About two weeks ago, I fell off my bike. And just like when I was a little kid, I pretended it didn’t faze me and I jumped right back up, got back on and pedaled my way home with blood gushing down my arm.
Unlike a 5-year old on her first two-wheeler though, I was going 16 mph around a tight turn, snapped into my pedals and firmly attached to a bike worth almost half a month’s salary. I went down hard. And it hurt. I was fortunate to have been alone and therefore not a hazard to drivers or other cyclists and even luckier not have sustained any serious injury.
Adrenaline got me home, but once I had time to examine, I realized I had busted up an elbow, scraped up one knee and somehow managed to bash the opposite inner thigh into black and blue oblivion. More than anything, however, the fall hurt my pride. And my confidence.
Plus, the timing of it couldn’t have been worse. A day earlier, I had dominated a 48-mile training ride and was flying high on how good I felt and how prepared I thought I was for the century ride coming up in six days. I had been training for five months and finally felt ready. I just had to get through one last short ride before a blissful few days of tapering off before the race.
In an instant, however, it all changed.
I am still not sure why I crashed, despite replaying it over and over in my head. Part of me hopes at least partial blame lies with debris on the path or an unexpected patch of wetness, but in the back of my mind I know I probably screwed up by being overly confident, spacing out or braking too hard, too late.
This self-questioning led to a lot of uncertainty over the next few days and I admittedly debated calling it quits altogether. I was so worried about being too hurt or too scared to finish 102 miles that I almost convinced myself it was better to just not even start. With a little help from some friends and the realization I couldn’t ignore the ~ing, my competitive spirit eventually won out and I decided to get after it.
I really wish this is where I told you I conquered the entire ride in record time, laughed in the face of endless hill climbs and made those 102 miles my bitch ... Alas, I did none of the above.
The first 25 miles were spent in relative ease, talking to riders around me and taking deep breaths around each turn, gaining more confidence with each successful (i.e. not wiping out) curve. The next 40, however, were absolute agony. While the hill climbs were physically demanding and, at times, led to the majority of cyclists getting off their bikes and walking, the downhill descents were what crippled me with anxiety.
I literally spent 40 miles – probably close to three hours – having panic attacks. This led to me braking on downhills, convinced I was going to lose control and crash, which not only pissed off everyone around me, but killed my momentum for the next climb and any mental toughness I had left. At the 65-mile mark, I sat on the side of the road for 10 minutes trying to get my breathing under control and not to break down and cry.
Passing cyclists made sure I was OK and one woman convinced me to get up and keep going, promising me we would leg it out together to the next water stop about seven miles later.
It was there my day ended.
I wanted to keep going and after 15 minutes of rest, I almost did. I wanted to finish because I told myself at the beginning I wouldn’t let fear get in the way. After talking with one of the first aid volunteers about how I hypothetically would get home if I hypothetically called it a day, I realized I was doing just that. It wasn’t the fear of not succeeding I was scared of, because I had already finished this event once before, it was the fear of disappointing those who donated money in support of the ride and of letting down the people who had backed me during the process.
And that particular fear is stupid if it means endangering yourself in the process. Even though the most difficult part of the route was over, I knew I was too emotionally-spent to go on, so I turned in my rider number, voiced my decision to the volunteer and began the call/text/twitter updates to friends and concerned parties.
I was embarrassed, apologetic, sad and pissed, emotions that were only slightly eased as the replies of concern and understanding came through my phone. In the midst of the barrage, however, there was one text conversation that meant more to me than anything else.
* If for some reason you’re still reading this, here comes your reward. *
A few weeks ago, I met and started hanging out with a man I have yet to come up with a blog-appropriate nickname for. It was, and still is, very early in the whole process and I wasn’t sure how I felt about letting him in to the emotional rawness of the day, but he responded with exactly what I didn’t know I was waiting to hear.
He told me I was amazing. That I had done amazing. That I fought through the fear and got exponentially farther than the starting line. That he couldn’t have done what I had done.
That he was proud of me.
And it was in that moment, I decided to let him in.
Over the last few days, we have since shared many good conversations – together over drinks, on the phone while traveling and by text/email during the monotony of the work day. He is someone I want to get to know slowly and surely … and quite possibly completely. I think there is a mutual level of respect and inspiration there that has the potential for wonderful things.
Now I don’t want to say the busted elbow was worth it, but who’s to say I would be where I am without falling off my bike, finding the confidence to get back on and realizing the strength it would take to get back off.
Next entry: Why this one was written in complete absence of wheat and with the help of gluten-free beer.
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