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.
Our cat Scuppers giving a face to my feelings lately.
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:
We are still a team. No matter what life throws at us, we have this.
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.
It is time for Oakley to start pointing hazards out to me. He can see them now, even when I don’t show him.
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.
Growing stronger and facing challenges hurts, and that is okay.
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.
“I haven’t ridden a bike since I was, like, five.”
“Can this seat get any lower? It has been forever since I have done this.”
“Oh, pedal brakes! That is so fun! Like kindergarten!”
“Only four miles? Any hills? No? Okay, I think I can do this.”
And off we go. My relationship to biking has changed dramatically in the last few months. Instead of crossing the windswept, molten hot deserts of the Wind River Range in Wyoming with my son, wondering where we will next find food, water and shelter, now I cycle daily on a three-speed beach cruiser down a sweet little bike path that connects a few historic lighthouses, leading tours for tourists, who ooh and ah over the beauty of the southern Maine coast. And you know what? I love it.
Don’t get me wrong, not everybody who comes to Lighthouse Bikes is a novice cyclist, it is just that those are my favorite. They wobble around on the side street practicing braking and switching gears, and their faces flicker from intense concentration to wide grins, like blinking sunlight through the leaves. It is a thing of mine, this love of seeing people step just a little bit out of their comfort zones, and watching their confidence and mastery grow. It is like I get to watch them all be kids again–just for a moment. Away from their offices and piles of dishes and oil changes. It is playing and learning and being open to something just a little bit new, a little bit adventurous.
I feel like a kid again, too. A tired kid. All this is so new to me. I have never been a business owner! Everyday I am making mistakes and correcting and recorrecting again and again. It is like learning to steer. Everyday I am fixated on trying to learn new systems from bike repair to computer use to the history of Portland. There are days when I come home in the evening barely verbal and actually yearn for the sun to go down so that I can slip quietly off to my bed and sleep. I feel hungry for it. Just like a child.
What’s more, I have always been terrified of public speaking, and now I have to do it everyday, all day long. I used to hate it so much that I would cut class in high school and take a big fat “F” for the grade rather than stand in front of a crowd and talk. My knee caps would literally shake, the patellas bouncing up and down, visibly trembling, and my neck would blossom with huge red blotches–announcing my anxiety to everyone around. The repetitive nature of the tour has thankfully quieted this, but it was a great hurdle to leap. A different kind of a challenge, but a challenge nonetheless.
So, those customers who wobble this way and that? Who are embarrassed about their lack of skill? Who are exhausted at the end of our ride? I get them. And I also understand their grins that break out after their small successes. My grin is breaking out, too, every time someone walks out of the shop happy. One day I will get back out on an epic trip, but for now this is adventure enough.
Oakley turned 18 the other day. It was bittersweet, to be sure. I am happy to see he is becoming a young man, but sad that I am slowly losing my ability to guide and control him. He is going to have to learn some hard lessons on his own, and his inner voice is going to have to get louder than his mother’s. It is inevitable and important. I wonder how much longer I will be able to coerce him into adventuring with me? He has been my excuse for everything: Oakley needed to bicycle across the country; Oakley needed Adventure Wednesdays; Oakley needed me to switch careers and open a bike shop; Oakley needed me to keep in great shape to keep up with him.
I think everybody knows the truth; I am the one who has needed Oakley.
Don’t get me wrong, he drives me crazy. I can tell you endless tales of Oakley debacles if you get me started, but the fact is, he has allowed me to run wild with him in the name of parenthood, and running wild is what I do best.
Currently, our adventuring has been focused on Lighthouse Bikes, our new bike shop, and I feel a bit anemic due to our lack of physical exertion, the outdoors and the unknown. I am like a dog barking at the fence waiting for the gate to open again. I know it will, and we are already concocting big plans for the winter, when the shop is closed, but for now, Oakley and I need to sit tight and limit ourselves to day-long expeditions. Last week we snuck in a sweltering 32-mile ride to get ice cream, and next week, a mountain bike ride at Mt. Abrams.
To celebrate Oakley’s birthday, we went out and got matching tattoos, commemorating our trip across the United States and all our other biking adventures together. I have never had a tattoo, nor really thought much about them, but when your 18-year-old asks you to get matching ones, in between your shouting matches, there is only one answer: Yes.
The design we chose is the symbol used on signs that designate a bike route on America’s state highways, back roads, and bike paths, but for us it was a symbol of much more than that. It is a reminder that we have the strength to persevere through all sorts of challenges, that we will always be a team, and that there is always a way forward, regardless of flats, broken spokes, bad choices and upset. And I hope that at least once he looks down at it when faced with a difficult decision, and it helps guide him when he is on his own.
I have also used it as leverage, of course. He made an oath to go on one bike tour a year with me until he is 25. Manipulative ? Yes. I am no peach, and not quite ready to let him go.
No, I don’t mean I’m on fire-like “Look at me go!” I mean, I am on fire like, “I am a sweaty mess.”
All the newness associated with opening a new business, combined with menopause, has left quite the sheen of perspiration from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I might seem unflappable, but let me tell you, I am flapped.
I am lucky enough to have a generally optimistic outlook, and privileged enough to be able to bounce even when I fall from high heights, but still, change is scary and I am not immune. As happy as I am to be embarking on this new journey with Lighthouse Bikes, I still have a twisted gut and find myself clenching my jaw, perseverating on whether or not changing careers at 52-years-old and trying to build a business from scratch, when I am no market analyst or capitalist, is really the best idea.
Too late now. I have thrown in all my poker chips and am just waiting to see what the cards have in store. Besides, what was the alternative? Choosing safety and prudence and feeling under challanged and flat? I am too young for that.
The truth is, I believe this is the gift of menopause. I know that it is a shameful word in our culture-an embarrassment to step away from youth in such a definitive way, but menopause provides a great reminder that we can be so much more than any one role in our lives and that there are endless possibilities. It seems to me like it is a wake up call to seize the day. It is not only the end of something, it is very much the beginning.
I mean look at all the symptoms of menopause:
Hot flashes that make you want to strip off layers of protective clothing and open doors and windows to feel the cool, deliciously-silky breezes of the night time air.
Interrupted sleep nudging you and saying, “Wake up, don’t miss a thing!”
Emotions rising and falling like breaking waves, screaming, “Feel it! Feel everything!”
The loss of the menstrual cycle that allows you to feel like a 12-year-old again. Free, playful and unencumbered.
All these symptoms encourage us to open up, feel more, do more and begin anew.
I don’t mean to be a pollyanna about all this. It just feels like as a culture we just whisper about it when it should be a shout. “You made it! Now what!”
I have friends that have chosen this time to go back to nursing school. Friends who have left jobs in which they sat all day, to teach Yoga full time. Friends who found the agency in their work positions to take leadership roles. And friends who have finally found the time to return to creating art.
All this change is scary, but change is inevitable and exciting. Stagnation…not so much. So when you see me sweating, and biting my nails, and riding my bike as far and as fast as I can go, please know that I am just on fire, and that is fine with me.
Lighthouse Bikes is opening in two days! What an adventure this has been. I can feel the synapses in my brain arcing and stretching as I try desperately to master QuickBooks, “Point of Sale” systems, inventory procedures, web design, new-hire paperwork, insurance (workers comp and liability!), and take a crash course in the history of Portland and bike mechanics. These are not areas in which I have ANY natural aptitude and as I have tried to learn about them from endlessly patient friends, family and business associates, it feels like I am in a foreign country, straining to pick out one familiar word from their foreign tongues.
I have begun dreaming about bikes and bike tours. I wake with a start remembering “Ah yes, we need paper bags for the shop!” or “Who is picking up Oakley today?” My lists are scrawled on legal pads, receipts, in notebooks and on calendars. There is a whirling dervish dancing inside me, throwing everything that I knew up into the air and delighting in watching it spin and dance, and land in messy piles.
Last weekend was my birthday. I took the day off and went to Popham Beach with my family. It was a beautiful warm, sunny afternoon and we lay in the sun; snacking on burritos and chatting. I tried to put all things related to biking and business out of my mind. We all decided to take a walk along the ocean, walking in and out of the water and coaxing Cricket, my dog, to join us. Suddenly, out of nowhere came the wind.
The sand, that had seconds before lay down under our feet, rose up and began slashing against our wet, naked legs, pricking our exposed skin like a million little needles. Rain began spitting down icy droplets, and gray, cumulous clouds tumbled towards us. We hugged our arms against our chests and began to retreat, but to get back to our cars we needed to walk directly into the gale. The beach itself seemed to rise up and hover, a foot off the surface, and we soon became coated with a sticky, sandy grit. Cricket looked at me reproachfully through squinty, sand-crusted eyes, as if to say, “Whose bad idea was this anyway?” We bent our heads, and spread out, many of us walking backwards, some with eyes closed and some hunched into question marks of discomfort, and made our way back across the beach; everybody in a silent battle of annoyance.
As I watched the patterns in the blowing sand, felt the needles of the sand and rain pricking, and watched my family spread out before me, I was struck. “Notice this,” the sand seemed to be saying. “Pay attention,” said the rain. “You are here now, not in Quick Books, not in your computer, not on your lists, you are here. It is all for this.” I peered around me. It was true; the shape-shifting sand seemed ephemeral; the surf had become mighty, and the clouds majestic. Maybe I am a slow learner and need constant intensity to recalibrate and stay awake, but nevertheless it worked.
Lighthouse Bikes will open in two days, and we are ready. It is a different kind of adventure than bicycling across the county to be sure, but it is an adventure, and who knows where it will lead. I am excited to watch other people pedal out and explore the coast on our shiny, red bicycles. I love thinking of the sun on their faces, the icy water on their toes when they stop on a beach, and the simple fun that they may have as they ride. That is what it is all about, QuickBooks be damned.
Tonight we sleep in a city park alongside the Llano River in central Texas. We have been biking a 425-mile loop, out from Austin, and around the Hill Country of Texas.
It seems the river itself is under construction, huge excavators, dump trucks and bulldozers parade along the gravelly banks that flank the river, pushing and spreading great quantities of sandy soil a quarter mile in both directions. God knows what they are doing, but it is loud. They push sand one way, than another, piling it up in mounds then flattening it again, crashing their metal shovels and truck beds together in a never ceasing cacophony of scrapes and clangs.
The park we are tenting in is home of an annual Crawfish festival, drawing to a close just last week. Some 50,000 revelers—all drinking, frolicking and apparently making good use of the rows upon rows of port-a-potties they left behind. The area seems tortured, parched and wounded.
There are mounds of teeming fire ants, stirred up by the chaos, and as I stand warily, eyeing some geese that seem bent on attacking me with heads lowered, hackles up and beaks all a-hiss, the ants find their way into my Crocs, and on a secret cue, all bite down simultaneously. I shriek and run for the water.
“You like this?” asks my husband, Twain. “I can’t believe that you and Oakley put up with this on your adventures.”
“There will probably be a nice sunset,” I reply, trying to salvage something of the evening.
We set about making dinner atop a large cracked cement picnic table. Tonight is generic-brand macaroni and cheese and “salad in a bag.” We can’t bring butter with us as we bike through the desert so we use bottled Parkay from a squeeze bottle and forgo the milk. The result is gluey mess that is barely swallowable. It is so bad I have to laugh—it would be better used as spackle than food. Again, Twain looks at me, shakes his head, and laughs. “This is fucking horrible,” he says.
“See what I mean? Food is fuel out here. Nothing more,” I say with pride. At least we have procured a few beers and a soda for Oaks to wash it down.
We set out tents up on a slight hill, aware that it means a night of slow downward sliding, and spread out our air mats. Well, my air mat. Twain uses a piece of blue foam that would be more suited to insulating pipes than sleeping on.
Finally, the moon comes up and the construction noise ceases. We wander down to the river’s edge to sit on a wide flat rock where the ants can’t get us. Blissfully, there is nothing to do. The river washes by. I bring out a book and read aloud for two hours. “One more chapter?” begs Oakley, again and again. We moan to each other about how much our knees ache from cycling and how sunburned we are. We talk about how many miles we need to tackle tomorrow and what the weather might bring. We retell both the challenges and the beautiful things we saw today. We finish the last of the beer.
I don’t know why I love this, but I do. I also love my husband and son for putting up with my idea of a good time. There are definitely easier ways to spend a vacation, but none that I have found that scratches this itch.
I suppose it is the thrill of the unknown, the challenges, as well as the victories, and the bond that adventure creates that I am searching for. I am not seeking comfort, but rather the open horizon and discovery; fire ants, squeeze Parkay, sunsets and all.
I have to be honest, before this biking adventure, I had never given the landscape of Texas much thought. I have always just thought of it as a wide, barren, hot expanse, connecting the green humid swamps of Louisiana to high, red mesas of New Mexico and plains to the north. Texas was only somewhere to drive through—with the air conditioning on. Well, I have learned the error of my ways.
For the last nine days, my husband, teenage son, and I have cycled 425 miles along the Transamerican Cycling Association’s Texas Hill Country route, performing a loop beginning and ending in Austin. We biked along ranch and farm roads, through wine country (who knew?), cattle land and desert, and I have learned that there is a whole lot more to Texas than I had reckoned.
Texas is a land of extremes. In late April, the Hill Country temperatures reel between nearly 90 by day to 40 at night. The sky is pierced by the searing sun one moment, soft spritzing rain the next, and then with crescendos of towering cumulous clouds rising up majestically, rivaling the size of the enormous western sky.
There are wild flowers covering the land. Blue Bonnets, of course, but also bright red and yellow-ringed Indian blankets, white tissue-paper like Texas prickly poppies whose blossoms rise up out of spiny, overly-protective leaves, brown-eyed Susans, purple asters and countless others. They bow, wave, quake, and salute along the roadsides and at times as far as the eye can see, demanding attention. Demanding one to slow down and notice.
Then there are the fields with no flowers, only flattened grass and cactus—eaten to nubs by various herds. The fields are filled with long-horned cattle, horses, burros, sheep, and goats, all munching away at their leisure, not seeming to be remotely aware of their power, starting like kittens when we sped by.
Wildlife abounds too, and we saw lizards and owls, deer and armadillos, coyotes and wild hogs, with which we enjoyed mutual staring contests at close range, one slow, lazy blink at a time.
Of course there are ranches. Many of them looking like settings for the lifestyles of the rich and famous. They covered thousands of acres and had proud gated entrances along the road marked with their signature names—gold embossed. But, here and there nestle small towns along riverbanks—seeking the water, the green and the shade.
In the Hill Country there is a strong German influence that rubs side by side with a Hispanic one. There are those that broadcast their politically conservative views with “Trump 2024” banners, and then there is the liberal artistic vibe of Austin.
There are dammed lakes with cool welcoming water, that are the perfect balm after a long sweaty day of cycling. There are tall red rocks and mesas striped with limestone strata, orange granite and bright green juniper, mesquite, and live oak. Veritable rainbows.
There are horribly ugly stretches of highway, subdivisions and ex-urban sprawl, but that can be found just about everywhere these days. Those areas were tempered by the miles and miles and miles of roads we rode on where we could ride no-handed, side-by-side, chatting for hours—nearly full days, without seeing another car or person, remembering who we are, what we love and how incredible this world can be.
This part of Texas is neither barren nor flat—it is big, bold and hilly, my aching knees and saturated heart can attest to that.
