Mood:  lyrical

The following is an excerpt from the beginning of my unpublished memoir, Your Mileage May Vary, about my experiences on the GTE Big Ride Across America which began on June 15, 1998.

I don't know how much of the manuscript will make it onto this site, but I hope to put up enough to give the flavor of the ride and some of the battles and insights I encountered along the 48-day journey....

Warning to Potential Readers:



This is one woman's story of the largest cross-country bicycle event in the history of the United States.  Be warned, this is not the story of a super-fit woman pedaling every one of the 3,254 miles that comprised that journey.  Instead, it is the story of one wildly imperfect novice cyclist facing more than just the challenges of the road in pursuit of a peak experience.  If you choose to participate in this story, you should expect to endure a measure of whining as well as a good dose of tears, some perhaps irrational or overblown fear, and a questionable decision or two.  Be prepared for some disappointment intermingled with miles of exhilaration.
       

Further, this story makes no claims to represent or even resemble the experiences of the other 729 adventurers who undertook this journey.
       

Finally, this being the story of the search for a peak experience, you should be prepared for that experience to turn out nothing like the one you might expect.  It most certainly was not the experience the narrator expected.  Somehow, it was even better.




Small First Steps



If it weren't for the mosquitoes, I might not have slept at all that summer.  But there they were, arriving each evening in huge swarms soon after we'd finished dinner ourselves, driving us against our wills, swatting and slapping, into 730 separate tents just as the sun was setting.
       

It was the summer of 1998 and I was twenty-nine years old, but for the better part of forty-eight days I resisted going to bed with the tenacity of someone twenty years younger.  Rarely in my adult life have I found reason to use the words, "but I don't want to go to sleepyet!" That summer, I used them often.
       

Even with the mosquitoes' help, however, I was regularly sleep-deprived, in a state of mild but chronic dehydration, and losing weight at the rate of five pounds per week.
       

I was also grateful for every minute of it.



At 6:00 a.m. on the morning of June 15, I stood holding the cycling gloved hands of two people with whom I was about to travel across country, Dave Bell, a young, up-and-coming photographer from Edmonds, Washington, on one side and a woman I did not know on the other.  We were among 730 spandex-clad cyclists, spanning all ages from Bed Head spiky-haired teens to silver-haired seniors, clumped at one end of the Seattle Center Memorial Stadium.  Seven hundred and thirty bicycles of every size, color, and description hung by their seats or brake hoods from rows of sawhorses behind us. Dark clouds were massing on the horizon.  The rain hadn't begun yet, but tears were streaming down my face.
       

A woman, man, senior citizen and child were pushing a bicycle slowly through our crowd toward the stage in front of us.  The people represented those currently suffering from lung disease, while the riderless bicycle represented those already lost.  Loud, dramatic music and the voice of Dan Pallotta, our hired organizer and the organizer of the internationally recognized AIDS Rides, filled the stadium as he proclaimed us heroes.
       

A newspaper photographer moved in close to capture the tears on my face and the face of the woman whose hand I held.  I did not feel like a hero.
       

In fact, I was terrified.
       

I was rider #1514 in the GTE Big Ride Across America to benefit the American Lung Association, and it was Day One of what was going to be a forty-eight day, 3,254 mile bicycle journey from Seattle, Washington to Washington, D. C.  We were going to cross three mountain ranges, including Snoqualmie Pass in the Cascades that afternoon, and average eighty miles per day with eight rest days interspersed throughout.

To date, I had ridden about 1,000 training miles, but never more
than 60 miles in a day.  I weighed nearly 200 pounds--heavy for my 5'4" frame--and had asthma.  To make things even scarier, I had a lifelong fear of tunnels and bridges and would have to traverse first one then the other within the first five miles of my ride out of Seattle.
       

Hans, the man who had married me in a courthouse ceremony four months earlier in part to ensure that I would have healthcare coverage for this journey, was in the stands behind me.  Things were tense between us.  I had awakened him the night before to help me finish packing my bag.  Each cyclist was allowed seventy pounds of gear, including spare bike parts, tent, sleeping bag, clothing, and personal belongings that would be carried by truck from camp to camp.  In my estimation, I was traveling with only the necessities.  Yet I didn't have the organization skills to make it all fit into the one, giant, purple duffel I had purchased, nor the time-management skills to figure this out more than four hours before I was supposed to be loading my gear onto a yellow Ryder truck.  My deficits in both of these areas had been a matter of contention between me and Hans for several months, with me always doing things at the last minute, and Hans always being frustrated by my process.  This morning, however, Hans was exhibiting more than frustration; I just didn't recognize what it was.  All I knew was that I needed support and encouragement from him, and I wasn't getting anything that even remotely resembled either one.

As the pre-Ride ceremony came to a close, I hoped to get on my bike as soon as possible.  I also hoped that I would never have to get on my bike.  Mostly, I hoped that I would be able to heal things between Hans and me before I rode away.
       

He waited with me for my bike row to be called to leave.  I had new prescription sports glasses that I hadn't tested out, and they were disorienting.  I also had a new handlebar bag, also not previously tested, that made the bike's front wheel feel wobbly.  Watching me discover these things, Hans finally exploded, "Well, I hope you even make it out of Seattle!"
       

He hugged and kissed me good-bye, but it didn't help.  When I got on my bike, tears were still running down my face.  I passed the American Lung Association of Washington staff on my way out of the stadium.  They recognized me from months of pre-Ride meetings and called my name.  Hans also had run to get out in front of me and waved slowly as I passed him, his 6'4" frame somehow collapsed in on itself and more fragile than I had ever seen it.  Unable to smile or wave back, I labored to breathe, to ride in a straight line, and to will the tears away so that I could see more clearly.
       

In all of my training rides, I had ridden solo and mostly on the same twenty-five mile section of Washington's Burke-Gilman trail.  I was dizzy now from trying to keep track of the huge number of riders surging around me and shocked to be riding Seattle's city streets on a Monday morning while all around drivers and pedestrians were being made late to work by the police officers blocking intersections for us.
       

For the last nine months, posters, promotional brochures, and the staff of the American Lung Association had been promising this would be a journey that would change my life forever.  For the last nine months I had walked the sidewalks of these same streets between the bus stop and the office building where I worked, watching every morning and every afternoon for bicycle commuters and couriers who had the guts to brave the city traffic on two wheels.  For nine months I had been imagining how I would look on my bike and how it would feelto be free and finally on my way.
       

I was aware that 730 cyclists, already strung out in a long, brightly colored line, must have been an impressive sight to onlookers--one that wouldn't be seen again until the Ride's conclusion in the nation's capital--but I was not yet able to feel excitement or even relief to be on the road.  The immediate demands required to keep the bike upright competed for my brain's attention with persistent fears about the enormity of what I was undertaking and thousands of wordless questions about my ability to survive whatever lay ahead.  Was I insane?
       

Right out of the gate, riders began getting flat tires.  I had seen a demonstration of how to fix a flat once several months earlier and was carrying three spare tubes, a patch kit, an air pump, and a Speed Lever for "zipping" the tire off and on, but knew that in my current state, I would never be able to figure out how to use them.  I rode past those riders, all of whom seemed much more calm and capable than I felt, and willed my legs to keep pedaling and my bike to keep functioning properly.

My handlebar bag had a clear plastic window on top to display and protect the day's detailed route directions I'd been given.  I also had a wristwatch-size computer on my handlebars to tell me the time, the number of miles I'd ridden that day, total distance ridden over the course of the summer, and my current speed.  If I looked at that at all on Day One, the information never registered in my brain.  I was still a novice rider, and a good speed for me was only twelve miles per hour.  At that rate, it would have taken me a mere twenty minutes to travel the four, eastbound miles from the Seattle Center to the I-90 tunnel and subsequent bridge over Lake Washington.  It felt like an eternity.
       

Along the route I was passed by a few riders I recognized from the previous two days' get-together and registration events, but as I approached the tunnel, I recognized no one.  Having driven this route along I-90, I could only imagine the bicycle tunnel to be just as long, loud, and uncomfortable as the one the cars traversed.  I panicked.
       

At that moment, a woman pulled up on my left.  I had no idea who she was when I blurted, "I'm scared of tunnels--would you sing to me?"
       

"What would you like to hear?" was her calm reply.
       

"Anything!"
       

I didn't have the opportunity to wonder why I had decided singing would soothe me or what had possessed me to make such a request of a total stranger--perhaps it was the experience I'd had asking everyone I knew and many people I didn't to donate money to the American Lung Association on my behalf in the months leading up to this morning.  To my amazement, the stranger began to sing a beautiful, wordless melody just as we turned into the tunnel.  The notes echoed off the walls as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.  A man riding near us had heard the exchange and commented on how lucky I was to find this woman and her lovely voice in my time of need.  I quickly agreed.  To my great relief, the dark, music-filled tunnel was very short.

As we exited into daylight, I thanked my companion for her help.  She turned a sharp corner in front of me, and suddenly we were on the bicycle lane of the floating bridge spanning Lake Washington.  There were bicycles as far as the eye could see stretched out ahead of me.  The shock car drivers must have felt at seeing us jarred my own brain, and I immediately forgot to be afraid of the gray water slapping at the bottom of the bridge.
       

Two bicycle commuters fought their way back toward the city, inching slowly through our crowd.  Did they wish they could turn around and follow us, to begin an unexpected journey, rather than punching the same old clock at the same old desk at which they sat every Monday morning?
       

Exhilaration flooded my body.  I was on my bike!  I was out of downtown Seattle and had already faced two of my biggest fears.  I smiled for the first time that morning and suddenly knew I was going to be all right.
       

It was a good thing I didn't know what was ahead of me that very afternoon.

Posted by Kristine at 9:57 AM EDT

Updated: Tuesday, June 17, 2008 10:41 AM EDT

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Mood:  happy

Today is the tenth anniversary of the start of the GTE Big Ride Across America to benefit the American Lung Association.  I can't believe it's been ten years!  I feel like it was just yesterday.  That 48-day bicycle journey from Seattle, Washington to Washington, D.C. taught me more about myself than any other experience in my life.  I thought I had received the last message three years ago, seven years after the ride concluded, but I am realizing now that I still have more to learn.

 What I have to learn now is how to bring my Big Ride Self home, and how to stop referring to "her" as "her" and realize that she and I are the same person, even if that person may have been more relaxed, more self-confident, and more fully actualized than I am currently. 

I am not setting off on a bike today, but I am heading down a metaphorical road toward wholeness, peace, and health.  I'm not as scared today as I was ten years ago when I set off from the Space Needle with tears in my eyes and trepidation in every muscle in my body, but I am feeling a slight mixture of fear and excitement to think about where this summer will take me.  I have begun to make changes in my life and more changes are on the horizon.  I will share them as they occur, and look forward to cresting each new hill and hopefully coasting down the other side with my ponytail flying!

Happy trails, all!  Keep the rubber side down--

K 

Posted by Kristine at 12:01 AM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

It's been more than three weeks since I've been able to get to my Friday morning chakra clearing/Energy Healing 101 class.  I made it this morning, though, and I'm so glad I did.

Without any backstory from the last month, this may not have great meaning.  I'll fill in in my upcoming posts.  For now, this is what came to me in Shavasana:

You are a wild and creative being.

Help other people find their places in the world to the extent that you are able,

but NOT to the extent that you forget or neglect your own true nature.

You are perfect just as you are.

Once you recognize this perfection, all things will come into balance.

And about half an hour later:

It does not serve you to be wounded.

It does not serve your roles in the world

--as artist, activist, or educator--

to be wounded.

You have perfect clarity of vision. TRUST IT.

The answer is NOT outside of you.

Posted by Kristine at 4:10 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

Okay, so changes may be happening sooner than expected.

I went to the ophthalmologist yesterday because I have been seeing a large, non-moving-though-slightly-shape-shifting spot on my left eye for a few days. It's like I looked at a light too long and have an after-image burned onto my visual field, but it's only on one eye....

Turns out it is a BRVO, a branching retinal vein occlusion, or a retinal hemorrhage. The doctor couldn't tell if it was one large hemorrhage whose blood had begun to be reabsorbed leaving behind several small pools or whether it was several small bleeds.... Nor are we sure what caused it. He suggested that it could perhaps have been caused by high triglycerides. My sister, the registered dietitian, immediately gave me a blood glucose monitoring system to check for diabetes, but so far, the numbers suggest that this is not the issue.  In any event, it looks like my body is telling me that dietary changes - the exact changes I've been playing with for years but have been resistant to adopting - are necessary to lower my triglycerides and cholesterol.

How do I feel about this? Resigned, serious, scared.  Resigned because it is clearly time for this change and I'm not going to resist it any longer.  Serious because we are talking about my eyes! The thought of losing my vision terrifies me, not because I think I couldn't survive in the world without it, but because I fear my enjoyment of the world would be so diminished. (And, no, thank you - I do not wish to test this hypothesis to prove myself wrong! I know that I would adapt and find plenty to get excited about, even with impaired vision.)  And scared because my physician and I are fairly certain that I have an eating disorder and I know what happens when I start trying to restrict my food choices.  When I saw her a month ago, she gave me the name of a psychiatrist who specializes in eating issues, but I have been putting off calling him, hoping instead that in my meditation retreat summer, I would be able to develop amnesia about my food issues and just forget to indulge them.

I think my next step will be to try the South Beach diet.  If I'm able to follow it on my own without too much anxiety and binge-eating, great!  If I have trouble doing it on my own, however, I will make an appointment to see the specialist my doctor recommended.

While this wasn't exactly the way I would have chosen to complicate my summer plans, it would appear that things are getting more complicated, hopefully in service to my life becoming less complicated in the long-term.

As for my vision, it seems much improved today.  Either the blood is being further absorbed or I am becoming accustomed to its presence.  I think, perhaps, my body refused to heal it until I had learned of its potential cause so I could adopt these changes I require.  Whenever you do energy healing work, you do it with the intention that the healing will be accepted if it is for the recipient's highest good.  My highest good would not have been served if the issue had simply resolved itself casually without me taking steps to try to prevent similar problems, or worse!, in the future.  If I respond to this push from the Universe, maybe it won't feel the need to take more drastic measures to wake me up down the road.

Posted by Kristine at 12:40 PM EDT

Updated: Thursday, May 29, 2008 1:54 PM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

A short follow up note to yesterday's post....

Just because I am not trying to create change in myself or my life does not mean that change will not happen or that I won't welcome it when it does.  Change is the only constant, right?  Change will undoubtedly happen, and I am influencing to some degree the kinds of change that might occur with the activities on which I am choosing to focus (writing, exercise, staying focused at work)--but I am not trying to direct the changes in any kind of conscious way.  Instead, my goal is stay open to whatever presents itself each day.

Sidenote: a happy girl got to vote this morning and she smiled all the way to work!  Although seeing a bold green check next to Hillary's name did give me a thrill, I don't think the act of voting alone made me happy.  I  think the accumulated effects of getting outdoors for exercise in the sunshine before work and writing every day are taking their happy toll!

Posted by Kristine at 11:25 AM EDT

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Mood:  happy

Okay, so here's the deal.

On May 1, I began an at-home meditation retreat.  Nothing in my life has changed really--I'm still working full time, my husband is still fully in the picture, I still have bills to pay, laundry to fold, toilets to scrub. But I have changed my mental focus in the following ways:

At work, I focus on crossing things off my list and I don't procrastinate, indulge in feeling bored, or worry about what comes next.  I do the work in front of me, take time to get outdoors at lunch, and try to leave on time.

At home, I have only two responsibilities: to write every day and to exercise every day.  As I mentioned earlier, I have other responsibilities that come with being an adult and a wife and a homeowner and a dog owner and a daughter/sister/aunt, but BIG PICTURE, I only have to write and exercise every day.  

The idea is that for the next four months, May through August, I am not going to attempt to be anyone other than exactly who I am.  I am not going to attempt to change myself in any way.  I am not going to attempt to accomplish anything.  I am simply going to get up, write, walk, work when I'm at work, and be present in my own life.  I don't have to write anything in particular and what I write today doesn't have to relate in any way to what I wrote yesterday.  I am not training for a cross-country bike trip, a triathlon, a marathon, or a three-day walk.  I am not weighing, measuring, or recording food.  I am not formally studying anything.  I am not trying to learn anything.  I am not comparing myself to myself, to an ideal version of myself, or to anyone else.  I am not judging myself.  If I get up, write, exercise, work when I'm at work, and spend the day mostly present in my own life, it will be a good day.  If I get up, fail to write, fail to exercise, fail to work when I'm at work, and spend the day escaping my own life in every way possible, then I will treat myself with the compassion I would treat someone I loved who had had that kind of day, forgive myself, and get up the next day and start over with a clean slate.

That's the basic kernel.

However, as Patrick pointed out the other day, I do tend to introduce complexity into simple plans really quickly and I have introduced a few additional elements.  In my own defense, I have NOT introduced all of the elements I considered adding.  Just to be clear.  I could have made this all SO much more complicated!  (I think I introduce complexity so I won't get bored and simply because I enjoy watching my mind work....)

So, the additional elements:

1) For the first forty days, I have decided that I want to chant Om Namah Shivaya 108 times per day.  It only takes a few minutes and I like the way it sounds.

a) NOTE: For the second set of forty days, I want to switch to Om Mani Padme Hum. 

b) NOTE: I've read that you will begin to create obstacles to getting your chanting/meditation in once you've committed to a forty day practice.  It's supposed to take some time before you start making it difficult for yourself--like 35 days or so.  I, being the advanced soul that I am, however, managed to create an obstacle on day three--I lost the prayer bracelet I was using to help me keep count of my repetitions!  Obviously, there are other solutions, but for now, I've simply changed the practice so that instead of keeping to a strict 108 repetitions, I chant for five minutes each day, as well as any time I find myself doing any kind of housework.  Hey, it doesn't have to make sense....

2) I have set up a fundraising page to the American Lung Association.  It is true that I am not taking a true journey this summer.  I'm not going anywhere or doing anything particularly heroic or exciting or remarkable.  I am not pushing physical boundaries, but I will be pushing emotional and spiritual ones.  I will be trying to learn how to be alone with myself--in the middle of my busy, noisy, far-from-alone life--and stay in the present.

Ten years ago, when I went on the Big Ride Across America, the theme was breath.  If you can't breathe, nothing else matters.  As an asthmatic novice cyclist, breathing was my central concern.  And, as Zoi and Welmoed and Ron and Randy and Arturo and Cindy will attest, there were times when the breathing came hard and I was scared and the people around me were scared for me.  There were long nights when I did nothing but focus on my breath while I waited for the medical tent to open so I could get a nebulizer treatment.  There was a hospital run in the mountains of Idaho.  There were so many times when I relied on other people to walk me to a bus or to the nursing station instead of to my bike.

This summer, my breathing is under much better control (thank you, Big Pharma!), but breath will again be my central theme.  Breathing is what keeps you centered in the moment, in the here, in the now, in your body exactly where you are.  It is where you meet yourself. It is where you meet the Divine.  And so, I will be breathing consciously this summer and thinking not only about the times when I couldn't breathe, but about all the people who forget to breathe in the middle of their crazy, chaotic lives and especially about all the people who can't forget to breathe because breathing does not come easily.

That's why the fundraising page for the American Lung Association.  I owe the ALA so much for giving me the opportunity to learn about myself ten years ago as I attempted to cross the country under my own power.  I had hoped that if I ever published my memoir about the Big Ride I would be able to donate the proceeds to the ALA, but ten years later, the manuscript has not seen publication.  (Did I give up too soon? Maybe.  Is the manuscript not ready? Maybe.  Is the market for memoirs too crowded for a story as simple as mine? Maybe.)  Dedicating this summer's at-home meditation retreat to the ALA is my small attempt to give something back and say thank you once again for all the work they do helping people with the most central of all daily functions.  So, if you feel inspired (inspire, by the way, is Latin for "to breathe"!), please click on the link at the right to make a secure donation to the American Lung Association.  My thanks to you in advance!

And, one final rule: I only get to blog here after my thirty minutes of writing for the day are done.  No fair trying to use this public space as a stand-in for the personal space to which I am dedicating myself.

And, now, I'm off to my Om Namah Shivaya's and then to sleep.

Peace.

K 

Posted by Kristine at 10:29 PM EDT

Updated: Monday, May 5, 2008 11:47 PM EDT

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Mood:  a-ok

It has been ten years since I participated in the 1998 GTE Big Ride Across America to benefit the American Lung Association.  In the intervening years, I have survived two major depressions, written a book-length manuscript about the Big Ride, had a wedding with my husband on Orcas Island, moved from Seattle to North Carolina, completed three sprint distance triathlons and one half-marathon, become a mom to the most adorable American Hairless Terrier on the planet and an aunt to three of the sweetest kids I've ever met, and struggled always to get back to the person I felt I was on the Big Ride.

Recently, after several years of avoidance, I have begun writing again.

And what do you think I'm writing about?  Yes, the Big Ride.  I can't seem to help it.  I sit down to write and what pours out of me is the search to find my Big Ride self.  The happy, self-confident, patient, trusting, self-sufficient, peaceful, loving, PRESENT self that I could be...if I could just figure out how to find her in the midst of all of the other busy, noisy, demanding parts of my "real life."

So this summer, I have determined once and for all to find my true Self and bring her home.  Ten years is long enough to wait.  This blog will chronicle my journey and flash back to the journey I took in 1998.

I hope you'll come along for the ride! 

Posted by Kristine at 12:11 AM EDT

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