heartbreakers

There are two types of travelers in this world: those who choose comfort, convenience, and style, and those who choose America West. After last years' near fiasco, I wanted to arrive at the airport earlier than would logically be necessary. I rose at 5AM to pack a few last things (my shorts, incidentally, were the second thing to go into the suitcase - right after my pedals) and arrived at National Airport by 6:50 for my 8:35 flight. As our eight o'clock boarding came and went and we approached our departure time while still sipping coffee in the waiting area, things began to look grim.

I heard rumblings of a missing part on the captain's chair. Our flight was delayed until 10:30. 11:00. 11:30. Cancelled. Julie O. heroically worked with the presumably inept America West crew to find alternate transportation for fifty cyclists. The coaches and a couple of captains were sent on the first available flight to retrieve our bikes from the truck. The rest of us were rerouted through anywhere that could get us to Reno: Dallas, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Minneapolis. I was a member of the only group that had to change airports. At one o'clock, after six hours at National, seven of us hopped in taxis to Baltimore-Washington International. I should mention that after too many rotten experiences, I normally refuse to travel from BWI. I hadn't been there in four years and I regret to say that things have not changed one iota. In fact, I was nearly grateful for our three hour wait for our flight, because we would almost certainly make the boarding despite the best efforts of the BWI staff.

All told, I spent eleven hours in four different airports last Friday, and arrived at my destination at 4AM EDT. I once spent twelve hours in JFK and was awake for about 40 due to a cancelled flight, and I can say without the risk of hyperbole that this was a million times worse. At least when I touched down after that marathon I was in Shanghai, rather than the self-proclaimed Biggest Little City in the World. And American gave me 50,000 miles for my trouble. America West didn't even buy us lunch. A wise man once said "The waiting is the hardest part." After Friday, I was inclined to agree with him.

Saturday, fortunately, passed almost entirely without incident. I retrieved my bicycle from Ziva's room to find it had come off the truck with a flat, but I managed to change the tube in about five minutes - a far cry from the feature-length comedy of errors that was my first attempt not so very long ago. We went for our short ride and then I met up with Bill, who drove up from San Francisco for the penny slots and a beer at the Hard Rock Cafe. After the pasta dinner, I prepared my gear for the next day's ride and shut off the light at about nine-thirty to get some sleep.

Except I didn't. I tossed and turned all night. I didn't sleep well last year, either, but at least I slept some. I may have drifted off for a few minutes here and there on Saturday night, but I got absolutely no meaningful sleep. And as if to add insult to injury, Sunday morning the toilet in our room backed up, limiting us to the casino bathroom.

I couldn't for the life of me recall anything of last year's climb at Emerald Bay save for the small puddle of somebody else's breakfast at the top. I figured this meant that I either flew up the hill in my post-Mt. Weather euphoria or I blocked it out almost entirely. I must have blocked it out. And perhaps this time next year, I won't remember the wind, but I doubt it. This was easily the windiest ride I have ever done. I heard the official estimate was forty mile-per-hour winds, but I can't vouch for it. I do know that it was brisk, relentless, and came from every direction except directly behind us. I can think of few things more disheartening than pedaling downhill at nine miles an hour. Even Spooner Summit seemed to taunt me: after a long eight mile and 800' climb, my reward was a short break and a gusty descent that was even more nerve-wracking than a year ago. And yeah, I had to pedal a couple of times there too.

I don't mind telling you that two days ago was not my best day on a bicycle. Well, on second thought, yeah, I do mind a bit. I am trying hard not to be disappointed that I got my ass kicked eight ways from Sunday. I know I am a stronger cyclist than that, but I had a rough day. It happens. It's unfortunate when it happens on ride day, but those are the breaks. I am already looking forward to a better ride next year.

I didn't have a personal connection to the cause when I first got involved with Team in Training. I just thought riding my bike around Lake Tahoe would be a cool thing to do - and yeah, it's for charity, so that's kinda cool too. But after sixteen months and three centuries, I have met so many wonderful people that I am personally involved by now. I'll be honest, more than once on Sunday, when it seemed that there was no gas left in the tank, I thought about calling it quits. But I knew I couldn't. The people that we all ride for - they can't quit; it's simply not an option. And as much as I was miserable - and I was, trust me - quitting was not an option for me either. So I kept on until I crossed the finish line, as did so many others, even though it was the furthest thing from easy I could possibly imagine at 4:30PM PDT, Sunday June 5, 2005. Two days later, I feel fine, and the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society - thanks to you and me and the friends and family of 1,900 other cyclists - is seven million dollars closer to finding a cure for cancer. For me, that's enough to gladly endure any minor heartbreak life throws my way.