Breakdown

Memory:

I'm 12 years old and sitting uncomfortably and impatiently in the hospital waiting room. I'm sure I'd probably been there all day, and for a 12 year old, I think even the most boring subject in school would have been more fun. I feel like it was spring sometime. I can't do the math quick enough to figure out what year it was when I was 12, but it was a long time ago. My dad had just had a heart attack and needed open heart surgery. While I watched my mom talking with the doctors, only being able to pick out certain parts of the conversation that made sense, in my impatience and innocence of being 12, I still new the situation was dire.

I barely remember being in my dad's actual hospital room right before he was wheeled into surgery. I know we were though. We probably visited. I don't remember any major disruption to any conversations that were had or unfamiliar emotion shown by either of my parents. In hindsight, I am sure they were trying to remain calm for my sister and me. Their seeming unflinching nature caused no concern for me, other than the fact that I knew my dad was sick, I knew the surgery was a big deal, and I knew it wasn't normal for children's parents to be in the hospital.

Eventually, we were asked to step out of the room so they could prep my dad for surgery. They had to practically shave all his hair off including his bushy red beard which I had always known him to have. He looked so different when we walked in, but he assured us it was still him. As the doctors and nurses began to gather around, they reclined the bed, released the stops, and slowly began to wheel him out of the room. We walked with him for a few feet. My sister gave him a small white teddy bear that he held on to. I don't remember if any words were exchanged at our final parting, but I noticed a single tear fell down the side of my dad's face. My dad. This big strong guy that coached our ball teams, created beautiful art, built and fixed things, took us camping, was always working in the garage or the basement, and sometimes who had a scary temper, but never cried - was crying. To my 12 year old eyes I saw the fear on his face and there was nothing I could do except look on with worry, panic, and sadness as he clutched that little white bear.

At first my mom had said Cassie and I would have to go stay with Chuck and Helene. Helene taught with my dad for many years and their family has been good friends with our family through the years. I begged my mom to let me stay - that I wanted to be there when dad came out of surgery. For the longest time she remained steadfast in her insistence that I go to Chuck and Helene's. Finally, after more begging and pleading, she relented. She talked to me and told me how it might look scary when he came out of surgery. He would have all sorts of wires and tubes coming out of him. He wouldn't be awake and I wouldn't be able to talk to him or touch him. I understood and still wanted to remain. I felt relieved. With all the commotion my anxiety and fear had risen. I had always been afraid that something would happen to my parents. With this major event, I needed to be there to see for my own self that my dad would be okay - especially because the last image of him I had was how scared he was.

At the very last minute, and I don't remember how this happened, I was forced to go with Cassie to Chuck and Helene's. I don't know if my mom got word that something had happened or if she had just changed her mind. I was deeply hurt and devastated. I felt helpless because I was. I had no power in the matter. My worst fear and the thing that caused the most childhood anxiety was happening and I was forced to not be there. I didn't understand it. I still don't today. This was 19 years ago and I still feel the pain of it when I think about it. For some reason this memory stuck with me for most of my bike ride today. My eyes welled up with tears as I remembered and as I was pedaling down the road into a decent headwind, they were carried off as fast as they fell by the August breeze.

The last handful of days have witnessed a slow deterioration in my mood. Emotionally I have been raw - always on the verge of tears. Mentally I have been frustrated and crowded. Physically I am exhausted and while some pain has subsided, there have been plenty of other ways that my body reminds me that it is not young anymore and that old sports injuries never heal 100%. All of this culminated to a silent breakdown last night in Ishpeming, Michigan. During my ride yesterday I was baking in the sun. I think I got too dehydrated as I started not feeling well about three quarters of my way through the ride. The sick feeling stuck with me all night. I tried to go to bed early because I didn't feel well and I hoped to get an early start today to beat the rain and wind. Once again, sleep did not come easily. I laid there in the dark trying to zone out into the music in my ipod. The tears came and I silently cried into my pillow. I was absolutely wrecked in all ways that I could be wrecked. And, while I tried to find my mantra, "I believe I can do this," it was buried too deep. I have 5 days of biking left. I am so close to done, so close to home, and I breakdown.

I have to think in many endurance challenges like this, there comes a breaking point. Maybe that's just me. You work hard to get ready. All the anticipation and excitement to get going powers you through the first part. The pain and toll on the body sets in in the middle. It all builds and builds until it breaks you - or tries to. We dig deep to find our strength, our drive, our inspiration, our mantra. Sometimes we find it. Sometimes we don't. Sometimes we have it for a little while before we do battle again. This morning after breakfast, through misty eyes, I took a good long hard look at the map. I thought seriously about changing my route - perhaps knock a day off or take a more direct route with less miles to bike each day. As I sat at the table in our hotel room, illuminated only by the dreary gray rainy day outside - perfect weather to match my mood - I thought how ridiculous this is. Whatever this funk is, it can't beat me. Not after all of this. It won't beat me!

What is it that keeps me going? Why continue if I feel so miserable? I'm not doing this for any kind of fame as I certainly am not the first person to complete this journey by bicycle. I'm not doing this for any kind of fundraiser or awareness-raising campaign. I'm not doing this to gain widespread attention in some kind of narcissistic scheme. Where's my fuel? What's the inspiration? I've written before about this trip and how it's about finding self, place, and peace. It's about healing, mourning, growing, pushing, and discovering. It's about emerging on the other side victorious in accomplishing a large and challenging goal I set for myself 4 months ago and trained hard to be as ready as I could be. It's about recognizing my own limitations and pushing myself far beyond them even if it means I breakdown. Perhaps a breakdown is not a bad thing. Perhaps the frame should be a breakthrough.

So, who will I be when all is said and done? There's no way to tell. Will I have established a new sense of self, found my inner peace, and gained insight on my place in this world? I have no idea. What I do know is that I am 5 days from home. I've completed almost 900 miles on this journey in 15 days of non-stop biking. I have endured incredible physical pain and exhaustion, emotional turmoil, and being almost defeated mentally. I have experienced heightened presence and serenity. I've witnessed the ruggedness and breathtaking beauty of the ever-changing landscape of the Lake Superior shores. I've felt peace and groundedness with a mere glimpse of the lake through the thick patches of forest. I've allowed the magical powers of it to embrace and envelop me as I've enjoyed long stretches of cycling just off the shoreline. I've met some very nice people with stories of their own on journeys of their own. I've been constantly cheered on and supported incredibly by my sag team and by perfect strangers on the road who give me a honk and a wave or a thumbs up.

I left Duluth 15 days ago surrounded by my family as I embarked on this trip of a lifetime. I'll re-enter Duluth in 5 more days greeted only by my mom and Helene who have provided me with so much on this trip as they've trekked around the lake with me in the "sag wagon." Nothing fancy. Nothing big. I slipped out quietly and I'll slip back in quietly - content with the quiet and lack of ceremony of my return. Content with the accomplishment. Content with knowing that even at my lowest points, I, and many others, believed I could do this.