This blog is indeed meant to address ideas and issues relating to disability in any form. To me, one of the biggest issues I face regarding my own differently-abled experience is that of grief and loss.
My greatest loss is quite possibly my ability to hit the open road on my bicycle until I can go no further. At which time I’d tack another hour on so as to build strength and endurance for the next ride.
Sounds like terrible pain and suffering to me today and I know that it was then, too. But I wasn’t into the sport of cycling for the physical benefits. I’d ridden a bicycle since age seven and, after nearly four decades on a bike my physical conditioning was never in question.
Rather, bicycling brought with it a cadence upon which the rhythm of my life on any given day could be metered. Turning the cranks, on climbs and on rollers and on the flats. Always in near silence, with the comforting hum of the tires on the pavement and the greased chain, whirring through the gears.
Cranking up the climbs, the short ones, medium ones and the awful-long ones, too.
Then hammering down the descents, screaming along with the roadside just a blur, whether in all-out, balls-to-the-wall, top-gear-damn-I-wish-I-had-one-bigger, bugs-in-my-teeth, hair-on-fire straightaways.
And those twisting and windy descents, every single one of which were special in their own right, even the ones I’d done a million times before. All-out speed wasn’t the only consideration here: The brute strength of the straightaway mountain downhills gave way to the gutsy grace required of a top-speed twisting ride.
And it was always completely up to me as to which of the above I’d take on any given day. Never before and never since has the world felt as if it were mine to do with whatever I wanted.
The possibilities were endless, and weather never stood in the way. Only on occasion would an extra jacket or skullcap be necessary for warmth. And those could be scrunched up and put into a rear pocket. Amazing, those high-tech fabrics.
And those were the glorious days when my riding clothes outnumbered my street clothes. I never wore socks, always shaved my legs and was perpetually dark brown from the sun on my body.
Given the wicking fabrics of my kits and the breathability of my gloves and shoes, moisture of any kind just made my perspiration taste different. On clear days my sweat tasted warm and salty, on rainy days it was just wet. And on freezing days sweat sometimes even became crunchy.
But even on the coldest day I never froze, nor did I ever dehydrate on the hottest. As long as my heart rate maintained its usual place within my comfortable training zone-and after decades of road bicycling I knew it by feel- I was one unit from helmet to my feet. For the next several hours I’d be connected to my bike with hands on the bars, shoes on the pedals and butt on the saddle.
Using every nuance of those five contact points: two hands, two feet, one butt as necessary I was at one with the bike and the road, and I was high as a kite on endorphins, that natural high that comes with extended aerobic exercise.
And the consistent lesson inherent in road bike training was waiting to be learned yet again. And the road can be a harsh, yet fair teacher in that it provides every rider the exact same challenges.
In cycling as in life the ups and the downs are infinitely connected, neither of which can last forever and, with patience and persistence, all can be navigated eventually.
There was no weather I hadn’t ridden before that could ever leave me feeling out of control or precarious-wobbly-slippy-and-slidy. Weather never kept me at home and, even short an arm these days, it still doesn’t. Sadly, not all dangers are about the weather when it comes to sharing the road with other vehicles. But I know that, and I accept it still.
As a man pushing fifty when the odds of a cycling-related traffic accident caught up with me I lost much more than just my left arm and almost my very life. I lost something far, far worse, something that no one else but another athlete who’s experienced similar loss will ever fully understand, no matter how well I put it here.
Throughout my twenties and thirties I spent much of my most productive time on my road bicycle. There exists a flow with traffic that, once joined, I could go for long distances on autopilot.
This allowed me a preponderance of time to do my best and most focused thinking ever. Riding at that comfortable training pace, my heart rate worked as a well-oiled and wondrous physiological machine.
That same increased, oxygenated blood that my powerful heart and lungs combined to provide the reliable strength in my legs also pumped fresh blood to my brain.
The clarity of thought and outright physical strength I had the day of my accident with the Jeep had never before been better, and it hasn’t since, either. It occurred when I was returning home.
But August 10, 2012 was merely one among thousands of such days in which my rides pushed both my brain health and physical endurance and strength to newer and better levels.
Yes, my brain was younger then, which made it that much more of an asset to me, and rightfully so. Back then I wasn’t enabled by a smartphone to remember my appointments and medication alerts and even to have a dictionary/thesaurus app at my fingertips.
Having still had the benefit of both hands and excellent hand-eye coordination, yet another ability maximized by years of cycling, I could crank out the words on my laptop as fast as my mind could conjure them. Rarely was my supple brain, always infused with healthy blood flow ever at a loss for words.
If anything then I had too much to say, and my idealistic brain wanted to say everything there was to say at once. Breaking things down into manageable chunks I could process would only have been doable if I’d had one special person in my life then: An editor.
An editor is the only person who could best direct my ideas and energies to maximize my productivity for both personal and professional gain. I simply wasn’t ready to be a freelance writer yet.
Writing then, as now, is still a deliciously simple task, made even harder by my trying to observe the KISS principle I’d learned in college: Keep It Simple Stupid!
But my writing isn’t meant to be simple, and certainly never stupid. In writing, as with riding, the end result is an unsurpassed level of combined emotional and physical healing that cannot be found elsewhere. I’m experiencing those very benefits right this moment, as I write these words.
That low-impact, cardiovascular workout that feeds both my brain and body I’ve only found during lap swimming workouts as a twenty-something amateur triathlete in Ft Collins in the early 90’s.
But as a lifelong cyclist, my pedaling technique was far better than my swim technique would ever be and I eventually stuck with the bike. With the exception of performance enhancing drugs, it’s something I’ll always have in common with Lance Armstrong.
Up until August 10, 2012 and for many years before that I knew that few other riders I encountered out on the road were stronger than me. Curious, I compared myself to other cyclists this way for healthy and positive reasons. Namely, to continually raise my own personal standards for strength and endurance.
The more I approached other riders from behind on the road, greeting them as I passed by, I knew my efforts were paying off. During the week I indulged in my strength and endurance building experiment with other bicycle commuters.
During after work rides and on weekends all other riders were fair game.
Now that I reflect back on it, other guys would occasionally put the hammer down as I passed, equally unwilling to be passed as I was to let him regain the lead.
Sometimes I held him off, sometimes not, but I noticed one thing to almost always be true: most of the guys who raised our pace and kept it high were guys much older than me.
Every so often after a mile or two or three one of them would suddenly come around me and just leave me in the dust. That never failed to fire me up and getting to share the road with such a rider was always inspiring.
Once I caught my breath I’d always let out a loud Woo-hoo!! out of deference to his ability.
In cycling as in life, we learn from those who are better, smarter, stronger and more experienced than us. It was from the men who rode past me and left me behind that I began learning the fundamentals of road bike racing and training.
The weekly Bustop group ride in North Boulder is one hell of a great ride to go casual, all-out, or anywhere in between. But because of proximity I wasn’t able to ride it more than a handful of times and I’m sure my pack riding skills later suffered greatly for it.
Living east of Boulder in Lafayette I found myself spending the bulk of my road bike training time alone on the open county roads nearby.
This was a great way to practice the meditative aspects of cycling. However, race training, even for the solo disciplines like triathlon and time trials was best done in group rides.
Bike handling skills, pedaling technique, riding in an echelon with several other riders to allow recovery between pulls made everyone faster.
Though it makes sense that a group of riders would be stronger than just one, seeing it in action was an epiphany to me. It also made me laugh to finally learn how it was those older riders could suddenly dart out from behind me and leave me behind.
Those guys were recovering behind me and riding in my draft, letting me do the effort while they hung out behind me the whole time, and why not? Then, as their turnoff approached up ahead off they’d go and make their turn, leaving me with no chance to regain the lead.
In cycling as in life, it always pays to ride smarter, not harder. Those guys taught me that very basic lesson and I’m glad for it. I’m also glad for one other key thing about riders who see each other on the road. That is, our willingness to always stop by another cyclist who might need some assistance.
It’s always possible someone could use a tire patch or a compressed air cartridge for their pump or some water or a Clif Bar, etc.
It’s a protocol we all live by and though our opportunities to help are pretty slim, it’s good to know you’re never alone out there. I’ve even seen a driver park their car off the road to lend assistance, too. And even though it’s been years since I was out on a road bike I always carry flat repair items, just in case.
Such camaraderie and unconditional helpfulness seems in woefully short supply these days. But every cyclist knows-and will always know- that this positive ethic will always be a part of our culture that we can depend on, no matter where we are riding.
All this seems like a mouthful, I understand. But these are just a few of the memories of my wonderful days as a dedicated road bicycle rider. And within seconds they may flash through my mind when I happen to see a lonely rider out on the country roads near my home.
Those memories are fond ones, and I’ll be eternally grateful to have them. But that profound sense of loss at not being part of that culture anymore except vicariously through other riders carries with it some sadness, at times.
Though it’s cold comfort, I remind myself that the end of my days as a powerful bicyclist came as I was doing what I did best and loved most: Making myself an even stronger and better cyclist.
The memory of it all still gives me goosebumps, and having written about it here today reminds me that it’ll be okay from now on… Just different, that’s all. And that’s not a bad thing.
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