Ammi Midstokke: The tortoise, the hare, and the old man

I have spent my entire life trying to catch up to my dad. For most of my youthful years, I assumed that age would get the better of him and I would naturally be faster and stronger.

Then he sold his house, moved into a school bus, and spent most of his time running and riding a mountain bike. My hopes were dashed for another decade.

To understand the drive to eventually beat him, one must have some history about the misadventures that my older brother and I were routinely subjected to in our childhood. This continued into our adult years because we somehow remained too naive to challenge his map reading skills or ‘scenic route’ recommendations.

There was the time we went on a desert ride in southern California through cougar country, and our ‘4-hour loop’ turned into a post-midnight, lightless, mountain lion baiting slog through sand, only to be completed with miles of sketchy bluff highway. In the dark.

Or the time he told me the highway with the prettier view was only a few miles further and my toddler and I drove hours of dirt road through a mountain range only to break down in a veritable village of meth labs.

It is amazing how many drug-ravaged men instantly became mechanics or cousins of mechanics while I nursed my truck to health at a gas station for two days.

Or the countless times a 5-mile run turned into 12 miles. Or a two-day adventure turned into four, for which we were inevitably poorly prepared or fueled.

My dad has maintained his fitness level with some genetic mutation acquired in his Norwegian heritage. I think it’s Stubborn Endurance A12C homogenous or something.

The only thing my brother and I have going for us is that we probably inherited the same one.

So last week we went on a ride with our dad in Central Oregon. My brother and I, however, have done a fair bit of riding this season and have been much faster than the old man. We had unspoken plans to crush him. It began with suggesting we ride over Mt. Bachelor in the pouring rain.

We were so ready to face the misery. My brother and I were decked out in our Lycra and traffic-safe bright colors. We had a billion pounds of pressure in our smooth roadie tires. We had clear lenses and iPods and energy bars. We were going to ride in a tight pace line and make it to Grandma’s just in time for some weak margaritas and last year’s frozen pumpkin pie.

My dad pulled his Novara off the truck with its chrome fenders, his rain slicker waving in the trickling wind. He shoved a couple of Fig Newtons in his pocket, turned off his hearing aids, and started pedaling.

My dad is 59. He just finished mountain biking the Great Divide Trail. For those of you unfamiliar, this is a 2,400-mile ride that traverses the Rockies from Canada to Mexico.

My dad was out of view behind us before we left city limits. He was putzing along, weaving around pine cones and puddles, and beginning the 16-mile climb on his own. We were driving down our legs like hammers made from pure quad muscle and determination, propelling ourselves ever upward in the ceaseless fall of cold rain.

We were soaked. The miles ticked by slowly. Even climbing, I could not warm up. We rode into the snow line. The temperature dropped. Wet Lycra was not helpful. My brother suggested we descend a little and “go fetch Pops.”

“Are you crazy?” I asked. “It’s every man for himself out here!” Then I got back on my bike and shivered my way toward the Cascade Lakes Highway turn off.

After a big climb, one would think a descent would a welcome change. Unless, of course, it is 34 degrees and your nipples are frozen solid. By the time we had rolled into a balmy 38 degrees, our gross motor skills were becoming questionably safe. My level of suffering and misery had passed tear-fall, but I was too cold to cry.

We pulled over at the first sign of life, a scrappy hick bar tucked into some pine trees in the middle of nowhere. We cried “Uncle!” in unison.

Our hypothermic, water-logged bodies shaking uncontrollably, we clunked into a tavern of cowboy boots and concerned loggers and weakly asked for two shots of whiskey. Each.

Then we called my person and asked for a ride home, making Midstokke cycling history: My first ever true bail. And I did not regret it for a minute.

A while later as we cuddled with hot drinks and waited for our ride, my dad rolled by, rain coat still flapping in the wind. He stopped to check on us, took a sip of my coffee, and kept riding.