Category: Bike Adventures

I love riding my bike because there’s never a dull moment when you see the world from two wheels.

What I Would Say to Cancer

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike AdventuresLeave a comment

For the past three years, preparing for a century ride has become a natural part of my life.  Cycling season is as real to me as winter, spring, summer and fall.  I think daily about cycling.  Routes to try, weather conditions, jerseys to wash, pedals to tighten, miles to log, hills to climb.  Since a large chunk of my limited brain space is occupied by all things bike, it’s ironic to me that I don’t often think about the big picture.

This year I’m riding for The Lance Armstrong Foundation as a member of Team Fatty.  Actually our full name is Team Fatty: Fighting For Susan.  Susan is the wife of Fat Cyclist.  Fat Cyclist doesn’t have the luxury of forgetting the big picture because Susan, a mother of four, is in the fight of her life against cancer.  She is has battled cancer before and it’s back for more.  Previously I understood that riding my bike and raising money to cure cancer is important, but I didn’t fully get it until I watched this clip, What I Would Say to Cancer.  Here’s what I’d say to cancer:

You have taken too many children long before it was their time.  You leave mothers with drawers full of onesies fresh with the scent of baby.  You have taken mothers  leaving children longing to hear just one more bedtime story snuggled in the crook of their mommy’s neck.  You have taken fathers, leaving daughters to walk the aisle alone on their wedding day.  You have taken husbands and wives, leaving one side of the bed cold.

Here’s the worst part of you, cancer, you’re greedy.  When you can’t take a life, you take whatever you can.  You are a sneaky thief, taking lungs, breasts, brains, limbs and other parts that don’t belong to you.  You have no conscience, no heart.

But I do.  In fact, I’ve been told that my heart is freakishly strong and you can’t take that away.  So, for all my loved ones and loved ones of my loved ones who have battled cancer, I’m pulling on my Spandex, swinging my leg over the crossbar of my bike and getting ready to ride 100 miles.  I could go on, but I won’t because each pedal stroke is my answer to you, cancer, and I’m going to keep on pedaling until you get what I’m saying.

If The Trailer’s A Rockin’, Don’t Go A Knockin’

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures2 Comments

I do not embarrass easily.  Spinach in my teeth doesn’t phase me.  Tripping and falling in front of a large group of people?  That’s just a regular Tuesday.  I am the girl who once accidentally called the HR director a nasty name before begging for a job.  I am the girl who walked around a cruise ship with a huge hole in the seat of my pants. I find myself in embarrassing situations all the time and have thus built up a sort of superhuman tolerance to mortification.  Having said that, the situation I found myself in last Sunday embarrassed me to a such a degree that I hesitated writing about it because it still makes my face turn a sweaty crimson.

Last Sunday was Daylight Savings Time.  (Incidentally, did you know that even though Arizona does not recognize DST, the Navajo nation living in Arizona switch their clocks with the rest of us?  Odd and confusing.)

Anyway, on the morning of Spring Forward, I thought to myself What better way to celebrate an hour less of insomnia than heading out on The Rocket for a beautiful bike ride? Three of my friends met at my house and we set out.

What I mean by ‘we set out’ is the three of them were way faster than I was and I watched their backsides pedal away from me as I grew increasingly bitter.  I was especially irritated since one of them hasn’t ridden his bike in months.

During the occasional seconds he was actually riding next to me, I told him I was going to push him over.  I think he thought I was kidding.  Or maybe he knew I was serious because he never came within arms length.

It really was a beautiful day.  Crisp, dry and not a hint of wind.  Just about as perfect as a day can get.  We rode out towards Shasta Dam and took the turn that makes the climb to the Dam harder, longer, and much more scenic.  Of course my three friends were much faster at climbing than I was.  I was slogging uphill at around five miles an hour.  I have ridden this hill several times this year.  I know this hill well.  Even when my heart threatens to pound straight out my throat and when my quads are on fire, I know I can beat it.  In fact, I’ve ridden this hill enough times to say that I actually like it.  I like the challenge.  I like pushing myself when my body wants to quit.  And I like how beautiful the views of Redding are from up there.

I had my lone earbud in and Bruce Springsteen’s Secret Garden was the perfect soundtrack for the morning.  Go ahead and make fun, I love that song.  Aside from two cars that passed me on the beginning of the hill and a descending hiker, I had the whole climb to myself.  As I turned a corner, I looked down on Redding, still half asleep and hushed.  This seemed like the perfect opportunity to enjoy nature at her fullest.  So, I abandoned Bruce for the sounds of nature around me.  Birds chattered somewhere in the bushes.  There wasn’t even a whisper of wind.  It was serene.

As I continued around another corner I saw a truck with a camper in tow pulled over on the other side of the road.  From the camp chair outside the trailer it looked like they’d set up camp right there on the side of the road.  Who could blame them?  The view really is that pretty.  I pedaled closer.

Wait, is that trailer rocking?  No, it can’t be.  There isn’t even any wind.  Weird.  It must be on unstable ground or something.

Oh, I am so naive.  I pedaled further up the hill and unfortunately closer to the trailer.

Oh, man it’s definitely rocking.  Oh no, it’s rocking harder.

At this point I’d figured out what was most likely going on in the trailer, but I couldn’t turn around and go back downhill because my three fast friends were waiting for me at the Dam.  Curses for being so slow.

I tucked my head down and tried to pedal faster, but I was already going as fast as I could.  It’s a three mile hill, for goodness sake.  I couldn’t sprint up this thing.  With the trailer just ahead of me, I began to hear what was going on inside it.  This may come as a surprise, but camper walls aren’t very thick.  I am so not into other people’s intimate moments.  Movie sex scenes make me squeamish, no matter how “tasteful and artistic” they are.  I just don’t want to see or hear that.

When Terry and I were newlyweds, we moved into an apartment across a courtyard from The Screamer.  She often combined alcohol and marital bliss.  The Screamer would scream so loudly that the entirety of the complex would come out in droves to yell back at her.  Some people would even bang on pots and pans to drown out her enthusiasm.  Terry and I would close the windows and tuck our heads under our pillows.  Needless to say, we didn’t live there long.

So, there I was chugging uphill.  No window to close.  No pillow to muffle out the sounds.  I shoved my single earbud back in, but even Christina Aguilera’s pipes couldn’t compete with the Rock of Love Trailer.  I pushed harder and The Rocket responded by increasing to a whopping 5.7 miles an hour.  I began to sing along with Christina.  The noises grew louder.  My stomach began to churn.  My already sweaty face filled with a deeper flush.  I sang louder, pedaled harder, and fought back the heat threatening to erupt from my stomach.

Just as I became parallel to the trailer, the occupants inside reached their crescendo.  I was way too close.  I needed a brain scrubber stat.

Think about puppies.  Think about your grocery list.  Think about your favorite movie.  Think about any movie.  Think of something.  Think of anything else other than the fact that you are trapped in someone else’s private time.  Then it came to me:  The Forrest Gump prayer. Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away.  Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away.

Over and over it was my mantra until I passed the trailer.  The noises ceased and I didn’t look back.

Earlier in the morning I’d pondered What better way to celebrate an hour less of insomnia than heading out on The Rocket for a beautiful bike ride? Well, I guess I got my answer.

That Laura is That Cool

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures1 Comment

Ok, I’ve mentioned my friend, That Laura, before.  Well, That Laura leaves for a bike tour of Vietnam in six days.  She and her father are going together.  On a tour of Vietnam on bicycles.  I know I already said that, but it’s so cool it bears repeating.  A bike tour of Vietnam.  Ok, I’m done saying it.  I’ve really need to get a grip on my jealousy.

Because I will miss her while she’s gone and also because if you think someone is awesome, you should tell them about their awesomeness publicly, I’m blogging about That Laura today.  Here are the top ten reasons Vietnam is lucky to host Laura for a few days:

10. Laura rode the STP without a team last year.  That’s 200 miles in 2 days on her own, folks.

9. She recently adopted a cat.  The cat came with a name: Little Baby Jesus.  You just can’t make stuff like that up.

8. She kayaks on the lake and isn’t even afraid of sturgeon.

7. She takes me kayaking and doesn’t make fun of me for being afraid of sturgeon.  Have you seen those things?  Those are some freaky looking dinosaur fish monsters!

6. She has an awesome movie theater bag.  It can hold a full Big Gulp and has ample candy space.

5. She seems to attract animals in need and always finds homes for them.

4. Laura is authentically nice.  This quality typically drives me nuts, but Laura’s genuine nature is like a superpower.

3. Laura is one of those people who is up for anything.  Kayaking?  Yes.  Cycling?  You bet.  Movies?  Sure.  Games.  Yup.  Throwing bouncy balls from your bike?  Absolutely.  Whatever you’ve got on tap, Laura is game and happy to play.

2. She watches Scrubs and Flight of the Conchords.   I think sometimes TV compatibility is underrated in friendship.

1. Laura signed up for the LiveStrong ride so I won’t have to ride alone.  Mathematically you would think that a team of two would be only be twice as great as a team of one.  As it turns out, it’s an exponential math problem.  A team of two is like a hundred times better than a team of one.

So, Vietnam, take good care of That Laura while she’s visiting.  On a bike tour.  With her dad.  Darn, there goes jealousy rearing her ugly head again.  Maybe I will have tamed my envy while she’s on a bike tour.  With her dad.  In Vietnam.  Oh, I give up.

Stuff White People Like #61

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures3 Comments

A friend recently routed me to stuffwhitepeoplelike.com.  Go ahead and fire off those angry e-mails about stereotyping.  Some stereotypes are true.  And some stereotypes are funny because they are true.  Naturally when I discovered that #61 on the stuff white people like list was about cycling, I was intrigued.  The stereotypes mentioned in #61 are hilarious because they are true about me.  So here’s #61 in all it’s hilarity with a few observations of my own thrown in.

A good place to find white people on a Saturday is at a Bike Shop. Bike shops are almost entirely staffed and patronized by white people!  There also seems to be a tattoo minimum requirement in order to work at my favorite bike shop.

But not all white people love bicycles in the same way, there is much diversity. First up, we have the younger urban white folks who absolutely love their fixed gear bicycles. These are seen all over college towns, Silverlake in LA, Williamsburg in Brooklyn, Queen West in Toronto, and Victoria, British Columbia. Fixed gear bicycles meet a lot of requirements for white person acceptance. They can be made from older (i.e. vintage) bicycles, thus allowing the rider to have a unique bike that is unlikely to be ridden by anyone else in town. They are also easily customizable with expensive things Aerospoke rims, Phil Wood Hubs, and Nitto Parts. The combination of rare bicycles and expensive parts makes it easy for white people to judge other white people on the quality and originality of their bicycles. This is important in determining if someone is or isn’t cooler than you. I don’t need to ride a fixie to establish this.  Everyone is cooler than I am.  Except unicyclists.

White people also like Mountain Bikes because it lets them be in nature. It’s really not more complicated than that. I also find that Frank hands out regular lessons in humility.  Man, imagine how big my head would be without Frank chucking me to the ground every now and then.

And finally, they love expensive Road Bikes and the accompanying spandex uniforms. This enables them to ride long distances and wear really tight clothes without any social stigmas.  I love me some Spandex.  Especially if I can top it with a jersey so bright that even the shortest of glances in my direction causes retinal bleeding.

These types of riders will spend upwards of $5,000 on a bicycle and up to $400 on accessories, but will not ride to work. Perhaps because they cannot wear the spandex. You’d be surprised how comfortable Spandex are under work clothes.  It’s actually the helmet hair and the necessary change of shoes that keep me from riding to work.

It is important that you never question why someone needs a $5000 bicycle since the answer is always “performance.”  The Rocket cost far, far less than five grand.  She may not be fancy, but I’d give her performance an A+.

For the most part, these rules have been unisex. But there is a special category of bicycles that appeal far more to white women, the European city bike (pictured). White women have a lot of fantasies about idealized lives, and one of them is living in Europe and riding around an old city on one of these bikes. They dream about waking up and riding to a little cafe, then visiting bakeries and cheese shops and finally riding home to prepare a fancy meal for their friends who will all eat under a canopy with white Christmas lights. This information can be used to help gain the trust/admiration of a white woman, especially if you can pull off a lie about how your mother told you about how she used to do all of these things when she was younger. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I had a basket on the front of my bike with a giant loaf of bakery fresh bread in it.  Around mile 65 I will eat anything that’s not nailed down.  A loaf of hot bread would definitely do the trick and might even tide me over for another 1.7 miles.  Then I’d be back to scavenging through my seatpack for year old Clif bars.

And of course, it goes without saying that white people who ride bikes like to talk about how they are saving the earth. If you know a person who rides to work, you should take them aside and say “Hey, thanks. Sincerely, The Earth.” Then give a thumbs up. That white person will ride home on a cloud. Ok, this is especially funny to me.  Sure, I recycle.   I prefer a blanket to turning on the heater.  I wash my clothes in cold water, but I don’t consider myself to be an environmental activist.  People assume I am an environmentalist ALL THE TIME.  I drive a hybrid.  I enjoy walking to work.  I like riding my bike.  It just so happens that the things I like are environmentally friendly.  So, sure give me a thumbs up.  As for riding a cloud home, it sounds awesome, but I prefer to walk, thanks.

The Best Gift

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike AdventuresLeave a comment

Yesterday was the sixth anniversary of having my heart repaired.  I actually thought it was seven years, but when I pulled out my old, jagged EKG, I discovered it’s only been six.  Time flies when you’ve got a heart like mine.  Here are some of my memories from that time in my life.  I know Valentine’s Day isn’t here yet, but I celebrate it all month long.  So, Happy Valentine’s to my friends and family.  I hope your heart is as full as mine.

You lay on the operating table, sleepy from the icy drugs running up the veins of your arm.  The doctor enters and asks “What kind of music do you like?”

“Anything but country.” you slur, the words like marshmallows in your mouth.  You close your eyes and try to block out the jerky beep, beep, beep of the EKG.

It is that very beep, beep, beep that brought you here.  The room is cold and the air wisping through the opening in your gown sends chills tiptoeing down your arms and legs.  You are wearing funny, striped socks on your feet.

You keep your eyes closed and then country music bleeds through the speakers.  The EKG fires in staccato. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep!

“Now.” the doctor says as he threads the wires through your leg and into your heart.  You feel the wires squirm.  Twisting.  Searching.  Repairing.  Your chest is made of bricks, heavy and stiff.  Your body lurches violently with each heartbeat.  A rogue tear slides down your cheek, taking your brave face with it.

The country music is whiny and unbearable.  The EKG is an alarm sounding, a code red noise.

“Country music is literally going to kill me,” you think.  Your mouth tastes like metal.  You are sure that this is what fear tastes like.

The wires weave.  Your sweat from every known gland.  Your heart beats so fervently it feels like it has no other choice than to simply give up any second now.  All of the air has been sucked out of the room and you’re sure that you are not going to make it.  Your heart hammers.

You smile at the thought of dying in funny socks and have a moment of pure gratitude for your life.

You do not hear the EKG anymore.

You only hear the doctor say “Okay.”  He slowly pulls the wires out, like pulling a loose thread from a sweater.

The EKG returns to a steady rhythm.  You breathe again.  The bricks are gone.  And, thank God, THANK GOD, a nurse finally turns off the country music.

You lay still in the recovery room.  Your husband, who has paced the entire time, holds your hand.  You lay with your legs elevated in a ‘V’, a ward against blood clots.

You are told “Lay still.  Do not move.  At all.”  After several hours every part of your body, including your hair, aches from all that stillness.

Sometime, maybe the evening, maybe the middle of the night, maybe the next day, you are allowed to go home.  Per doctor’s orders, you ride with your legs resting upright on the dashboard and your husband’s hand warm on your own.

A week later, you ride your bike on the river trail.  Your stitches send a pinch of pain as you swing your leg over the crossbar of your bike.  You pedal loopy, slow circles.  The frost nips at your fingertips and there is a perpetual drip from your nose, but your legs are sure.

The blood in your heart looks for ghost pathways, but your heart is strong.  And strength is what matters most.  Maybe all that matters.

Your heart is better than new.  It is stronger than you ever imagined it could be.

It is Valentine’s Day and you know with every cell in your body that you, the girl in funny socks, have been given the best gift of all.