Way back in the autumn of 2014, two things that happened that led to me signing up for my first torture I mean fun fest also known as a charity bike ride. First, I was gifted a bike which would come to be known as Sonnie, my 25-pound steel triple triangle GT Arette. Second, I was working for a beneficiary agency of the event when and somebody said, “Hey dude, you ride your bike everywhere, why don’t you do this charity ride?” They tempted me with a shorter distance than when I was riding on the day we spoke. In previous years I had always said “The first word is hill, so no thank you.”  As a fat yet somewhat fit middle-aged dude, I didn’t think I would survive the distance or elevation. I figured I could just back out, but for some reason, this year I didn’t. So, after struggling and suffering on numerous training rides, on April 28, 2015, I joined hundreds of other riders out in the beautiful and terrible Hill Country west of Austin, Texas, and rode my bike half a hundred miles. Which ain’t nuthin’. And as they say, the rest is history. Here’s how it went down.

Thinking back to that day, I still have some vivid memories. The day beforehand, I went with a now-former friend in his musty smelling old van to camp out. We arrived to find people from work and from the training rides hanging out, talking, and going about their business. The lushness of the mid-spring day in full bloom looked and smelled gorgeous. After setting up a tent for me (the ex-friend would sleep comfortably in his van), we had a carb-heavy dinner. The sun set. As the song goes, “The stars at night / are big and bright / (clap clap clap clap) / deep in the heart of Texas.” There was calm before the storm. I slept fitfully.

The next morning we arose early. Sunlight played off the dew. Murmurs, coffee, and excitement wafted through the air. As my friend and I got ready, we put on what semblance of bicycle clothes we had. As I suited up, I thought back to the only time I’d ridden more than 20 miles. It was back in the last century in the  Skagit Valley north of Seattle with a group of young adults from a liberal religion. Back then, I was the agnostic / atheist I am still today. (You may enjoy reading that post, In Bike We Trust…).

I didn’t care much about the group’s religious stuff; I went for the camaraderie of fellow dudes and to meet young women my age. The girlfriend I’d moved halfway across the country for had dumped me, so I was on the rebound from heartbreak and solitude and just trying to meet all the single ladies. I don’t remember much about that ride, but I do recall riding alongside one of said females. She had much stronger legs and glutes than I because she was a legitimate mountain climber. Somehow after that ride she agreed to go out with me, and then we dated for a while. When that ended, too, more heartbreak and solitude ensued. Oh yeah, there were tulips of all colors. I digress.

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As the faster, fitter century riders attempting a hundred miles and other go-getters lined up and headed out, I steeled myself for the journey. I steeled myself for the journey. I had done the requisite training, and I’d hit maybe 75% of my goal, which would have been 35 miles. In doing so, I had for sure logged hundreds of miles, before I got on Strava the fitness app. We’d certainly done a number of pretty steep hills in West Austin. Nothing could prepare me for that day, though. Back then, I was still fat, but I was also a decade younger. Nowadays, I can still do 50 miles if I have to, and I do more than that on my birthday ride, but I have to work up to it and I’m slower. As for the hills, with my added age, fatigue, and fatness, I’m not sure I could handle them without really training.

But back on this spring morning in 2015, it was finally the middle-distance riders’ turn to start. We headed out on the bumpy chip-sealed country road. Verdant flora and all manner of fauna surrounded us. From hawks to whippoorwills and mockingbirds to all kinds of other birds. There were scraggly or majestic oak trees, mesquite, and others, plus of course the ubiquitous allergy producing junipers. The occasional roadkill reminded us of our animal nature, and our frailty. Snake, rabbit, possum, raccoon, armadillo, even some deer bodies comprised a hairy, rust-colored or desiccated, flattened grotesque zoo. A pickup truck might pass us by, people yelling “Car back!” Dogs would run along their fences cheering us on or warning us off, hard to tell which. Deep blue sky, fluffy white clouds, a soft breeze, not too hot, humidity fading. Almost paradise.

The first 13 miles weren’t that bad. A warm-up, really. Some people were only riding to the first rest stop and turning around and heading back to enjoy the rest of their day in the natural cold pool, lounging in chairs, sipping booze, and shooting the breeze. I paid them no heed. I was there to do a job. I had promised myself and all my donors that I would ride half a century if it killed me. I wondered if it would or I might harm myself and require medical attention.

I and whoever I had been riding with the first stretch arrived at the rest stop. We parked our bikes and were met by costumed volunteers. The first stop was a Star Wars theme, which could not have been further out of place out in the country. We hit the porta-potties and then chowed down on bananas, peanut butter and jelly, sucked down the Gatorade, refilled our water bottles, and loaded up with snack bars. Before our restless legs started cramping up; we knew better than to stay long. We mounted back up and got back on the road. Always the road. Rolling, rolling, rolling.

Charity rides aren’t races, but they sure as shit can feel like it. The sheer number of people of different skill levels was nerve-wracking. A crash was not on the agenda. But there is a time limit. So, I was on a mission. I was raising money for the charities, and the mileage goal was my motivator. The more miles, the more money people would give to the cause in my name, I had decided. But when you’re carrying excess weight and you are no longer in your twenties, the struggle is real. A sufferfest, they call it.

The hills increased and so did my efforts and intensity. At times I was on my own, just Sonnie, the road, and I. I was serious of mind and purpose, but I also felt the freedom that came with biking. It was fantastic, tenfold being out of the noisy, car-infested, dirty city. I was in the zone, experiencing a bit of the runner’s high, maybe even a little bliss. I was sweating and swearing, cramping and groaning, huffing and puffing. “Just. Keep. Pedaling. Make it to the next stop, that’s all you have to do,” I told myself.

At the lunch stop, the director of the place I worked and I opted to do an extra two and a half miles down a hill and back up so we could make the final number 50. That would be my age in just under 6 months’ time. We took a picture. We looked happy, but we were also grimacing in pain. Above, it’s just me. That short but steep climb back was foreshadowing the pain yet to come on the back end of the route.

Time went by, as did other rest stops. Hours passed. The sun grew higher and hotter. It all became a blur. At one point a very steep incline—which had a nickname like Dead Man’s Hill or something not intimidating at all—approached like a whale breaching the ocean surface. I was determined to summit it on my own power without the help of any of the volunteers pushing me to the top.

So, I took a huge breath and slowly made my way up, one revolution at a time. I slowed to maybe four miles an hour. I stood up out of the saddle and cranked on the pedals harder than I ever had in my life. It took every ounce of will and muscle power my powerful pudgy body possessed. I thought I was going to fall off or roll back down the hill. It was my Col du Tourmalet, sans les drogues illegales of a certain former famous Austin cyclist whose name definitely doesn’t rhyme with Dance Pharmstrong. I’ve never done drugs or even been drunk, but I was wishing for the former and felt like the latter.

Impossibly, with a final few turns of the cranks, I got to the top. Once there I dismounted (basically fell off) with the help of a bevy of beautiful women telling me “Great job!” I was surrounded by Greek Goddesses, clad in togas, some showing more than a little skin. They offered me hugs and ice water and popsicles and love. I thought I’d passed out–I was certainly hallucinating a little–but it was just part of the beautiful, terrible day I was having. like, “I hate those lazy smart motherfuckers.”

As I sat in the shade and recovered, some doubt had begun to creep in that I wouldn’t finish. I was beginning to question my decision to be bullied and peer pressured into doing this damn ride. The people back at camp started to get my envy and respect and a few curses, too, like, “I hate those lazy smart motherfuckers.”

Nevertheless, I persisted. My spirit and strength returned enough to keep going. A co-worker was struggling with knee pain. I suggested we finish the ride together and help spur each other on. He concurred; we continued. More hills followed, mostly up, it seemed. Miles passed, occasionally a few words were spoken, complaining, encouraging, or both. We stumbled into the last rest stop, eyes glazed over, jaws clinched, just trying to hold it all together until we could collapse at the end. It seemed to get farther away the further we biked.

To our surprise we found ourselves on a leveled out but curving section of road. It was lined with hundreds of small red flags. One planted for each life lost to the disease du jour. We slowed down and didn’t speak. It was the Mile of Silence. It was why we were there. I still tear up remembering this. On that day, I thought of a dear childhood friend who lost his life at a young age thanks to the ailment. And millions of other lives. No thanks to previous US regimes that saw some people as “less than” and refused to do anything to halt the disease until years into the epidemic. Today, those same communities most at risk are being marginalized yet again by another, far more vicious regime. The virus doesn’t care, though. History repeats itself. But people are resilient. Life finds a way.

The red flags stopped. There was no blood, but we dried our eyes of sweat and tears and consulted our little paper maps. We were not far from the end, which was where the day began, poetically. As we approached, we first heard then saw the small but loud cheering crowd of volunteers assembled to greet us. At long last, we crossed the finish line with minutes to spare before the cutoff time. If we hadn’t, we and our bikes would have been collected by the sag wagon, which is embarrassing. Not a race, except it was. A test of our will. You find out who you are and what you’re made of on a long, hilly, hot bike ride.

Steering onto a dusty path through the gate of the gray, weather-worn, wooden barbed wire fence, volunteers steadied us and helped us off our bikes, which they parked for us. Shaky legs were totally spent, bodies, minds, and souls exhausted. Skin red despite the sunscreen. The ride director beamed at us and said, “Congratulations, you did it!” He hung medals on bright thick red, white, and blue ribbons around our necks and hugged us, grimy, sweaty bodies and all. We were done. I had just travelled 50 miles on my bike:  a personal best. The day tested the dickens out of us. Speaking of Charles:  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The co-worker and I hugged and parted ways. I stumbled back to my friend’s van where he was relaxing like a mofo, having done fewer miles. Whether it was 13 or 100 didn’t really matter, but 50 felt like a real accomplishment. Somehow, I made it to the spring-fed, very cold natural pool. It was one of the most delicious feelings my body had ever experienced in nature. The rest of the evening was forgotten to fatigue. I know I had some food. Or a lot of food. Some shitass joked, “Next year you’ll do 100 miles, right?” I mumbled a noncommittal, “We’ll see.” (Spoiler alert:  I did 104 miles. Read about that at this link).

We drove home. I dozed off, the day’s effort catching up to me. I unloaded Sonnie and all my stuff and made it back to my little cot. In was built into the wall of the converted laundry room in my very own Muggles cupboard under the stairs, literally tucked away under the second story in a townhouse. I shared it with three laborers from south of the border and the octogenarian puppeteer and eccentric who owned the place. I paid $250 a month in rent and bills which was unheard of for Austin. I crashed hard, slept long, and awoke sorer than I had been since I could remember. I had felt pain and joy and everything in between. The joy lingered in the form of a satisfied and probably smug little smile on my face. I was happy I did it but oh so glad it was over.

On that day, April 28, 2015, hundreds of us raised over $500,000–that’s half a million dollars–for people living with a virus–not dying from a disease. Detected early and properly treated, it is medically manageable. People live longer thanks to these sorts of fundraisers that benefit organizations like the one I worked at. Eventually I was lied to and laid off. I raised over $1,000, which was not bad for a guy with no rich friends or social media. But this day, which was just 50 miles for this dude, was a giant experience which had no quantifiable number.

Nowadays, I’m retired from charity rides. Fortunately others carry it on. This same ride is happening once again next weekend. I wish them well. For me, it was not a bad way to begin my decade long journey on a bike. Hard as heck, but worth it.

What a long, strange trip it’s been. (For one of my best pieces about a training ride I did in 2016, see this blog post.)

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