Zero to 22.8

My husband, our dog Shire, and I are camping in the North Desert of Fruita, Colorado, surrounded by incredible, National Geographic worthy red mountains, green hills, and mountain bike single track trails for miles and miles. This morning I opened my eyes during meditation to the sound of two spinning wheels, a rider, and their black German Shepherd with its neon pink collar whirling past the tail end of our RV. It’s a bicycle mecca and we’re literally camping right in the middle of it. It’s called the 18 Road Trail System. We came here for reconnection and quality time, to explore high desert living in Colorado, and for me to find my place on the trail system and play, too. Except I feel frozen and insecure and afraid.

* * * * *

I rode 151 miles during the month of May on a trip home to visit family and friends in Northern Virginia. Some of those miles were also earned in New Hampshire and Massachusetts on converted rail trail systems, while I visited a best friend and her best four-legged fur buddy, Mike “The Mayor” for a few weeks. It was bliss riding all of those miles. Especially after the last two and a half years not consistently riding my sparkly blue gravel bike I named The Mighty Annie Mize back in 2021. My husband paid a small fortune to an outdoor sports shop in Rockport, Maine to custom build her from parts they had leftover in their shop following the high demand for bicycles and everything outdoors during the height of Covid. She’s so special. She was built to ride the 100 mile Unbound Gravel race in Kansas (a wishful thinking moment on my part at the time – and – maybe someday – I’m working on smaller goals right now). The sports shop didn’t blink an eye at my bigger framed body and were as ecstatic as I was to give me the opportunity to ride and play like they loved to do, too. She was and still is the most epic, perfect bike for me. 

In 2023, I started experiencing back pain that I blamed a daily Halasana (plow yoga pose) practice on, back spasms, and an unhappy sciatic nerve. I now know that the inversion pose was aggravating some disc degeneration and wear and tear in my lower back, causing my pain to radiate and my nerves to fire in all the wrong directions (hence the sciatic nerve flaring up). At the time and as the pain worsened, I didn’t reach out for help because I was scared of what I couldn’t control in my body and I was scared of losing something that made me feel strong, special, joyful, and mentally challenged in all the right ways. Having put down drugs and alcohol at that time for 16 years and really beginning to heal from a 20+ year eating disorder, biking reconnected me with me – from the inside out – with that 6 year old girl who got the best birthday present she could wish for in 1990, a hot pink bicycle with white handlebars and no training wheels. 

What if I went to the doctor only for it to all be taken away? It was terrifying to ask for the help I needed for fear of losing what I had worked so hard for. When I first started riding a bicycle as an adult in 2012 (after leaving my first weeklong intensive to address family of origin trauma), I could barely stay upright on two wheels. Hills, big or small, were out. Daily riding wasn’t on my radar. I liked the idea of riding more than I liked riding. Then, in 2019 and financially broke, I irresponsibly bought my first “expensive” bike – a Specialized hybrid bike from a shop in Woodbridge, VA. I felt ready to take my new sport “seriously” as I began consistently connecting to younger parts of myself. I named her Queenie because she rode like a Queen compared to other bikes – she was smooth and quiet, and commanded a second look when she went by. She was a pretty bold purple color and I took my longest ride on her since I had begun riding in 2012 – 3 whole miles in a state park in Louisiana. I can still remember how incredible those 3 miles felt – like I had gone 300 miles – I felt truly empowered and deeply connected with that wounded, yet playful little girl inside me who had loved riding bikes her entire childhood. It wasn’t easy learning to balance on two wheels in an adult body. The ground seemed a lot further away, and falling down and/or tipping over, which I did often, hurt a lot more than when I was a kid. A friend in recovery at that time said to me, “We fall down, so we can get up again”. And, I learned to get up, laugh it off, and keep going. 3 miles eventually turned into 5, then 8, then 10, and then suddenly 20! 

Every ride has been an opportunity to be in the present moment, and every fall to remind me to get back up again. I’ve bled, I’ve eaten a mouthful of gravel, I’ve flown over my handlebars and into a cactus (not recommended), and most recently I hit my head (ouch! even with a helmet on) after a last second decision driven by a moment of fear and fatigue that caused me to lose my balance going pretty fast down a rocky decent – all for the love of my inner child and the grace/privilege to be that girl whirling by on two wheels wearing a grin as big as my face. 

It wasn’t until the winter of this year that I said yes to my higher power’s wide open door and found the perfect PT place 20 minutes outside of my small hometown in Arizona. The owners there live and breathe bicycles. In February, my PT guy suggested I get back in the saddle – he said it was the only way we were going to really be able to “work out the kinks” and “see if more is going on with your pain”. I felt afraid. Afraid of having to actually confront the patterns of pain my body had now carried around daily for the last few years. Afraid I’d fall down and it would hurt, even though I’d fallen a million times in the past – what if I couldn’t get back up, or what if I injured myself even worse? Afraid riding wasn’t going to help – that I wasn’t going to get better. I had to trust the help and let go of the results. He was asking me to show up for me because when I told him I was sad I hadn’t ridden my bike in so long, he said he was sad for me, too. I made the start he asked me to make. Four to five miles a day around my neighborhood. Nice and easy, slow and steady, take notes, and back extensions before and after every single ride. My PT guy was right – when I started riding consistently, things began to actually get better. Turns out a new bike fit was in order, back extensions are now my best friend, foot on pedal position is everything for power (especially if you don’t wear clip-ins), and a mostly anti-inflammatory diet all ease pain and make for more efficient riding. Manual work in PT has also been a game changer. 

* * * * *

I felt like I was making great progress on my bike leaving Northern Virginia and heading for the high desert mountains of Colorado. Big goals to ride lots of miles out here – to take in everything special about this special place doing what I love to do the most. Things have slowed down to a snail’s pace and in other ways come to a screeching halt, though. We’ve been in the North Desert since last Friday and I’ve only ridden my bike twice. 13 miles total. One ride was up a wicked steep climb and I had nothing left to give after, so I called it quits early in the game. The second was yesterday, three miles down 18 Road, away from the busyness of the trails outside my front door – a place to stretch out, while trying to hide in plain sight from all these other riders that I’ve been telling myself look different than me. This big, wide open space – thousands of acres of BLM land to merge into – and, I’ve chosen to confine myself to this campsite and this RV because I’m afraid. Afraid of these other riders out there that I collapse inwardly and feel small around with their fancy clip-in shoes, expensive helmets, and big name bicycles. I let them intimidate me with their wide handlebars (not drop down handlebars like The Mighty Annie Mize), wide tires, their fit physiques and big calf muscles, and Oh the ease they climb the hills that wind me just looking at them. Who am I to take up space alongside these people? I don’t look like them, and the few I’ve managed to wave to, don’t wave back. Who do I think I am? Who said I was allowed to ride the 18 Road Trail System, or find some gravel to grind in this place? 

Who, me? Yes, me! Me with my wobbly, loose skin leftover to remind me I used to live in a larger body for a long time. Me with my thinning curly hair because of late stage perimenopause at 41 – leaving me to mourn a childless existence that my husband and I wanted to turn out way differently. Me, who has to cake on suntan lotion so thick that I sometimes look blue and shiny like wax paper. If I don’t, my skin has this “unfortunate” response in the sunshine – the same sunshine that I moved 2,400 miles away from the East Coast to be closer to in Arizona on a daily basis. Me, who still wears the same cheap bicycle shorts I bought off Amazon several years ago because I can’t bring myself to justify buying $200+ bib shorts. Who has that kind of money to drop on polyester spandex? (In general, why the heck is outdoor sports gear so dang expensive?) And, me who wears cotton t-shirts with her favorite spiritual deities and gurus because they make her believe she can ride faster, and honestly bicycle jerseys – aerodynamic, sweat wicking aside – are kind of lame looking, pretentious, and lack personality. 

And, what if I’m not supposed to look like every other rider outside my RV window? Me? Me! What if I’m supposed to huff and puff up the hills because I’m still new back to riding again? What if I’m maybe not actually intimidated by these other riders, but by these massive, intricate trail systems I don’t actually understand yet and am afraid of going the wrong way on a one-way single track? (I think I might still be intimidated by the other riders, though.) What if I’m supposed to wear my spiritual t-shirts and cheap bicycle shorts because they are authentically me? What if I’m supposed to be afraid of falling down because I’m still rebuilding my confidence, strength, and learning my bike and my body on gravel again? Gravel can be unforgiving, physically grueling, and unpredictable without a suspension to reabsorb some of the on-going demands it requires in the saddle. One of the many reasons I love riding on it! 

What if I turn toward me and my higher power, only to discover I’m not supposed to look like them because I’m not them? Me? Yes, me! Me, whose secret theme song on her bike has always been Midnight Rider by the Allman Brothers (guess that’s not a secret anymore). Me, who spontaneously cries on her bike because joy expresses itself through tears sometimes. Me, who hasn’t given up on herself and with help, has found her way back to living her bliss, even if it feels scratchy, and bumpy, and frustrating, and intimidating, and completely unmanageable in moments. What if it feels different than it used to because it is different? Because I’m different and with her new adjustments, The Mighty Anne Mize is different, too?

This business of taking up space out here in the shadows of these beautiful red mountains and green hills is going to take practice as I continue to uncover and discover who I am in this season of my cycling journey with my two wheel companion. It might not all unfold here in Fruita either. What if I could reassure that little girl inside of me that we’ll find our place and our confidence again? What if I could tell her it’s truly ok to be afraid and still practice life? That striving isn’t necessary – it’s all here, right now – ours for the taking – this one precious life to live free. 

Us, courageous and empowered by Love, taking up space because we get to.

* * * * *

And, then there is this other thing – this important detail I’ve left out until now – my PT guy did a thing – he recommended I sign up for a bike race – a few times.. A “goal to work towards” he said. I took some time to think about it, then I did a thing. I took his suggestion and signed up for a race, then thought to myself, why not another? Now my insides are screaming. . .

. . .queue Allman Brothers – Midnight Rider.