It’s been exactly three weeks since I finished the London to Paris ride and it would be a bit of an understatement to say I’m mentally distracted and physically sluggish.

I understand the distracted part… for the last ten months my mind has been filled with achieving that goal. In a way I scheduled my life around it. I was so focused; I needed to ride and that took precedence above everything in my personal life. That combined with work obligations left little time for anything else.

What is more frustrating is the way I feel on the bike. I’m sluggish and slow…like riding through sand. I certainly did not expect this after the way I rode those four days. Yes the days were hard but I finished each day feeling strong. And yes I was tired each morning but that’s to be expected with multiple hard effort days. I kept fueled and hydrated and there was never a time when I felt even the first inklings of a bonk coming on. After about 3o minutes each morning my legs loosened and i felt no pain, discomfort, or extreme fatigue. So what’s going on now?

Riding is my escape. It’s my time to relieve stress and recharge batteries that can become drained during the day. To struggle on the pedals for three weeks has not been fun. I NEED to ride.

Do I keep pushing through? Do I stay off the bike for a time? Is my head playing games with my legs? I have no point of reference here. I’ve never asked my body to perform like that before.

Or do I ignore all of this, hoping that the old saying of “this too shall pass” is right? If so, hurry up already. Patience is not my middle name.

In the meantime, if you see me on the streets of Chicago, I promise to move aside so you can fly past me. You’ll recognize me: I’m the girl on a bike made for speed and doing anything but that.

And while you’re passing, please be kind and give me a nod. It’ll help to know someone else just might understand what I’m feeling.

moving from here to there
solitude embraces

capturing emotions
of secrets hushed between friends

silence echoes
like an ear pressed against my chest

hovering truths

and

seeking refuge
above pavement

is it too much to ask…

that you save me again?

1. Apparently it doesn’t matter what country you’re in there’s always “that guy” who can’t stand a chick who passes them on a ride.
2. Every French cyclist – from recreational to elite – gives a wave or nod as you pass on the road. Americans take note.
3. Male cyclists, you should shave your legs. It’s incredibly sexy and girls in the States love that. If you ever come here to ride, pack the razor.
4. There is no amount of chamois cream to help four continuous hard days in the saddle. Enough said.
5. French roadies are some of the most beautiful cyclists I’ve ever seen, flying helmet-less over those undulating roads with grace and ease.
6. It will be a long time before I can even look at another banana.
7. Although men have a much easier time with “nature breaks” after a while you just stop caring and give in to the calling.
8. Coffee tastes better while sitting outside in France with your bike propped up against the wall of a cafe.
9. Even the worst pillow feels like marshmallow heaven after an 8 hour ride.
10. I have gotten very good at doing some decidedly unfeminine things while on the bike. Ride with me some day and you will find out what those are.

Read the real details of London to Paris here.

I know July is a busy month for you, so I’m putting in my requests early in case you need a little extra time on these.

First please make sure my bike arrives in London in one piece and on the same flight as me. That would be a bad start to this whole adventure.

Once we get rolling, can you make sure the wind is at my back? I’m from Chicago for crying out loud. You know how flat it is here. Help a girl out.

Nice moderate temperatures and lots of sunshine would be ideal, but let’s forget about rain, ok? A quick refreshing sprinkle might be appreciated but please refrain from torrential downpours.

This next one is important: please don’t punish me too badly for those times that I rode for the sheer love of riding instead of doing hill repeats or intervals. Those good-for-the-soul rides should count for something, shouldn’t they?

And of course, there are some essentials that must be included here: please keep my chamois cream in place, remind me to eat before it’s too late, and hold my rubber on the road. Oh, and if you give me four days as good as the one I had today, I would be forever in your debt.

And finally, this is kind of a big deal for me so for those four days please give me the attitude of Jens, the power of Spartacus, and the grace of Alberto. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Faithfully yours,

-S

P.S. Could you put in a good word for my Tour de France fantasy team? A 1-2-3 finish would be great, especially since I’ll be there to see it.

It’s fast approaching, that little trip that I began planning about eight months ago. It’s hard to believe that in exactly six weeks I’ll be clipping in to start on the most challenging adventure of my life.

Hmmmm. Start list is 127 men, 9 women. NINE?

I’ve been riding as much as I can lately. I ride alone a lot, for a number of reasons. Not everyone likes to go out as early as I do, but on the weekends I would rather get out early for long rides and still have some day left. Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit like I work and ride, and not much else. I’m not complaining…just stating my current reality.

Man that sky is blue today. Which way is the wind blowing?

When I’m riding alone I can change course or direction as often as I please. I love my Sunday morning rides through the naked streets of downtown Chicago. Streets that I would never ride at any other time. I weave my way east and west, north and south…and see Chicago in a way that is not possible during crowded rush hours or from the back seat of a taxi.

I’m alone, like the heroine on a post-apocalyptic movie set.

There is also a part of me that still feels in limbo between the confidence it takes to roll up to an established Saturday group ride and feeling out of place in a strictly recreational group. Until I can come to terms with that, I’ll keep riding solo.

Where’s my mojo? If you find it, return it please.

A couple weeks ago, I did ride with someone else after work. A relaxed ride on Chicago’s lakefront. That was a great ride, actually. No pressure, just a nice easy pace and conversation, in spite of the fact that we got rained on. I need to do more of that. Those laid back rides are good for the psyche.

Coffee calling…

The past few rides have been strange for me though. Nothing particularly bad, but nothing great either. Just feeling sort of blah while I’m in the saddle. I need to quickly figure out how to un-blah myself. I don’t have much experience with knowing if this is normal or not; I’ve never had this many miles at this point before nor have I ever had to prepare for this type of challenge. What I do know is that my gut is telling me to stay on the bike, ride easy for a while, and try to remember what riding does for me emotionally and physically. Tonight I went for a ride that won’t go in my “training” log, but it will go in my “that was a really nice ride” mental log.

Dear trees along the path, thank you for blocking the wind.

And I still stop to snap a photo of something that catches my eye on each ride, or sometimes it’s a photo of me just starting out or finishing or moving while trying not to break my neck at the same time. Through these pictures and my words I’m documenting a journey that I never could have imagined a few years ago, and I’m more excited than I know how to express here. But seriously…

NINE?

Wow. To say it was a crazy cycling news day would be an understatement. All day my Twitter feed was abuzz with commentary; I did not fuel the fire in either agreement or disagreement, but I have given it a lot of thought today. What makes someone a hero? What makes someone perceived as “nice” less of a villain when accused of the same? Why are some given a pass, and others an unforgiving fail? I was thinking about heroes on my way home from work…

My dad was my hero.

He never finished grammar school because as the oldest son, he needed to support his brother and mother when his father left them. And yet, he was one of the most creative, funny, and intelligent men I’ve ever known. With five kids in our family, we never had a lot of stuff but he brought laughter into our house every single day. Yes, I readily admit: I had a happy childhood…not perfect, but happy.

I remember sitting around the dinner table listening to him recount parts of his day, and watching him appreciate the amazing meals my mother would put in front of us. When I got older, I understood the glances and laughter between him and my mother as private jokes that only they shared. Of course they argued at times, but it was always obvious to anyone around them that he was still crazy in love with the girl he met when they were teenagers…this woman he built a life and family with for more than 40 years.

There was no such thing as the tooth fairy in our house. Rather it was an original cartoon character that he conceived and brought to life via his imagination and his hand. And each time one of us lost a tooth, that character would leave us a note and little drawings along with our quarters. He taught me to drive and how to read a map to get somewhere on my own. He didn’t yell when I had my first car accident, and to this day I never parallel park without his voice in my head saying “You can fit in this space; I could park my truck in here.”

After my mother passed away, we were sorting through her belongings and we found funny poems and short stories that he wrote to her – sometimes an apology after an argument, or in one case, after he destroyed a cake she had made. And letters that he wrote in submission of a shaving cream company’s contest soliciting ad campaign ideas. And other bits of his creativity that were pushed to the back because he needed to do the honorable thing and work hard to support his family.

Those are the things that make a man a hero…not playing a sport or appearing on TV or being in the spotlight.

I read so many comments by people who were sad and angry by the news today. If we stop making heroes of humans we don’t know, there can be no disappointment. We vilify people for their choices, yet really have no idea which path we would choose given the same circumstances. We can only speculate – and trust – that we would choose to do the “right” thing. Would we be hero or villain?

I lost my dad in 1986, which was way too soon. My mother always told me that I’m just like him.

I can only hope.

When I signed on to participate in 30 Days of Biking, I didn’t realize how impactful this month would be on me.

The past 30 days have opened my eyes to the raw beauty and diversity of the urban landscape I’ve called home my entire life. I have stopped to smell the proverbial roses along the way… sitting on the pavement at the corner of Addison and Clark on a busy Sunday afternoon (day 11)… observing the man-made symmetry of a quiet viaduct at night (day 22)… and how we live alongside creatures whose natural habitats we’ve invaded (day 13).

The month was filled with rides for a purpose (day 1), rides for pure pleasure (day 18), and rides to help me accomplish a bigger goal (day 10). And along with those rides came things that I had not done in a very long time…like going down a slide at a kid’s park just for the hell of it (day 21).

There were rides where I felt like I was flying on my Seven and rides meandering through Chicago neighborhoods on a different bike. And I’m grateful that my body is healthy and strong enough to ride every day, constantly surprised at how it reacts – and recovers – from the abuse I sometimes put it through.

So on this last day of April, I rode for the sheer love of riding and in honor of some of those who can’t…

Day 30: No comment necessary

Why are some people so angry? What makes them take that anger behind the wheel of a car?

This morning I got on my bike early, wanting to take advantage of the break in the rain predicted for Chicago all weekend. I flatted a mile from home – a shard of glass that I never could have seen while in the saddle. Once that was taken care of, I took off again. Legs felt good. Weather feeling damp but not raining… all good.

Until I encountered the man in the silver car. I was in the right lane at a red light at the corner of a busy intersection. He came up fast behind me, leaning on the horn. I sensed him coming even before I heard him. I turned and he was making wild gestures at me, obviously saying some unflattering things that I could not hear. This intersection has a “no turn on red between 7 am and 7 pm” sign so I was not holding him up. Apparently he felt differently. I pointed to the sign and the clearly marked bike lane. I should have just let him rant, but it’s difficult when someone is acting so irrationally. This is a fairly long light and he continued his tirade directed at me.

The light turned green and I moved forward, along with the traffic that was in the lane next to mine. Instead of turning right, he gunned his engine and buzzed between me and the cars that were going straight with me. Thankfully I was close enough to the right that he didn’t hit me, but he certainly came close. I believe his intention was to scare me, and I hate to admit he succeeded.

This is not my first encounter with a 3,000 pound missile. Last summer I was “sideswiped” by a driver that was obviously not paying attention as she drifted to the right into the bike lane. I went down hard on that day, and had several bruises to show for it. Although I wasn’t hit today nor did I go down, the feeling I was left with was much worse. This was intentional. Not much worse than feeling vulnerable on the bike.

I love being on my bike, but I do feel like riding in the city is akin to riding through a war zone sometimes. Bad pavement, high traffic, people not paying attention…

I was lucky. I know it. And I regret pointing out that sign because I probably just fueled his anger – but as frustrated as he was in that moment, I’m just as frustrated for having to endure this every time I go out to ride. There are cyclists out there every day having to deal with angry or distracted drivers, and I don’t want to do anything to contribute to their potential harm. Lesson learned: car plus angry man vs bike and I lose.

I won’t be making that mistake again.

The world is quiet as I leave the house in the morning on my bike. It’s still dark, and the city is only starting to come to life. The unmistakable hiss of the brakes from a city bus is often the only sound I notice for blocks. As I move along daylight breaks and with it comes more city noises: delivery trucks, cars, horns honking…

Until I hit one of my favorite parts of my commute.

My route includes a 5-mile section of the North Branch Trail that runs through the forest preserve. This paved path is flanked on both sides by some fairly dense wooded areas that house deer and other small creatures. I found that riding this stretch of path – which is less than a quarter of my total commute – calming in many ways. There are not many people out there, in the morning or in the evening.

This morning as I entered from Milwaukee Avenue, the sounds of the street quickly faded away, and I was engrossed in a completely different symphony.

I rode over a few dead leaves, and they crackled. There were birds chirping and a woodpecker doing his thing among a faint rustling of leaves in the trees. I heard the soft crunch of the forest floor as deer slowly and methodically walk looking for what I can only assume is some small morsel of food. There was the clinking of a dog’s tags as he was allowed to experience what must be a sniffer’s paradise among the decaying leaves and other magical stuff that aligns the path. There was the soft tinkling of a bike bell as someone approached me from behind and the distinct pounding of feet and deep breaths of a runner as I rode past.

And always, the sound of my tires as I rolled along.

I exited the path and once again hit the streets to continue on towards work. Here, I tuned in to different sounds yet again. There are some that help to keep me safe: listening for cars approaching from behind me; hearing the sound of a car door closing or an engine turning over…both signals that someone will soon be pulling into the road. On a couple occasions there was the sound of my own breath as I went up and over expressway overpasses hauling the day’s necessities.

And another sound that I love: the snap as I clipped back into my pedal after a brief stop at an intersection.

I savored these sounds this morning – the sounds of riding my bike – for I knew that all too soon the noise of a typical work day would begin.

My last post was full of anxiety. Full of self-imposed pressure that was slowing sucking the enjoyment out of one of the most enjoyable things I’ve ever known: riding my bike.

I was worried that I wasn’t “training” long enough, hard enough, or often enough to be ready for London to Paris. That number on the board was like a noose tightening every day. So the morning after I wrote about “my countdown” I went into my office and erased the number. No more countdown. And believe it or not, I felt instant relief.

In the last several weeks I’ve done all kinds of riding: commuting on a bike that weighs about 50 pounds fully loaded; riding in the rain and riding at night; riding on the flat streets of Chicago and most recently on the hillier terrain of areas an hour’s drive away. I’ve been inside on the rollers, and outside alone and with others. Sometimes riding easy and sometimes pushing myself past what I previously thought were my physical limits.  

And you know what I’ve discovered? That’s my training… not training at all. Just riding. As often and as much as I can, in as many different ways that I can. On whichever bike I feel like riding at the moment. And I feel amazing.

I’ve also discovered something else. I love riding at night. It’s really not something I’ve done until recently, but I love how the city feels completely different at night. Quieter… softer in a way.

I plan on doing a lot more…a lot more of all of it. If I thought about it I could quickly figure out how many days left until the big ride.

But really, who cares?