, and very small.

The desert stretched from horizon to horizon with not one sign of civilization except for the road. I love how small the desert makes me feel under its huge sky and towering mesas, but that same feeling of smallness can also be very unsettling. It makes me feel like a wayward ant. I saw fields full of cranes, and when they flew overhead it was so quiet that I could hear their wings beating.

On and on I went, until I reached Hillsboro, my destination for the night. I was exhausted from an entirely uphill day-65 miles of knees screaming and butt burning. The map had promised ample amenities here and I had tried not to fantasize, but instead of cute western cafes and bustling creekside campgrounds, it was a ghost town. There was not a soul on the roads and all the businesses were closed. That part of me that felt like a wayward ant loomed large. My possibilities seemed few.

Suddenly, an elfin woman with huge blue eyes and a thick tangle of grey hair came out of her home and found me literally standing in the street. ”Are you a biker?” she asked. I nodded and asked her where I might stay. “You can stay in one of my vintage trailers. I collect them. There is one in my back yard.” and with that we were off. She gave me a wifi passward, turned on the lights, plugged in an electric heater and told me to make myself at home.

I was overwhelmed by her kindness and told her so. “That’s what we do,” she said “we take care of each other. It is our job, It is everybody’s job.” I felt like I had been tucked into bed after a very long day and that wayward ant feeling gone.

On the flight to El Paso, I remembered, dispite the turbulence and hot, sweaty, mask I was wearing, why I love adventure. “I raise French Bulldogs.” my seat mate said. ”I sell them for 4,500 a puppy.”

“Wow, those must be some puppies, may I see a picture of one?”

“Sure!” she responded, and quickly started tapping through her phone, her fingers flying from one photo to the next. “I have to charge so much because they are very complicated, not only can they not give birth naturally-they need C-sections, but they also can’t mate. I have to give them artificial insemination.”

I couldn’t stop myself, I had to ask. “How do you do that?”

And as she continued tapping on the photos with her long, pointy, elegant nails she replied, “With my hands. One boy needs to bite me while I do it.” I was mesmerized.

When I debarked the plane, I stood in line at the baggage claim waiting for my bike alongside of a group of beautiful young women dressed in athletic gear from Texas Christian University. ”What do you guys play?” I asked.

“We rifle.” They said with a toss of their ponytails. I had no idea. As I hauled my bike box off the conveyor belt, they stepped up and grabbed gun case after gun case.

And then I met Claudia, my Uber driver. She spoke some English, and I speak a tiny, little Spanish, so we pieced together a conversation as she drove me to my hostel. “I have a great life,” she said “I drive grandmothers to the supermarket and doctors appointments somedays, and on other days I make videos for youtube and use them to teach Spanish speaking women carpentry. It helps them be more self sufficient.”

People are amazing, and I get to meet so many on these trips.

As far as the biking goes-I am feeling pretty chuffed. I rebuilt my bike, loaded it up and pedaled all day. The land here is dust dry, in fact the Rio Grande is all sand and I even saw families playing soccer in it. There are pecan trees as far as the eye can see-I think they are holding the Rio Grande in their branches. And judging from the way my bum felt at mile 70, I think some shells have found their way into my skivies.

Forgive my typos-I am writing with my thumbs in the cold. It is going down to 27 degrees tonight-Yikes!

It is time for another adventure. I know, you have heard many tales about my teenage son Oakley and I doing this and that together over the years, but this time is different. This time I am going alone.

In two weeks, I will depart on a ten day, unsupported bike-packing expedition from El Paso, Texas to Phoenix, Arizona all by myself. I will ride 512 miles, and experience an 8,228 foot elevation gain, averaging 72 miles a day. I will try to camp for the entirety. Just me and the coyotes, what fun! But, truth be told, as I sit in my cozy house on the coast of Maine and look out at my snow-covered yard, shimmering in five degree temperatures, I feel a bit nervous. It is a big world out there, and as much as I long to experience it, I also cherish the safety of home, friends and family. It helps quell my anxiety to imagine what I may see.

For the first day or so of the ride, I will follow along the Rio Grande river, looking across its waters into Mexico. I’ve always wanted to see the Rio Grande. It is a river full of history, meaning and myth. I am also psyched for its flatness and perhaps eating some good street food along the way.

Then I will turn north and climb through the desert, up and over the continental divide. Going from my sea level home to such a high elevation in this a short of a time is bound to be a challenge. Heady to say the least. The days will be warm, but the nights cold. Temperatures will fluctuate between 20 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit. I hope my sleeping bag is up to the challenge.

If I am lucky, I will have time to explore the the Gila Cliff Dwellings found near by. There is evidence that they were occupied as early as 100 A.D. Maybe they will help me put some of my every day woes in perspective! It seems to me that sort of deep history can be felt in the air. After that I will descend down through the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation. I am sure I will see Saguaro Cacti, Teddy Bear Cholla, and hopefully, some Horny Toad Lizards and Mule Deer. Hopefully not, any scorpions or rattlers.

As I enter Arizona, I will visit the Tonto National forest and pass by Arrowhead Mountain, Black Mesa, Iron Dike and Theodore Roosevelt Lake. I can hardly wait for the wide open land-the horizon that stretches out forever and the endless sky; piercing blue by day, glowing translucent at sunset and pricked by endless stars at night. All that expanse, and just me and my bike. I plan to take some seriously deep breaths. My ride will end in the Phoenix Basin, where, if all goes well, I will exchange my wheels for wings and fly home.

I will see beautiful things, that is for sure, but this time, I will have to change my own flats and keep my own wheels true. I will have to keep my own company and fill my head with my own thoughts instead of Oakley’s. I will have to set up my own tent, watch my own back and motivate my own self to keep going. I will also have to carry all my own gear! I have come to rely on Oaks. Not only his strength and company, but his distraction. I don’t even know if I remember how to be alone! That is why I am going. Wish me luck.

I will post daily when the trip begins. It helps me make sense of it all.

“Your wheels are due on Tuesday. Spokes laced and trued. All the rest of the bicycle maintenance tasks you will need to have signed off on as we go. We will learn to rebuild everything from hubs to derailleurs, head-sets to hydraulic brakes, cassettes to cranksets. There will be a practical, hands-on final and a 100 question written test.”

A wash of bafflement flows through me. I look over at Oaks and he raises his brows and widens his eyes over his N-95 mask at me. I don’t think either of us really knew what we were in for we when we signed up for the course. I grin at him to hide my anxiety and then lean forward and ready my ears to act as funnels for each and every word the instructors want to impart. I can do this.

This time Oakley and I are not on a cross-country bicycle adventure, this time we are on a bicycle learning adventure. I have signed us both up for a two-week, professional-level bicycle course at the United Bicycle Institute in Ashland, Oregon. It is the most respected program of its kind in the country. I figure, if we are going to run Lighthouse Bikes; Tours Rentals and Repairs, we better get a handle on the repair part.

Problem is, Oaks and I both have our learning challenges. I am not detailed oriented, at all. I am also fairly uncoordinated and am adverse to following directions. Not to mention I have poor eyesight and lack depth perception.

And Oakley? He is the captain of the ADHD team. He not only rides both ends of the seesaw, but also has the ability to not see with his eyes open. However, I am happy once again to have him by my side as I look around at our fellow class mates.

It is like we are in a different country, one in which they speak bikology. They discuss bearing materials and grades, Newton Measurements on torque wrenches, hub flanges and Swiss-ring nut tools the same way that I might talk about how cute my dog is. I am in awe of them. My brain scrambles and climbs over boulders of thoughts and ideas hour after hour. Eight hours a day, forty hours a week. Once an hour we break up into pairs and have to build or dismantle the part of the bike that we have just been lectured about.

Oakley decides early on that he is not going for his certificate which decreases his anxiety considerably, but I, competitive with myself to the end, decide that against all odds, I want to make a valiant try.

The first real test is the wheel build. Sounds easy enough. Take a rim and a bunch of measured spokes and weave them in a specific pattern to connect the rim to the hub flanges. Tighten them equally and ta-dah, a nice, round wheel. But as I look around at the quick, graceful weaving of the spokes by my classmates I panic. Instead of taking the time to figure it out I rush, pell-mell into the process; I don’t want to be the last to finish!

They all look like they are weaving beautiful braids where my spokes stand all akimbo. The more I try to bend and force the spokes to conform to my will, the more my wheel looks like it has been in a terrible accident. they bend and arc and stray in a most unsound manner. A rats nest. I begin to feel a little sweaty. One of the instructors sidles up to me. “You can stay after class tonight or stay in at lunch.” He means this in a supportive and kind way, but Oakley over hears and lets out a little cackle.

“You have to stay in for lunch!” He whispers as we sit back down in our seats. And so it goes. Every exercise sends me scurrying-trying desperately to remember the order of the necessary washers, bearings and caps, while my classmates elegantly reconfigure their bikes again and again. I am learning, but in a messy, looping sort of a way. Oakley enjoys the class, but my struggles delight him even more.

Every night we limp back to our hostel and I reread the days lessons while Oakley hangs out with our roomie-a 19 year old bicycle savant whose course is being paid for by a teacher who saw his promise. They make Annie’s mac and cheese and salad in a bag and watch horror films while I study. It feels like I am the nerd living in a boys dorm room, and I love every minute.

We have one week to go. To be honest, the chances of me passing are very low, but that is okay. I still haven’t finished my wheel-I am staying in for lunch again tomorrow, but I am eager to keep trying to absorb everything these people have to teach. I am astounded at all the intricacies in bicycle technology and at all the people over the years, whose brains have worked in such a different way than mine and dreamt them up. I have never really considered them before and they have made my life so much fun.

It is like this part of my brain has never been turned on, until now. The test will not measure what I learned, because what I am learning is immeasurable.

Strength doesn’t have a pretty face. It is ugly; sweaty and grimacing. It involves blood-shot eyes, spittle, chapped hands and body odor. Have you ever seen a body builder in action-neck tendons staining, muscles shaking? Yuck. How about an emergency crisis worker in the 23rd hour of their day? Pale and fumbling, sunken eye sockets and hands that shake from too much caffeine. They don’t smell so good either. How about childbirth? Nobody wins a beauty pageant during that. Strength is not pretty. It is ugly and raw.

Truth is-our culture seems to be obsessed with prettiness, from hair to nails, from lip gloss to dainty ankles. There is a “don’t let them see you sweat” attitude that pervades everywhere from boardrooms to parenting, and it is not helpful at all. Yes, it is a social media problem-but it is also about not wanting to show vulnerability anywhere. I have fallen into this trap myself and have spent a lot of time trying to put a spin on difficult situations to make them sound pithy and wholesome. Life is more palatable that way.

But what does that accomplish? Maybe a few people are relieved to hear that perhaps somebody has this life thing knocked, but I would venture to say, I think that it makes far more people feel alienated and alone in their struggle, because theirs is the only sweat they see.

Here a the non-Hallmark version of this blog:

Sometimes parenting overwhelms me with anxiety; sometimes I cry and sometimes I can’t sleep and sometimes I eat too much and sometimes I say things to my son Oakley that I watch leave my mouth in a cartoon talk-bubble and stare at it as it travels across the room to him in disbelief that I just let those words leave my mouth. Sometimes I can’t get out of my way and I mope, wishing that the world treated me more like a princess than it already does. Sometimes I am not grateful, and then to make it worse I slather on a heap of shame that I feel that way. And sometimes all I want is a large snort of whiskey.

Ascending a tall mountain and taking a selfie with a huge grin or riding a bike hard and fast, that is the easy part. The lucky part, but not what deserves attention.

What is far more impressive is much less pretty. It is wading through the gunk; the boring and the mundane parts that come with no adrenaline for fuel. It is finding a way to cope with insecurities, anger and sadness and doing what it takes to make it through the day-perhaps without running for the mountains. It is sweeping the floor again and again because somebody needs to do it-even though it will be covered in dog hair again tomorrow.

So, here is to the ugly parts of strength. To the failed adventures, ugly fights and embarrassments and the routine tasks that must be done. Here is to circling back again and again; to fixing things, or trying to, with busted knuckles, pot-bellies, sweaty bangs and heartache.

We all deserve accolades for that!

Here are the sources of the dog hair…can’t really complain about that.

I have heard from many a marathon runner that mile seventeen and eighteen are the hardest. It is when runners hit what feels like a wall both physically and emotionally. They have come so far, yet still have miles to go. At this time finishing can seem impossible and the whole race feels like one of the stupidest ideas anybody has ever had.

However, once they make it through and move on to mile nineteen, twenty and twenty-one, although still exhausted and emotionally depleted, they realize that they are probably going to make it, and that hope, that increase in confidence, gives them the fight to finish.

Last week, I hit mile seventeen. Life bowled me over. It seemed like there was no way to meet everyone’s needs, let alone my own. I couldn’t find the time to get food in the house, talk with friends, attend to my family’s needs, or parent well. I thought, Why did I open Lighthouse Bikes? What is the point of working so hard as a parent when there are days when it doesn’t even seem to make a difference? What if I never find balance in my life? Can I do this? Will all this business make me sick? I sagged and slumped. I forgot the whys and just wanted a break.

As a cure, I decided to go into the shop a little late one morning and take the time to go for a run and bring my dogs on a long ramble in the woods by my home. The morning was crisp and the bright fall leaves lit up against the blue sky. My feet crunched, the dogs wrestled and I took some much needed deep breaths. That is when it came to me. I just passed through mile seventeen and eighteen!

The bike shop has been open for eighteen weeks, and there are only a few weeks more to go before the tour season ends. Not only that, but my son Oakley is also eighteen and I won’t be the parent of a teenager much longer. Bitter sweet to be honest. My book Changing Gears, is in it’s final editing stage and I will have the manuscript in my hands by the end of the week. Another mile eighteen so to speak.

The end of this race is near, and a rest will come in due time if I just stay the course. As I realized this, I also realized that I do have some fight left-in fact quite a bit and I remembered the answer to the reasons why I am doing this.

I am doing it because I love running a bicycle business and seeing the happiness on people’s faces as the pedal along the coast of Maine. I get to make friends with people everyday and help them access the beauty of the outdoors, and hopefully inspire them to keep looking around every corner. It is fantastically fun.

Just yesterday, I got to lead a Lighthouse tour to four intrepid folks in the pouring rain. The wind was howling and the rain was spitting down from the onset of our first Maine Nor’Easter. I handed out my families old rain pants and jackets, found some spare mittens and off we went. The waves crashed, the lighthouses blinked and I shouted out my historical facts using my diaphragm like a bellows. Ruddy cheeks and grins and fantasies of hot clam chowder for lunch were all around. How fun is that?

And last week, I got to sell two adult tricycles to two remarkable women. Both had not been on a bike in years due to physical limitations and when I watched them pedal down the street, we all felt triumphant. Since then, I have seen them several times speeding by the shop, ringing their bells, waving and exclaiming how wonderful it is to finally ride again.

And I am doing this because I love parenting. It is very hard sometimes, and the metaphorical mile seventeen and eighteen with a child can bring a strong woman to her knees, but I will fight with my son and for my son until I don’t have to anymore.

He drives me wild, yet so does our educational system which lacks the resources to reach all the children and their varied needs. So does social media, and the way it needles its way into everything he does. And so do the companies that manufacture products that are just bad for people, but are available everywhere and have marketing tactics made to tantalize the teenage brain. It is a hard world to navigate, so I will keep being Oakley’s champion through these final years of childhood and most likely beyond.

Later in the evening, I take the time to nurture this new calm and acceptance I am feeling by making bread from the acorn squash that have been growing in our garden. Our home is warm and smells sweet. Oakley comes in from school with a friend and plunks himself down on the couch with our cat. “Smells good in here.” he proclaims. “Are you catching your breath?”

Yes, I am Oaks. And then I will keep on running, I promise.

It is early, still dark even, and as I ease my feet onto the floor and hobble towards my teenage son Oakley’s room to wake him, I am at once excited and trepidatious. Today, we intend to bicycle over 100 miles on the Maine Lighthouse Ride. We have never ridden this far, and I am aware that it could go one of many ways, all equally plausible: We could have a mechanical failure and not complete it; I don’t even have a tube or pump with me. I had no time to collect one. We could not be up for the challenge physically because I have barely ridden this summer. Oakley or I could melt down with anxiety and pent-up frustration. Or we could reach our goal and feel like the team that we both desire to be.

This summer has been hard, and my relationship with Oakley has been taxed, so when he agreed to do this ride with me I was surprised. Perhaps he knows how badly we need it.

However, it is one thing to agree in advance and another to agree when your mother is hovering over you at zero-dark-thirty and telling you that now is the time.

I wiggle his toes, “Okay Oaks, time to hit it.”

“Yup, let’s do this.” he groans, and slides out from under the covers.

The Start

Of course we are late to the start. We often are late to things because of the constraints of the ferry getting off Peaks Island. No matter. We see a group of 50 or so cyclists revving their leg muscles, and we join the pack. Most of the participants seem to be middle-aged men, but there are a smattering of women here and there. No teenagers though.

After just a moment the group moves out and begins riding in unison along the East Coast Green Way in South Portland. Neither Oakley nor I have ever ridden in a pack like this, and we grin at each other, taken up in the camaraderie and the energy of the group. Everyone starts slowly, chatting with each other and taking the time to warm up. The sun has risen, and a golden light colors the coast. It looks like the perfect day.

Mile One through 16

We start off strong and confident. The pace is easy and as one mile turns to five the pack opens up. We see a friend riding, and he introduces Oakley and me to his fellow riders. “This is Oakley and Leah. They just opened up a bike shop this summer, and last year they rode across the country.” I can visibly see Oakley’s shoulders broaden, and I feel pride welling up inside me. It is good to feel this, after our mother-son summer battles. Several miles later Oakley turns to me and says with no self-consciousness that he loves this. The truth beams from his eyes.

“This is so fun! I have never done this with people before. They are all so nice!” He rides slightly ahead of me, gesturing with his hands wherever there is some gravel in the road, or a sewer grate to avoid or when the group is stopping. How nice it is to be led by him. How nice it is to have him warn me about hazards instead of the other way around. A refreshing change. Looks like we are going to have a great day.

Mile 17 though 35

Our first rest stop. Hot-diggity. Here are all the snacks Oakley can imagine. Of course, before we left this morning we had eggs and cheese on hardy bagels, but that was nearly two hours ago, eons in Oakley’s time frame. There are peanut-butter sandwiches, Cheetos, Twizzlers, energy bars, oranges and pretzels. “Have at it, Oaks.” and he does.

Bellied full, we are off again. Now the group has really spread out, and we ride alone. It doesn’t take long before we realize that this is a mistake. I had thought the route would be well marked. I had thought there would be lots of people, but suddenly I see that I am very wrong. I take one wrong turn, backtrack and take another. “Mom! You are kidding me.” I see Oakley’s hackles go up.

“Give me a minute.” Furiously, I try to download the GPS map of the route that had been emailed to me days ago, the one that I had brazenly ignored, sure that it would be obvious, but I can’t make it work.

“Mom, you always do this! I was psyched for this ride, and you are going to ruin it.” Oakley’s words are not kind, but he has a point. We have been in this position many times. I don’t plan well, he gets angry. I get flustered, we get lost. It is the oldest story in our book. Luckily, this time I wind our way back to the course after a mere three-mile goose chase, and we see a group cycling away. “Mom, I feel zoomy! I am going to stay with them! Meet you at the next rest stop!” I give my blessing, happy that he is no longer angry and he is off; the whole group is. I pedal furiously behind, trying desperately not to lose sight of them.

But I do. It is not long before I am alone on the road, stopping again and again to consult the map on my phone and try to coordinate it with my phone’s GPS. I am hopelessly lost and know only to head south and find the rest stop that is near some railroad tracks. After some time, Oakley texts me. “Where are you? Call Pops!” I bristle at this suggestion. Soon, we figure out together that we can use an app on our phone to keep track of each other to guide me to him. “You’re almost here mom, and if you decide you need to quit, just know that I am not going to. I am having a really good time.”

When I finally make it to the rest area, the group of volunteers manning the snacks is chuckling. “You’re the mom,” they say and shake their heads. I guess he broadcast loud and clear what a nincompoop I am.

Mile 36 through 52

Well, there is no choice. I can’t ride on my own because I don’t know the way, so I will simply keep up. I look at the group Oakley has buddied up to and inwardly groan. They are mostly in their 30’s and all have high-tech, ultra-light bikes. I have my beloved steel touring bike complete with racks. It is a hefty girl. Even Oakley is riding a fancy bike these days. His touring bike was stolen a few weeks ago and a neighbor, who was unbelievably generous, and knew how important biking is to Oaks, gave him a hand-built Rob Stowe bicycle. It weighs a dime and is smooth as ice to ride. Nevermind, I will find a way.

We enter one of the most beautiful sections of the ride. The road goes right along the coast, and we are treated to beaches, lighthouses and boat landings on one side and lavish homes on the other. I have to work hard and several times Oaks circles back to make sure I see a turn that I am liable to miss and he warns me, “Mom, you have to keep up. We have to stay with these guys. They are really cool.”

I feel for these people who have taken us on like poor lost puppies. There is Matt, an incredibly tall man with long wavy hair, halfway down his back, a handlebar mustache, and a bike shirt unzipped to his navel, to allow the breeze to cool his sweaty chest hair. He laughs like a barking seal, full of gusto. There is Zack, a sweet, soft-spoken soul. He has bleached blond hair, several earrings and an easy, gentle, manner. He doesn’t even breathe heavily. Then Emily, who basically holds us all together. She has ridden across the country, averaging 100 miles a day. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her. And Tom, a kind, inquisitive man who asks Oakley millions of questions and allows him to brag incessantly. Tom is 70 and has ridden several century rides. I don’t want to hold them back, but I need them, so I try even harder.

Mile 53 to 70

Now I am tired. When we get to the next rest stop, I channel Oakley. I am starving. Not just belly-empty starving, but chemically-altered starving. I look at the food, not as tasty treats but as chemicals components that hold the key to making my body work. I need salt. Cheetos and a cup of pickle juice. I need caffeine. An energy bar that has the caffeine equivalent to 1 1/2 cups of coffee. I need sugar. Twizzlers and peanut putter and jelly. I am incredibly thirsty, and slug back a full water bottle and refill it with gatorade.

Oakley is still smiling, but he whispers under his breath to me that now he is getting tired. “Thank God,” I think to myself. There is a kink in my neck that descends from my skull down between my shoulder blades. I wander around stretching it out and nodding like a bobble-head. Other bikers are starting to seem weary too. I hear people asking each other about upcoming hills and how many hours we still have left.

Mile 71 to 92

We are back in our home turf now, approaching the return to South Portland. I feel myself entering machine mode, and it allows me to cycle faster. My breath comes out regular and hard, something akin to Lamaze breathing. I let myself become absorbed in it. What is it I love about this? Why is it so fun, even when is feels like there is a knife in my back, my knees are aching, and my butt muscles roar? Perhaps it is because it is reminiscent of riding a horse as fast as one can through the open country side, hearing the roar of the wind and passing by beautiful land, feeling power and absorbing the beauty of the world all in one go. I feel this now. This connection to the life inside and out, and my legs spin.

Tom rides up beside me. “I would have never found our way if it weren’t for those orange arrows. They were great.”

“What arrows?” Was he hallucinating?

“The ones on the street that showed our route.” He sees my blank expression. “You saw the arrows, right?”

“No, I never saw any arrows! Are you kidding me?” I look down and there one is as we sail around a bend. Clear as day. I can’t believe it.

“You were late to the start weren’t you? They told us all about them. How did you think we knew where to go?

Mile 93 to 102

I leave the last rest stop early and head out on my own. I can follow the orange arrows now! I know that they will catch me, but I want a head start. I know we are going to make it. I know Oakley and I will make it. We have this. He is proud and I am proud. My heart swells. I think of everything we have learned in one day:

1. We are still a team. No matter what life throws at us, we have this.
2. I make my life more challenging by throwing caution to the wind and not paying attention to details, but setting off half-assed has created some great adventures.
3. It is time for Oakley to start pointing hazards out to me. He can see them now, even when I don’t show him.
4. We need a pack to find our way. Today it was this motley crew, but long term it is our friends and family who will show us the way when we get lost.
5. Growing stronger and facing challenges hurts, and that is okay.
6. I am a nincompoop. I admit it. I am making this up as I go. But, what a life.

The Finish

And so we finish. The whole crew. Of course they catch me and sail on by. When we reach the end we see that we are some of the last riders, and I had thought we were so speedy! There are a few people cheering and ringing cow bells and a few boxed dinners for us to take as we depart, but for the most part the organizers were closing up shop.

Tom shares that this was his first time riding a century since a recent stroke and heart surgery just eight months ago. Zack shares that the batteries to his electronic shifters had died at the beginning of the race, and he had ridden he whole thing in one gear. A larger woman came in all alone riding just behind us wearing a lopsided backpack and covered in white sunscreen. We are all in our own race. Oakley and I are nothing special, just incredibly lucky.

I am limp. It is hot and thick and my soul feels wrung out. We all have days like this right? Oakley and I are struggling, and I have been so busy that I haven’t been able to take him and run him like a wild horse, which is what I instinctively feel like he needs. What I need. My heart aches. I am tired.

I lean on the counter of Lighthouse Bikes listlessly, and watch the shimmers of heat and light radiate up from the sidewalk and bounce off the store fronts all along the block. There is no shade and it is making everyone’s eyes take on angry squints as they walk by.

I wonder if I have made a mistake. What if this shop costs me the relationship with my son? What if I never adventure again? What if I become a ruthless capitalist and lose my creative spark? I long for the wilds and big sky. In addition to my squint, insecurity pulses across my brow. To be honest, I am glad there are not any bicycle tours today. I am not sure that I have the gusto for it.

Suddenly, a man thrusts the door open and the hot air washes in behind him. He is not only enveloped in it, but he seems to be burning from within as well. His eyes spark with rage and I find myself recoiling before he has even said a word.

“If one more of your red bikes cruising down the sidewalk almost hits me, I will punch someone in the face!”

I know this man, and I am shocked by his words. I hate it when people are mad at me. Tears instantly well in my eyes, but I try to hide them with a playful quip. “You will? You are a massage therapist. Aren’t you guys all peace, love, and happiness?”

“90 percent peace, love and happiness, 10 percent punch them in the face.”

His face teeters between a friendly smile and a grimace of rage. Both flicker on and off in an uncomfortable and unsettling manner.

“I will tell them to be more careful. I am so sorry. They don’t know better.” Mea culpa, mea culpa.

I do feel badly, but many of my customers at Lighthouse Bikes are fledgling riders and haven’t learned bicycle manners or much control. They don’t mean any harm, and I certainly don’t think they deserve to be punched in the face.

When he leaves, I let out a shuddering breath. My co-worker laughs at the irony of this man’s manners and his chosen profession, and we make light of his rage, but I am rattled.

I can’t always write when I have learned good lessons or found pithy metaphors. That would be cheap and unhelpful. Sometimes I need to write when I am shaky and unsure. Like today.

Okay–maybe one metaphor. I might be crashing around crazily right now, like some of my bikers, because my life does feel out of balance. If you see me and I seem not to be seeing you or nearly run you over in my haste and distraction, please don’t punch me in the face. Please don’t be angry. Instead, understand that finding balance takes practice, and an inward focus. When I figure it out, I will ride with grace again.