To Venus or not to Venus (de Miles, that is)

In the weeks leading up to the Venus de Miles ride, I was swearing up and down that I was absolutely not going to do the ride. I say this every year and still end up riding, but things have been different this year. I genuinely just couldn't see myself completing it.

Friends, acquaintances and family kept asking about my participating, and I continued to reply with the same, somewhat canned response. I haven't ridden enough this year to do VdM. I didn't want to do VdM. My injuries are such that it would take me far too long to complete the distance I would want to do.

A week before the ride, I was making the exact same statements. Sam was laughing at me stating that he knew I'd be riding it, regardless of what I was saying, but I continued to reassure him that I wasn't going to do the event this year. At this point, I was pretty sure I had him convinced because I myself was certain that I wasn't riding.

I had absolutely no plans to do Venus de Miles. I've ridden every year for the last 6 years and there was no reason in my mind to do it again this year. The ride gets larger and women seem to get crankier with each year that passes, so I just didn't want to put myself through it. I'm in no way in physical shape to complete this ride anyway - short or long distance.

Then, two days before the ride, I started questioning the decision. I went on a ride to clear my head and to really ask myself some questions. 1) Why would I want to do the ride or conversely, why was I avoiding the ride? 2) If I did participate, what distance would I be willing to attempt? and finally 3) What bike would I ride for something happening in less than 48 hours?

*Image found here

As I rode, I questioned everything. I knew I didn't need to ride Venus, but at the same time, I've also been whining about not having any events this year. My body is not conditioned to do anything more than about 15 miles though, and my bikes are a headache all their own at the moment. Even the bike I was riding was clicking and crackling and making all sorts of noises it shouldn't be making. Why would I want to put myself through this?

I continued to debate even after I finished my ride. I went home and read, pondered and tried to come up with a reason to do VdM - or not. Either way, I just wanted a real, definite decision and with little time left to make that last minute decision, I had to choose quickly.

There were honestly more reasons not to ride than there were to complete it. I looked at the shortest distance (which is only a tad over 30mi/48km) and thought that if I stretched, on a good day, perhaps this one would be doable. While my head wanted desperately to ride, at minimum, the metric century, I thought it foolish to attempt such a thing.

Still, not one bike was really screaming at me to be the one to complete this ride. While any of the bikes could handle any of the distances, I wasn't sure my body felt the same. It's amazing what lack of training does to a body.

I had been waiting for a new set of handlebars to try on one of the bikes and for some reason there had been delay in the shipment. When I looked at the expected arrival date, they were scheduled to land the day of the ride. The problem was, the bike best suited to get me more easily and quickly through the ride was the one waiting for these handlebars.

In truth, the handlebars I'd been using were causing a significant amount of hand pain even on short distance rides, so I wasn't sure I'd make it through without a lot of discomfort. Besides, I still wasn't certain that I even wanted to do VdM, so perhaps I should just let it go.

As I continued to debate back and forth, I made a deal with myself. If the handlebars arrived as scheduled the day of the ride, I would choose to forego it this year. If by some shipping miracle they arrived before, I'd go ahead with the shortest distance ride.

I was happy with that decision because I knew it pretty well took me out of any possibility of riding VdM this year. I breathed a sigh of relief and went on with life.

But, as the bike gods would have it, things wouldn't be that easy. The handlebars arrived the day before VdM, causing me to internally roll eyes at myself for making such a deal. Of course the bars arrived early - why wouldn't they?

It's not as though anyone was aware of the deal I'd made though. If I wanted to back out, no one would be the wiser. I thought on this possibility for a bit, but then decided that there must be a reason I was supposed to ride.

*from Venus de Miles

Reluctantly, I signed myself up to ride. Less than 24 hours before the start, mind you.

I did not tell a soul, not even Sam.

Unlike past years when I've felt physically prepared/comfortable with whatever distance I'd selected to travel, this year I was actually concerned that I wouldn't be able to ride the really rather short distance. Self-doubt is a huge potential pitfall to a person who hasn't covered typical riding distances.

Part of me was aware that the length of the ride really wasn't long and that I had in fact covered this distance earlier in the year (though it has been many months now). The other part of me kept screaming FOOL - You are a fool! Why would you do this?!

I'm pretty sure the latter voice was the one winning out, but I tried to keep my composure.

As is tradition for my VdM rides, I would be on a bike that is not only relatively new to the fold, but was also undergoing last minute changes that I wouldn't be able to thoroughly test prior to the ride.

Figures, I thought to myself. It wouldn't be VdM if there wasn't some kind of concern about the bike.

The night before the ride, I barely slept. If I had 3 hours of actual sleep, I'd call that generous. I just couldn't fall asleep and then woke up just a couple of hours later, unable to drift off again. I was exhausted, but just couldn't seem to get back to sleep. By the time 6a rolled around, I gave up and just got out of bed.

I was trying to act casually and pretend that it was just any other day. I fed the dogs, ate some oatmeal, and started to prepare water bottles.

Sam and I have had a tradition on Saturday mornings since my back therapy/recovery began a couple of months ago. Prior to the back issues, we would get up early and ride to kickboxing together, but because I've been unable to attend class (doc's orders), I ride Sam part of the way and then split off to do a ride on my own while he's in class.

I don't get to ride for long because class is less than an hour, but it's enough time for me to feel that I'm doing something, rather than vegging out on a sofa becoming a giant lump of mush. Afterward, we meet up at the end of class and head home.

I was doing my best to make this VdM ride as low-key as possible. Nothing in me wanted this ride to be a big deal, so I still hadn't let Sam know what was happening. Instead, I told him that I was going to go on a longer ride and that he shouldn't wait for me after class. I told him I'd meet up at home at some point, and he seemed to be accepting of my desire to ride a bit longer than usual without questions.

In the meantime, I knew that I would have about an hour to wait for start time. Initially, I'd thought I would do a short warm up ride, but I was well aware that with my lack of training this year, too long of a warm up would probably take me out of this ride before the end. So, instead I headed over to the start line.

When I arrived, the last of the metric century route riders were just taking off. I went to pick up my bib number and decided to get into the corral because I could place myself toward the front of the line, rather than getting stuck behind a bunch of people who inevitably have problems at the start.

As I stood there, I realized that in some ways it was a little sad not to have Sam there with me. It's sort of a tradition for him to ride me to the start and he usually shows up at some point along the route to make sure I'm okay. On this particular day though, I was kind of glad to know that I was just going on a ride and that it wasn't an "event."

The start line seemed a little down too. There were a handful of women standing in front of me, but most of the organizers and event crew had wandered away, likely because the next wave at the start line wouldn't be for another 50 minutes or so.

As I stood for a few minutes, I kept thinking about how long I had until the start and then suddenly it occurred to me, why not just leave now and get a head start? Now, I realize that this isn't exactly what the organizers want. They want everyone to wait for their wave to begin, mostly, I'm sure, because course marshals and rest stops aren't yet set up; however, I knew exactly where I was going and I knew I wouldn't require any rest stop aid. In the blink of an eye, I made the decision to just roll out on my own.

Part of my reasoning for wanting to leave before everything got started was that I know that the first several miles are climbing and I just didn't want to be surrounded by people as I huffed and puffed my way up what most would cover with ease.

The initial ascent is a mild grade and wasn't so bad, but just when riders think they're through it, the climbing gets worse. Granted, had I done any real climbing at all this year, I probably wouldn't have had so much anxiety about this portion of the route, but knowing that my back is not in the condition to power through much and the fact that even on my longest rides I hadn't climbed more than a total of a few hundred feet, I was concerned.

While riding up one of the less-steep portions of the start, I thought perhaps I should just turn around and head home. I was feeling quite weak between lack of sleep and no training, and I knew that steeper grades were in store for this ride. Because I hadn't really answered my own questions about why I was doing this ride, the simplest solution seemed to be to turn around. But, I didn't.

My path headed up continued as I talked myself through very short sections. Just get to that signal up there, I'd say in my head, or make it to the top of that next little peak. As the route turned, I continued to climb. Looking down at the Garmin, the grade also continued to get steeper and I started to think that I may have to get off and walk the bike. I was determined though to keep pedaling.

It was early in the ride and I was already fatiguing. See, this is why you shouldn't have signed up, I couldn't help but tell myself. I was trying to spin, but even spinning felt like a grind up the small hills. I tried to look at the positives, such as the fact that it was still cool-ish out and if I'd been at the start line waiting, I wouldn't have even begun yet.

Next came the gnats. To me, there is nothing worse than these annoying little insects buzzing about my nose and mouth when I can barely breathe as it is. I yelled, aloud, to the flying creatures and asked them to please just let me be, but it was as though they didn't understand a word coming out of my mouth and continued to fly about my face and head. I tried getting more stern with my request, but nothing seemed to help.

Eventually, they let me be, though unfortunately it wasn't until the top of the worst of the climbing.

As I reached the peak of this portion of the route, I reminded myself that I was through the steepest of the ride. It didn't seem to be of much comfort though because I knew I'd be turning and climbing (although not as steep) yet again.

While I was trying to enjoy a small amount of downhill reprieve, a man out riding the local roads came flying past me. I was riding the brakes because I know there's a traffic signal at the bottom of the descent and was shocked to see someone barreling down, seemingly prepared to rip right through the light.

The rider did stop at the signal, thankfully. I caught him just as the light was turning green and couldn't help but ask, "Doesn't it terrify you to come tearing down that hill?" to which he simply replied, "Well, I guess after 20 years of riding, it doesn't really faze me." Fair enough, I thought. He asked about the route and where he could avoid event riders and I attempted to help, although I wasn't entirely sure I was certain where each of the routes were headed.

A long stretch of the next portion is kind of a blur to me. You know that feeling when you haven't slept and you feel as though you aren't entirely in your body? That was pretty much where I was for a good chunk of this ride. I was grateful to be heading into more flat land territory (or at least flat-ish land) and I was starting to see more event riders now.

I cannot express how nice it was to see some people again. Other than the man who had passed me on the down hill, I had spotted only a small handful of riders, spaced out periodically through the route.

Now we were actually riding through town with cars, walkers, joggers and city cyclists on their way to whatever they had planned for the day. It was a bit surreal to have gone from lone roads to quite populated streets. Even though I know the area well, it was as though I had fallen asleep and suddenly woke up, surrounded by people.

In reality, my body was not doing well. It didn't help that participants were doing things like passing without a word or passing on the right (even worse, I thought). I was shaking my head and muttering to myself, wondering why it is so difficult for people to let another cyclist know when they are approaching/passing. But, I knew I just had to let it go.

One of the things I like least about this particular ride is that many of the women seem to view it as a race. When I first started riding VdM several years ago, the pull to me was that it was supposed to be a time of sisterhood bonding, a time for chatting as we ride, meeting new people, and riding at a pace that allows for extended conversation. Instead, more often than not, participants come by as though they are going to "win" VdM.

There is no time tracking for this ride, so it makes little sense to me. There are no winners or losers, and the only ones who won't finish are those who give up along the way, have a mechanical that can't be dealt with on the road, or who aren't at the finish by 4:30p (which allows 10 hours for the century, 8.5 hours for the metric century, and 7.5 hours for the 30 miler).

In my mind, this event started (and continues to be) a way to raise funds for a good cause and is supposed to be enjoyable. I seem to be in the minority with this thinking though and I sometimes struggle to understand what others are trying to accomplish on the course.

While I understand that people have different paces and will ride faster or slower (which is great!), I really have grown to dislike all that takes place during this ride. Between rude cyclists, bad behavior on the roads, and those who whip by as though their only purpose is to beat everyone else to the end, I just don't find it enjoyable any longer.

There were a few women along the way who were friendly and we had brief conversations. I appreciate them very much, especially on this particular event day because I was struggling to get through even the easiest portions of the route. I think their few words along the way are what helped see me to the end.

When I got home, Sam was waiting at the back door for me. I was a little surprised that he was there waiting, but I'm sure he was concerned about how long I'd been gone, particularly as he knows my rides have been very short lately.

Then in an instant he saw my bib number. "Ah," he started, "Somehow, I knew something was up." I just smiled while he held open the door so I could walk the bike inside.

This year was an interesting mix of emotions and physicality for me. I don't think I've ridden a VdM in the past that had my body feeling so ill-prepared.  Mentally, I struggled much more than I have at any event in the past. I felt soft, broken, incapable even. I was grateful to finish and even more so that I hadn't been foolish enough to attempt a longer distance, but I had also made some realizations by the end - both positive and negative.

I believe I have finally realized that after many years of the same behavior on the roads, it's time for me to bid farewell to this event. I think it's great that so many women continue to ride and participate, but I don't think this is the right choice for me. If I want to ride a race, then I need to find one that is actually a race, and if I just want to ride, then I'll ride.

A renewed appreciation for transportation riding has also made itself known. I realized how much I love just traveling around our city to complete errands, get groceries, visit friends, and so on. While that has never gone away for me, I was reminded that I am at home on a bike just tooling about our city - or even traveling to neighbor cities. I appreciate feeling the wind in my face and watching the seasons - or even the day - change.

Getting my body healed is extremely important. I don't like knowing that what is normally a short distance for me to ride is going to break me. Even as I sit typing today my body is feeling the ramifications of this event. I need to get strong again, and I need to not fear being able to complete even the shortest climbs. But, it's going to take time - and patience with self is not my strongest virtue.

I am grateful to have a partner in life who may think it odd that I wouldn't share that I was participating in this event, but who also understands that sometimes I just don't need or want the fanfare that can come along with formal declarations of intent.

There is a part of me that is disappointed that I didn't (and likely won't) get to participate in a short touring ride this year. I think that these are the sort of long distance endeavors that I would like to complete in the future though. I have a feeling that being able to just go and see places I don't see every day would be a great possibility for me.

Ultimately, I am happy that I was able to ride Venus de Miles, and I'm glad that I was able to cover the distance without any catastrophic issues. I think more than anything I am grateful for the time to be alone with my thoughts and to sort some things out. VdM may not be in my future plans, but it's been an interesting partner each of the last six years, allowing me to learn something about myself each time I have ridden. For that, I am quite thankful.

Surviving Venus de Miles

For the last five summers, I have signed myself up to do a local ride called Venus de Miles. If you've read here for some length of time, you are probably already aware that this ride seems to be my Achilles' heel when it comes to cycling. It's not that the ride is physically difficult or horribly challenging for me by this point in the season (though that hasn't always been true), but more so that something always seems to go wrong just before the event. Historically, this "something" is generally that I end up on a different bicycle than intended due to last minute problems or shenanigans with adjustments. This year, my issues had nothing to do with bicycles, but instead shifted to my actual well-being.

*Logo from Venus de Miles

I found myself getting ill the Sunday before the ride, which I believed had given me plenty of time to rest and recover from a round with a cold and flu, but that is not what the universe had in store for me this year. Instead, I went to bed the night before the ride wondering if I would have the lung capacity and energy to get through even a few miles of riding.

When I woke Saturday morning, I could feel the congestion in my lungs and I had no energy, despite having gone to sleep at a very reasonable hour. The first question Sam had for me was, "So, how are you feeling? Are you going to ride?" It was a fair question, but I honestly didn't have a response at that moment. "I'm going to take it one step at a time," I said. "I'm going to try eating something and see how that goes first." Sam understood and went about his own stuff for the morning.

Despite enjoying variety and change in life, there is one aspect that I keep very routine - and that is breakfast. Unless we are having a rare morning meal out somewhere, I have the same thing every day:  half a cup of oatmeal with a scoop of protein powder and a tablespoon of chia seeds. It's a little strange that this is one of the only routines I have in my life, but it seems to work for me and keeps me energized to do what I need to do. The problem on this particular morning was nerves. I still didn't know if I was going to ride, but I was making myself sick with either decision. As I attempted to spoon in my oatmeal concoction, I couldn't seem to actually get it down, so after a few bites, I gave up and went to brush my teeth.

As I brushed, I started to cry. I cry a lot, so some tears shouldn't be news to anyone, but I was really feeling screwed no matter what I chose in regard to doing this event. This is the only organized ride I've been involved with this year and will likely be the only one I'll complete for 2014, so the idea of not being able to ride, even knowing how sick I was feeling, was tearing me up.  I'd also had a conversation with my mother the afternoon before my tooth-brushing, tear-saga and she put things about as aptly as anyone when she said, "Why would you do this ride if you're sick? I always thought you were a smart person, but obviously you are really quite stupid."

Okay, granted my mother is not a cyclist. In fact, she doesn't do much of anything that's active. She used to compete in swimming relays in high school, but that was a very long time ago. Any sort of push within her or competitive spirit seems to have died out long ago. Frankly, she just doesn't understand why I do most of the things that I do. Still, her voice was haunting me as I blubbered over my toothpaste. Maybe I was being stupid to even consider the idea of riding? Even though I'd done my best to rest for the couple of days prior, my body obviously was not ready to take on anything more than a walk back to bed.

At this point, Sam had mozied out to the bike-pen to air up my tires, oil my chain, and make sure that things looked alright for go time. I could hear him rustling with various items, and I still didn't know what I was doing, so I decided to just start getting dressed to ride. As I dressed, I told myself that it wouldn't hurt anything to try to do the ride. I could always go and if things turned ugly, it would be simple enough to make a phone call for a rescue ride. This seemed to give me some comfort, and so I carried on preparing water bottles and other paraphernalia for the ride.

When Sam came back in he said, "I checked out both bikes in case you changed your mind. You are still going to ride the IndyFab, right?" Ah, he knows me well. You see, I'd been debating whether to ride the Hillborne or the newer Crown Jewel. I've recently spent a lot more time in the saddle of the Hillborne, but I knew deep down that the Crown Jewel would be much easier to get some speed going and I could likely finish in a faster time (assuming that I was comfortable). Speed would obviously be a benefit to a person not feeling her best, but at that moment, I honestly wasn't sure what I was doing. I paused a bit but ended up replying, "Yeah, I'm taking the IndyFab. Thanks for getting both bikes ready though." In the back of my mind I was remembering my last ride on the Crown Jewel, and it wasn't giving me great mental comfort. I sighed to myself and suddenly realized that I was less than a half hour away from start time.  Fortunately for me, I'm a ten minute bike ride from the start line... but I knew I had to pick up the pace.

In an instant I decided to stick with the Crown Jewel decision and Sam pedaled over with me to the starting area of the ride. We arrived just a moment before the national anthem began, which meant that I had no time to linger; this ride was getting ready to start. I could see the line of women was very long behind the start line. Sam suggested that I go and get in line, so we said our goodbyes and I headed over. I was not in the best of moods and the idea of spending hours surrounded by happy, healthy, laughing, and highly unaware women was not appealing to me at that moment.

You see, the good and the bad of this ride is just that - that it's a ride and not a race. A good chunk of the women who sign up get their friends together and use it as social time (nothing wrong with that), but it also means that many seem to forget they are on open roads with hundreds (or thousands) of other people on bicycles - and in cars. Call me the buzz kill, but when some choose to ride four abreast, oblivious to the fact that they are not the only ones on the roadways, I can get annoyed. Some get involved in their own conversations and don't listen when they are asked to be considerate of motorized traffic or to announce themselves when passing other cyclists too. But, the worst of them all (in my mind) are those who decide that it is in fact a race and who choose to come blazing past everyone at the start when the crowd is still dense and moving slowly.

I didn't have the luxury of concerning myself with any of them though as I was well aware that time was not my friend on this ride. Being ill meant that if I had any intention of actually finishing, I needed to push to get through it as quickly as I could. The problem was that I couldn't breathe. My lung capacity was minimal and breathing was short and shallow. Every time I attempted a deeper breath, coughing would begin and continued for several minutes. Of course, this made pushing at all a challenge.

The first seven miles were climbing. Not horrible I'm-never-going-to-make-it-up-this climbing, but climbing none the less, and when one cannot breathe, believe me it feels far worse than the actual 500 feet of ascent it was. The good news for me, however, is that I know this route and I know it well. They are roads (with the exception of one) that I travel fairly frequently, so I knew exactly what to expect. It also meant that I could plan the day and my energy to use in places that would require more of me. As I made it to the peak of that first seven miles, I knew I had a bit of downhill to enjoy.

I love this little piggy who is a popular little man out on the back roads locally.

All of the riders that had passed me while climbing got a glance at my backside again as I flew past. "Gotta take advantage while gravity's on my side," I'd smile as I passed a large group of cyclists who'd overtaken me on the previous climb as though I'd been standing still. "Passing on your left," became a common announcement too. It felt awesome to be going more than 10 mph and not be struggling to breathe. At around mile 9, my reprieve ended and rolling hills took over for about 7 more miles, followed immediately by a 4 mile steady, but reasonable climb. I knew I had about 10 more miles to go before I'd hit the aid station where I'd pre-determined to stop for a little breather.

In reality, there had already been two aid stations, but I'd chosen not to lose time by stopping. Not to mention, it seemed ridiculous to me to stop at mile 10 when I was just getting warmed up, and even sillier to have another aid station just 7 miles down the road. I knew, however, that the third aid station at mile 30 was the last on this route and I would have to take advantage of it to make it to the finish. As I got closer to that mile marker, I looked to the other side of the road and saw Sam heading in the opposite direction on his bike. I yelled out, "Hey!" as I watched him spin around and sprint to catch up to me.

"I don't know where the aid station is," he said as he caught my back wheel. "I've been back and forth on this road a few times and it's nowhere in sight. Their map shows it just on the other side there, but it isn't where I thought it would be." We discussed the possibility that the organizers had opted to move the third aid stop to another location, so I told Sam I was going to pull over just up the road. I hadn't stopped (other than at signals that were red) to that point, and I knew my body needed to shake things out. As we stood on the side of the road, Sam asked how I was holding up and how the bike was doing. I told him I was rough, but doing okay considering. The bike had done better than I could have expected. He asked if I wanted to switch water bottles with him, but I told him I was still okay. I'm used to going this distance self-supported, so I wasn't too concerned. Then, he whipped out the best thing ever... a two pack of Resse's Peanut Butter Big Cups (Side note: I had NO idea these even existed, but now that I do, this could spell trouble - they are seriously monstrous - like twice the size of a normal Reese's cup).

*Image found here

I'd love to say that I gobbled them down right there, but truth be told, as much as a chocolate peanut butter cup is maybe one of the best things in the world, I just wasn't feeling it at that moment. I thanked him, stuck them in my saddlebag, took another swig of water, and got back on the road. Sam shouted, "See you at the finish line!" to which I could only smile. Maybe I could actually finish this ride that seemed so impossible just a short time ago.

About a mile up the road there was a course marshal directing riders to turn right. As I made the turn, I suddenly realized that this must be a "hidden" aid station. Sure enough, about another mile down the road, the last aid station appeared. I didn't need to stop, but I didn't know where to go next on the course. Had they changed the route last minute? I pulled off at the aid station to ask some ladies if they knew if we were to go back out the way we'd come in or to keep headed down the road. They had a friend asking for themselves too, so I waited until information was returned and we all headed back out.

At mile 32 we turned and started what I thought would be a short climb and then a long descent. Remember that I mentioned there was one road I was unfamiliar with on the route? Well, this was it. Sam had stated that he'd been on the road many times and that it was all down hill, so it is what I had expected. Except, that's not what it was at all. Every time I thought I'd reached the top of the climb it would continue upward. Women would pass me saying things like, "Really? We're not through this yet?" or "Man! This has to be over soon, right?" but it continued on in this manner for several miles.

There was a point on this climb that I seriously thought I was going to stop and call for a ride home. This distance is something I am used to doing and my body is conditioned to complete, but this climbing combined with a lack of oxygen was getting to me. I was coughing and choking on my own phlegm and I was mentally and physically drained. My nose was dripping and the tissues I'd brought with me were sopping wet in my jersey pocket. I kept thinking I could just pull over and call Sam to come and get me. Who's going to hold it against me? I am sick after all. It's not as though I'm proving anything to anyone by completing this ride.

Except that I was attempting to prove something - to myself - and I didn't like being called "stupid" by my mother.

It's a lot easier to give up than it is to carry on when things get tough. Life hits with some hard wallops sometimes and being sick was probably about the lightest hit that could be offered up. I had made it to this point so there was no reason not to finish the ride. Unless I passed out on the side of the road, I was determined to complete something that I knew very well my body was able to handle.

If you need a break to breathe, just spin. No one said you have to be back at a certain time. Of course, I had set a time at which I wanted to be back, but I also was well aware that I would be slow. Cutting myself some slack seemed to help mentally, which in turn helped physically propel me forward, but I knew I was going to miss that time I'd wanted to hit.

Sometimes, a mental distraction is all that is needed

A funny thing happens to me after about 40-45 miles of riding; I seem to get a second wind. I have a burst of energy and suddenly feel as though I just started a ride. I feel happy, I want to encourage others who seem to be struggling, and on this particular ride, I knew the end was in sight. I'd wanted to complete the century ride this year, but I knew that wasn't in the stars in my current condition. Still, a 53-mile ride is nothing to sneeze at, especially for someone who felt near-death. As I rode, I started to pick up speed. I chatted briefly with other riders as I passed too. As I caught up to one woman she asked if I knew how far we were from the finish. I felt horribly for her as she seemed to be in pain with each pedal stroke. I tried to stick with her for a few minutes and told her we weren't far from the finish. I pointed out the beautiful lake we were passing and stated that I was entirely thrilled that we hadn't seen rain yet for the day. I asked her about her bike - more as a distraction than anything else, but I'm always up for a chat about bikes. She smiled and thanked me and I pulled ahead to finish what I'd started.

At this point, I was truly feeling my lungs - and not in a good way. It almost felt as though they were going to collapse in on themselves. My chest felt tight and the coughing was out of control. Other cyclists were turning around to see what all the noise was about. I kept trying to apologize for the hacking, but there wasn't anything I could do to stop it and I kept getting interrupted by another round of coughing.

As I rounded the corner to the neighborhood with the finish line, I couldn't believe I'd actually made it to the end. My body felt fine (meaning my muscles), but from the chest up, I was a mess. I ended up turning on the incorrect road in the neighborhood and crossed the finish line in the wrong direction. Later I'd learn that I wasn't the only one to make this mistake. Oh well. I only felt badly because I had a couple of women following me who unfortunately also ended up on the wrong side of things. They ended up going back around to cross the finish line correctly. I honestly didn't care about doing so myself. As far as I was concerned, I'd made it. But now, I had to find Sam.

Looking around, he wasn't immediately obvious, but as I walked my bike around the finish line, I suddenly spotted him, staring off in the direction from which I should have come. "Sam," I yelled. He looked startled and confused. "I came in the wrong way," I announced, to which he just laughed. I know. Not horribly surprising for someone who likes to carve her own path.

I would have loved to have hung out and checked out all of the various happenings at the after party, but I was exhausted. I was concerned about even making it the few miles home, so I knew we had to get on the road quickly.

My mom called after the ride to inquire as to whether or not I'd actually done it. As we were talking, I was coughing and she reminded me to rest and take care of myself. "So, did you do the ride?" she asked again after we'd been chatting for a few minutes. I wasn't really sure I wanted to respond. After calling me stupid the day before, I wondered what she'd think of my actually going through with it. "Yeah, I did it. It wasn't pretty, but I finished," I said reluctantly. "Really?" she replied gleefully. "I am so impressed with all that you do. I know that couldn't have been easy, but to push through and get it done, I am really proud." I don't know if I'd go quite that far - after all, I knew I could fairly easily do the distance - but I was somewhat proud of myself too. Not because I did a ride that lots of people can and do complete, but because I didn't let the demons in my head win out over what I knew was possible. Demon - 0, G.E. - 1. I'll take that victory any day.

Two Weeks Until Venus de Miles

Exactly two weeks from today, I will be well on my way in the Venus de Miles ride. Today, however, I am taking my first day of complete rest since July 8 (that's 34 days, if anyone's keeping track), and I have to say, it feels great to do nothing. I think I almost forgot what it is like to know that nothing needs to be accomplished today (well, at least as far as working out is concerned). I am taking this day to plan out the next two weeks of training and exercise though, because I don't want to wear myself out right before the ride, nor do I want to be lacking in energy. Still, I got a late start in training, so I need to find time to get in some long rides, and I still plan on doing kickboxing belt testing this month as well. Unfortunately, that testing falls the day right before the ride, so I'll need to figure out how that factors in to training for the next couple of weeks.

Find the fatty in the photo... Riding the Venus de Miles in 2010

For some reason, I have a lot of anxiety before this ride. There are so many things that run through my head. My biggest concern is always my hands. I know they are always the first thing to give out simply because of injuries to them, and I know that I will have to stop frequently if I intend to make it the 51 miles. I've never rode 51 miles in a single ride, and it's scary to think that I may not make it to the end. My second concern is in regard to climbing in the mountains. I don't climb (certainly not well anyway), although I have pretty much put my mind at ease about this by reassuring myself that I can either walk if necessary, or simply pedal very slowly. It's not the end of the world though if I have to get off and walk.

Find the fatty #2... Riding Venus de Miles 2011

Another worry is one that is complete vanity. Every year I end up being in some kind(s) of photo(s) (either one that Sam takes, or that one of the course photographers snaps, or a combo thereof), and I hate it (I'm not even sure why I'm putting them up here, other than I hope to be able to look back at them one day and know that I'm no longer that person). I know I'm fat - well aware of this fact - but I think seeing photos of me on my bike (something that I love) and realizing just how horrible I look riding, makes me miserable. Every year when I see the photos I swear to myself that I'm never getting back on a bicycle (of course, this lasts about a day, and then wears off as I love my bikes far too much). Admittedly, I spend a good chunk of an hour (at least) crying about how bad I look after seeing the pictures... No one should look like they are going to crush the bike they're riding.

Oh yes, they get worse... this one is about 15 miles into the ride (I was already tired)
*Image from Sullivan Studios

I always know that I'm the biggest rider out there, and I guess in some ways, I've just come to accept that it is what it is. However, I've also come to the realization that it doesn't matter what I look like. I'm not doing the ride for a photo, and I shouldn't be depressed about seeing these images of myself riding. I know that I'm doing everything in my power to improve my physical well-being, and while it may not show in photographs just yet, I should be proud of all that I'm doing to improve me. So, to my future self, in two weeks time, when you're finding the photos that have been taken of you, remember that you work hard - every damn day - and you are worth continuing to fight for, regardless of how you feel about seeing yourself in pictures. Ride strong sister! I can't wait to see that you actually finished the ride.

Pain, Training & Motivation

I recently decided to move forward with participating in the Venus de Miles ride that takes place in New Town Prospect, Colorado. I've done this ride the last couple of years and decided on the shortest route (33 miles) for each of those. Both years I have struggled with making it to the finish line due to hand/wrist issues, but for some odd reason, this year I apparently thought it would be a great idea to do a longer route (51 miles). While the distance in itself will be a huge, huge challenge for me because of the hand problems, it also has a portion that climbs into the mountains. If I haven't mentioned it prior, I am not a hill climber on my bike by any stretch of the imagination. I will go to great lengths to avoid hills that I don't like, even making the ride miles longer.

*Image found here
Not looking forward to climbing any portion of these - at all

In an attempt to get myself used to being in the saddle and more importantly on the handlebars for many hours, I've been trying to get in some longer rides. One ride I typically will set a distance and do that mileage, no matter how long it takes me. On another, I'll set a time goal and know that no matter how far I go, I have to stay on the bike for that length of time. Then, the other rides I try to do something in between the two. It all comes out about the same generally, but I think it's a mind game for myself. If I know I only have to go "x" distance, if I pedal faster, I can get through it quicker... or at least that's what I say as I'm trying to motivate my legs to cooperate.

Today, was a "time" ride. I had gone to my kickboxing boot camp for an hour before the ride, and then decided that a two hour cycle-fest would be fair. Considering I will probably be in the saddle for about 6-7 hours when I do the ride, it's not even a third of what is coming for me in just a few weeks. The short of this story is that I was amazed at how badly I struggled with this ride. At about 45 minutes into the ride, my hands began going numb and my wrists were aching. While I did end up finishing the time (though I had to stop a couple of times for a few minutes just to stretch), I am beginning to doubt myself and my ability to actually carry through with this goal.

I've started to ask, "What is motivating me to do this ride?" I'm asking this question because I fear that on the day of the ride, I will simply want to give up when it gets tough and call it a day. It's difficult to be in pain and keep moving forward. I know I'll have to decide if it's pain I can live through, or if it's the kind of pain where I really should stop before I get hurt even worse. While I try to figure out the answer to my own question, I continue to train, and hopefully, the motivation will find me before the day of the ride.