Becoming a centurion
Cycling as a sport has always appealed to me, maybe because of my dad’s bikes hanging so lonely in the garage – his beloved Eisentraut and Touring Raleigh, perhaps all those years of watching Lance Armstrong and feeling pride in our nation, or rides to school on my bike as a kid.
The real catalyst might have been my friend. Every time he wore a triathlon shirt to school I felt this need to prove myself in my own triathlon.
I started small, the oldest kid entered in the kids’ triathlon at our club. I trained hard, and found that my favorite part of the competition was the biking. Finishing that race, I felt embarrassed to be the oldest kid, third place among those younger than me, and decided that was the last time I would be the slowest or the worst.
I committed to cycling, and started training with small South Hill rides around Cannon Park, slowly building my stamina, until one day my mom suggested, “Why don’t you go ride that Palouse loop I showed you in the car?”
What many riders call the Hatch-Baltimore Loop is named for its two long, steep hills. I remember calling home from the Rocket Market after my first successful ride, and how proud everyone was I had completed Hatch Road.
I was beginning to fall in love with cycling.
Over that summer I saved my allowance to buy a pair of Shimano Ultegra pedals. It was my goal to ride a half century – 50 miles – at the end of the summer, so I trained with fast, 30-mile rides, and semi-daily rides of the Hatch-Baltimore Loop. My first 50-mile ride was completed in a goal time of under 3 hours.
One Saturday afternoon, after riding out to the town of Freeman and back, I met a group of adult riders. We talked and I told them of my father, how he had died of lung cancer, an athlete at 120 percent lung capacity who had never smoked a day in his life: a man who had ridden long-distance tours from Austin, Texas, to Calgary, Alberta, multiple double centuries – 200 miles in one day – and had completed six marathons.
His death was a fluke in the system we thought we knew – life.
This group of riders welcomed me in. We trained fast and long, into headwinds and up hills. My longest ride was to Coeur d’Alene, when we rode along the Ironman route and into a headwind on the way back: 82 miles, at an average speed of 16 mph.
On that ride I learned of a fundraiser in Wenatchee with 25-, 50-, and 100-mile bicycle routes. The group wanted to do the century. Encouraged by the idea that there was only one major hill on the whole route, I signed up for the Mike Utley Dam2Dam Century ride.
The day of the race dawned beautiful. The sun was out, no wind, calm roads, and gregarious, kind riders. There were many hand-bike riders at this event, making jokes about their lack of legs, and I thought, “How can they degrade themselves with these jokes that make fun of their paralysis?
I realized they weren’t degrading, but uplifting themselves. They had a problem, but they made it something no one would pity them for. They too, were out to race!
I shared something with these guys. I had a problem – I’d lost my dad – and although not a physical issue, I understood why they would make jokes as they set out to challenge themselves. When you face a problem, the last thing you need is for people to feel sorry for you.
Pity does nothing but make you feel worse, and after that, it feels like others are kind only because they feel bad, not because they actually care.
At the start of the race I felt someone with me as I lined up, the youngest, lost among the 300 riders, elite and amateurs alike. I knew who it was. I was riding his 1973 Raleigh, and wearing his favorite jersey.
The ride began smoothly with good riding all the way to mile 60 and a necessary lunch stop. I ate a sandwich, refueling my body and refilling my water bottles. I had been pushing hard, riding an average of 17 mph, but as I was about to leave, a massive headwind rose out of the south.
The rest of the way back was one long straight shot into that wind.
For 30 miles I rode uphill and downhill in climbing gears, trying to stay at 10 mph against this 20 mph gusty headwind. I grew exhausted. At mile 85 I hit the fabled “wall.” I couldn’t face the next 15 miles to the finish.
I sat by the side of the road on a guard rail, staring at the Columbia River, contemplating my options. I could call my mom and have her pick me up or I could keep going.
Suddenly something happened. I straddled my bike and mentally locked in. I wasn’t even conscious of my actions. I just began pedaling, faster and faster.
There was nothing carrying me to the end now except my mind, telling me to keep pedaling – one crack in the cement after another.
I felt my legs cramp, but by then I was on a downhill and I wasn’t having to pedal! The headwind was dying out. My thighs were quaking and my calves shivered as I stood and tucked.
As I banked down a long corner, something beautiful awaited – a sunset over Lincoln Rock. I was nearly at the end: 7 hours and 15 minutes, nothing to be proud of. But I flowed down the hill, too tired to even look up or support my body.
I arrived, a centurion.