Between my anxiety issues and a raging case of PMS, today was harder than it needed to be. So, we rode our bikes the very long, very difficult 40 miles. The weather was absolutely perfect with temps in the sixties and seventies and cloudy skies, but the course was brutal. When faced with yet another steep, long hill, I cried. When someone cheered for us, I cried. When we passed one of the inspirational signs on the side of the road, I cried. When I sent my dad a text, letting him know what our progress was, I cried. My hormones and my broken brain were working to make me look even crazier than I felt. When you’re riding along, feeling pretty good, but you have tears streaming down your cheeks, the safety folks get concerned. I was asked if I was OK more that was really necessary.
My goal tomorrow, if my ass will allow me to get on a bike at all, is to make it to the 3rd rest stop, which is roughly half the distance. There is no way that I can ride the ridiculously steep second half of the route a second time. I want to, but finishing it one and a half times is actually better than I expected, considering our lack of preparedness and the fact that I’m doing the ride on my mountain bike. You know, the kind with the heavy frame and wide knobby tires. One of the other riders commented that it was like bringing a four wheel drive truck to a drag race. Yup. I didn’t say we were smart, just well-intentioned.
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