Over the fourth of July I went on my first bike tour: an intended loop of the forks of the Salmon River. We rode on single lane roads carved on shelves in the river gorge. I didn’t know quite what I was doing: was I carrying enough? Too much? Was I going too hard, too easy? Drinking enough water? The questions were endless so I tried to stop, sink that narrative way down at the bottom of the river.
It was gold country and we were riding through federally patented claims: Glory Holes #2, Tom’s Bar. Too many to remember. The river was yellow to blue, rambling over rocks beneath steep stacks of oak and pine. Bats at night, jays by day, warm IPA or cooled in the river.
Photo by Kevin
I was feeling good the first half of the first day. By lunchtime it was 95 degrees out and we stopped by the river to swim. When my body hit the water I was suprised to cramp in multiple places. Strange cramps, like my back and abdomen. But the river was so fresh and pure I paid them no attention. I ate a bagel and some melted trail mix and grew mystified when my index finger cramped–what!!? Then when we started to go again it felt like I hadn’t rested. Uh oh.
From then on I was a mess. After the river I stopped sweating even though it was boiling hot, and that mysterious internal quantity known as stamina disappeared. As a cyclist you’re used to pushing against an unseen force inside yourself, formed by determination, will and more mysterious metabolic functions that form endurance. But it’s happened to me a few times on the bike, and it happened on the Salmon River, that when I push there’s nothing there. Whereas I feel weak to the core and my heart rate doesn’t make sense and my breathing is shallow. You push against your own endurance and instead of pushing back, supporting you, it caves and you plummet.
My body grew so tired I couldn’t hold it up and I wanted to go to sleep by the side of the road. I found myself taking long breaks in the shade, lying in the gravel, fighting my mind which was starting to crack like my body. My thoughts were full of worry–am I going to make it? I think every cyclist probably gets those “Why am I doing this to myself again??” thoughts sometimes while climbing a tough section of hill, but the negatives started to crowd in on me. I found myself thinking: I hate this. No! I battled the noxious idea. As my left foot went over the top of the chainring I told myself: stay calm. As my right foot went over I remembered: slow down. Repeat. You’re doing good.
It’s hard to explain how shredded I felt. I felt embarrassed–I was having my absolute worst day on the bike, ever. It seemed like it took an hour to travel a mile, counting down the county mileage markers to the campground. Three to go seemed impossible.
That night my mind raced as I was too tired to sleep, too hot, too worried. I got up twice to pee in the middle of the night and grew so lightheaded I had to sit down mid-stream. That’s when I started to accept defeat–I was not recovering and wondered how I was ever going to make it over the 5700 foot summit the next morning.
I came clean to my compadres, who were treating me with a mix of sympathy and space. I am broken. But I will try to make it to Etna, where I think I need to drop out. Maybe Beth can bail me out. But I can’t. I fought the conclusion until it was inevitable and I was so tired.
