Finally, a ride in Oregon

 "I have lost all of my riding muscles," I said to Sam, as we sat in our hot box (aka the camper we are currently living in). I just don't know if I'm going to get to ride at all until we have some sort of home. Not being able to leave our pup anywhere, not currently having the dog trailer I keep thinking about purchasing, and with Sam gone at work all day, I just haven't been able to get in any two-wheeled time.

"We'll figure something out," was his response. 

I knew that this was going to be an issue when we came to Oregon (well, during the transition period anyway), but I had no idea how much I would truly miss riding a bike. I knew we'd have to adapt, and I thought that I'd be okay with not riding for awhile. I suppose I also believed that finding a place to live would be much easier than it has been, so after having been here for two weeks and having spent the two weeks prior packing up the house, it had been nearly a month since I'd really had a chance to ride outside.

We were preparing to move "home" to a new location (as we aren't able to stay in one spot for very long, thanks to summer bookings) and Sam said, "Why don't you go on a ride in the morning before we leave? I'll take the dog on a walk and it will give you a chance to ride."

I was excited. And then worried. Unlike most who seem to retain their cycling fitness, if I don't ride for any stretch of time, any ability I had seems to leave very quickly, even if I'm doing other activities. I figured even if I could only do a few miles it would be worthwhile to get out and pedal, so I planned to wake early before the sun had a chance to start the heat (we were expecting temps to reach 105F that day) and knowing that we had to leave before 11a from the site, I believed it would give me a little time to ride, get back and help with packing up and we'd be on our way.

Sleep was nearly impossible that evening because the day had been so incredibly hot and the extreme warmth was retaining well in the tiny aluminum box in which we currently live. I was also so excited to get to ride. I know it seems silly, but it felt like an event that hadn't happened in an eternity.

When I woke in the morning (not nearly as early as I'd hoped), I dressed and prepared to ride. I had no idea where I was going, nor how far I would ride, but I was going to go. I told Sam that I'd probably only make it a few miles and I was off.

As I started pedaling, I heard all of the noises - the noises I'd ignored over the last several years. You see, this bike I brought with me is the same bike that's been sitting on my home trainer, getting used primarily over winter months, and that has really been neglected when it comes to maintenance and cleaning. I'd complained about noises even as it sat on the trainer, but it's easy to ignore when my preference is to ride outside. 

The pinging metal sounds, the scraping and creaking, the weird derailleur noises, all of the sounds began and I hoped it wasn't going to take away from the ride. I saw Sam standing at the fence, watching me pedal down the road and as I pedaled the first couple of miles, I started weeping. I think it was a combination of emotions: getting to ride for the first time in awhile, not having my usual outlet to work through feelings (there's been a LOT going on over the last couple of months), and maybe even a little sense of relief that I was still able to pedal (even if I wasn't convinced it would be for long). 

There has always been a piece within that knows how important riding is to me, but I don't think I truly understood the magnitude of that importance until this ride. As the waves swept over, under and around, I just permitted myself the time to cry, and it felt good. 

Riding toward Sisters on the highway.

Still unsure of where I was going, I thought about a highway path we'd driven to see a house in Sisters, Oregon, so I headed in that direction, thinking that I would just turn around when I was tired or ready to do so because of the heat. I just kept pedaling. Not fast, mind you, but pedaling and smiling. The more upright position of this bike was a little frustrating to my posterior (which is also out of saddle shape because I haven't been riding), but it gave me great sight lines to take in my surroundings. 

The day was already growing hot. It hadn't hit 8:30a yet and the temperatures were quickly closing in on 90F. I wasn't really focused on that though. It was just nice to be on a bicycle, pedaling without a care in the world. 

One of the interesting things I've noticed here (versus where we were in Colorado) is that when one rides "up" to a destination, it doesn't mean quite the same sort of ride. Typically, when we ride up, it's up the entire way and then a fantastic downhill return, but here the terrain seems to be more rolling, even if the general direction is up. I hadn't really taken this into account as I rode because I was just enjoying, and as my body began to fatigue I couldn't quite remember if it had been 15 or 20 miles out to Sisters from the starting point. I'd convinced myself it was 15, but when I hit that marker, I still hadn't arrived, so I just kept pedaling. 

Dismounted in Sisters for a couple of minutes... this poor, neglected bike held its own. Also, I did have tools with me, they were just in my Camelbak because I'd forgotten that this bike had no saddlebag and no bottle cages for the time being.

At around mile 21, I arrived in Sisters. After dismounting, to give my backside a break for a couple of minutes, I realized that the heat was coming in faster than I'd truly grasped and decided to head back. As I rode, I began to understand my mistake in thinking that the ride would be all downhill on the return. I tried to stand and pedal a little more, but that seemed to make the bike noises even worse. Around 5 miles into the return trip, I received a text from Sam:

Hey, you doin' okay? It's gettin' hot fast.

I was a little annoyed, honestly. I just wanted to go on one lousy ride and enjoy it. He had my tracking info for the ride that is sent by Strava when I began the ride, so why was he bugging me?

The auto-generated reply options for the Garmin popped up and I hit the "Yes" response and kept on pedaling. I could feel everything setting in though - the lack of riding recently, the heat, my annoyance from the noises of the bike. My cadence was starting to slow. I had to remind my body that it knows how to do this, and that the distance really wasn't that far. 

Yes, my body said, we know how to do this, but it's been awhile, and we're not normally on this bike.

It's amazing how slowly miles pass when one is tired. When I want a ride to last, it feels as though it's over so quickly, but every mile felt like ten, easily, on this return trip - at least to my body. My mind was content to just stay out in the heat and ride as long as possible.

Over the rolling hills I pedaled, slowly inching my way back to the campground. One last push on a hill before the upcoming signal that would have me back to base in a couple of miles. As I arrived back at the site (later than either Sam or I had anticipated), he'd already packed everything, attached the camper and was ready to roll. 

"You okay?" he said, with a smile that was both concerned and happy for me that I was able to ride.

"Yeah. Realized about half way through that I never buckled my chin strap for my helmet. Saw it flapping in the wind as I was headed back," I responded.

"Where'dya go?" he asked.

I was confused. Hadn't he been watching where I'd gone?

"Your phone did that thing again and never sent the email, so I didn't know where you were," Sam said, obviously guessing that I was not understanding. 

It all became clear in that moment that he'd simply been concerned because I'd said I was only going to ride a few miles and he had no way to know where I'd actually traveled because the message never sent. 

After a brief conversation about the ride, I changed quickly and we got on our way to our next temporary site. I was entirely grateful to have had the opportunity to finally ride, tough as it may have seemed in some of the moments. The good moments far outweighed anything that seemed less-than-ideal. Hopefully, we've worked out a system so that I can ride at least once each week until we have a more permanent setting for home... and who knows? Maybe we'll end up with that dog trailer and I can get in even a bit more riding with our pup in tow.