I first meet brother Dave at his house and gratefully accept loans of apparel and gear from him and wife Linda. He loads his bike and mine into his truck and off we go. Am I the only team member with my own personal roadie? Dave is familiar with the American River bike trail, and as he drives he speculates as to which of the rides we will be taking. One route in particular, he says, is kind of tough; hilly. He describes it to me. I shudder and realize that this is probably today's trek.
Of course it is. Why start easy?
A few minutes later, we meet up with the group in the Beals Point car park, don our helmets, attach our front cycle wheels, and hear some prelim announcements. Fundraising efforts by individual team members are underway; it's time to think of something for me to do to earn enough pledges. Thank goodness there's a workshop scheduled next weekend where I can get fundraising ideas and direction. My name is called; what's that? I have earned an official Team in Training purple mouse pad for getting going (in collecting donations). I am happy, but happier still that I am getting going with all this training. On with the workout!
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My group practices cycling first. Someone else hasn't been on a bike for about 30 years. I feel I am in good company. Except everyone else is swifter than I am. Whooosh. I wheel across the level asphalt so fast. It suddenly occurs to me that I am not wearing a seatbelt. Only a mother would think of this. "Don't ride so fast!!" "Watch for cars!" Admonitions of years ago come to mind. Even Disneyland's Flying Dumbo straps in its riders. The moment of fear passes and is replaced by a sense of joy. This feeling of freedom is fantastic. It is better than Dumbo.
We run a few drills. Quick: ride between these traffic cones and don't (oops, too late) knock them over. Then: as you go through the cones, hear Tri Coach John call out and look to see how many fingers he is holding up while steering the bike straight (oh, sorry about that). Plastic cones are replaceable; bones take a long time to heal. David and I shudder at the thought of me — deaf in one ear and visually deficient — having to ride, run and swim among hundreds of others without causing anyone serious harm. For just about the first time in my life, I feel the full impact of my deafness. How will I cope? I will just have to focus and pray a lot.
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The morning's ride turns out to be pretty, as long as it is downhill. The poison oak is not out yet. Dave is coaching me on bike gears. Considering I am a whiz at driving cars with standard transmission, and I "get" the purpose of having different gears for different uses, I become quickly confused. Dave is patient. He rides next to me and a few times even lends me a steadying hand to push me up an incline. I am silently weeping in frustration, angry at myself for being such a wuss. And disappointed that I — who have a friend just completing chemotherapy — can't seem to conquer simple discomfort on a bike. I think of T., pray for her, pray for strength as I struggle up one particularly bad stretch. Done! We have just passed Folsom Prison.
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David could be riding three times as fast without me, zooming up and down nearby dirt trails at a teenage pace. But he sticks by me. I am lucky to have a riding buddy like him.
I take two spills: one getting OFF the bike (at the bottom of the last downward hill) and one getting ON at the top of the last upward hill. It's a matter of remembering I am not supposed to swing my leg over and across the seat like we all did in third grade. It looked so flashy then, to come to a dismount and stop while gracefully swooping the right foot to the left side of the bike. Swoooosh, then shshshshsh, a toe is dragged and a line drawn in the dirt, and voila! there you are. Today, I don't make any lines in the dirt, but I do leave a bit of skin on some gravel.
How can I ever be ready for May 4? I ask David as I give up and walk the last hill. He tells me to not be so negative. Just take it one day at a time. And work hard. That's about all there is to do.
When we arrive (finally) back at the cars, I am a bit abashed to have taken so long. I am also glad to have achieved a small goal. There will be many more, and many bigger goals ahead. For now, it feels good to just be done.
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