I will the machine.

Tag: fitness

  • The Edge

    This is a follow-up post to A Foundation of Sand from May 24th.

    “I haven’t made a plan. I don’t know how I’m even getting to work, 40-minutes away, on Tuesday, let alone the days after that.”

    In the hours after I was crumbling on the patio of the coffee shop I wrote that from, remembering how many times I had been there…

    I remembered how many times I had been there, and how I had handled it. I looked over at my bike and felt something ease.

    I rode 40 miles to the lab, worked my nine-hour shift, and then 40-miles home that Tuesday. I was out the door at 4:30 in the morning, and back to the house after 7:00 in the evening. I ordered pizza, took a shower while I waited, and was in bed again just after 8:00. The schedule on Wednesday was the same. On Thursday I borrowed a car to stay out of the thunderstorms, and on Friday I was back on the bike. The van was delivered to me at work with a new pump, and I drove home. Reluctantly.

    That week was rough on me, but it felt good. So after I realized that another of the van’s tires was leaking from a bad rim (the spare was already on from the last time), I just kept going. A brand-new set of wheels for the van is on backorder but will be here in two weeks. I’m riding 80-mile days when it’s reasonable and babying the leak on the days I need to drive. It’s a little pathetic, but satisfying that I can sustainably handle this in a way that is absolutely unreasonable to many; my willingness to take the unfathomable path is my edge.

    I don’t know that I can ever translate the intensity of the emotion, the inadequacy, that I feel when I struggle like this often and have few people I can call even just to talk about it. People tend to minimize it, unintentionally, because each instance is small in isolation, and because my methods of independence lead me to solutions like 2.5- hour bike commutes twice a day and living in a van from 1985. The acceptance of extremes like that make me look so capable. But for me, a person who has teetered on the edge of not being enough for over a decade, it feels like I am somehow destined by some divine joke to lose anyway. To be cosmically, comically, torn open and kicked every time I take a step. It feels like I’m supposed to give up and to stop kidding myself. All of that is heavy even on a spirit that is just trying to survive, let alone chase something great.

    _____

    In June of last year, I moved in with a partner that eventually told me “You live your life by the edge of a sword.” The comment had multiple layers to it. It was observational, and I agreed with it, but it also held a nuanced implication that I was “too” something again. To him it meant I didn’t trust.

    To me it meant I didn’t trust sooner than it was earned.

    That relationship became dysfunctional over the course of ten months. Twice he told me to get out of the house and go to my van like I was a dog that had been caught chewing the furniture. His own family members told him how damaging that behavior was, and it transformed into just kicking me out of the bedroom because he needed his space. A space he had said was equally mine in words, but obviously not in practice. I had only had my new job for days when I picked up that sword, held it across my chest and said “enough.” In the couple of hours it took me to pack up everything I could take with me in the van, I watched him devolve from antagonizing to stupefied as I held up that standard I had warned him about. “If you think you’re going to relegate me somewhere else out of punishment because I’m my own person in your space, that’s where I am going to stay.” I flipped the choice he kept making, in an act of control he thought he had, and I cut the line.

    I have already lived that life once, and survived. I wasn’t going back.

    That was all at the end of March. I cried once- not because it didn’t matter to me, but because I have my wits so about me about what can and cannot stand that my own self-trust rocks me to sleep. I’ve been here so many times before. Although that snake still lifts its head and rattles “this is all your fault,” one side of the blade whispers back “you aren’t meant to stay here.”

    I listen faster each time. I am not faultless, but I am also not tactless. Over the years, through the thicket of so many friendships and romantic connections based on half-truths, or devoid of truth entirely, my eyesight and steel have both been sharpened. I’ve paid for that in advance by holding grace for longer than was quoted- the quiet part that the snake tends to ignore.

    I am back in this instability because I listen to the quieter voice. I am dealing with nearly incessant setbacks because that is the consequence of choosing to walk away from harm that comes from people. My parents, unhealthy partnerships, friends that aren’t really. Many can’t afford to leave toxic dynamics because of this very consequence- it doesn’t suddenly get sunnier when you leave.

    The vines often get thicker.

    And so, I draw my sword.

    _____

    For once, I am letting the unpredictability of the near future be. I have reached the limit of what I can control, evidenced by a wave of burnout in recent weeks, and using the bike as a tool of survival again. The fitness I’ll gain from riding to work for the summer (it isn’t a bad way to live even when the van is back to 100%) will be a hefty deposit in the bank for the future I have promised myself, even if I don’t know when it will come.

    Once I get there, I’ll get the added gratification of these posts to remember where I came from.~

    I have two longer posts in the works. ‘Projection, Your Honor: Learning to Trust the Part of You That Knows’ is scheduled for Sunday, June 22nd.

    And ‘The Microcosm’, my full monty of my five-year run of living in my van (that may or may not be over yet) is still in progress. This one is a hard write, but it deserves the time it takes.

    As always, thank you for being here.

  • A Foundation of Sand

    This post is edited for errors, but not for anything else. I’m writing straight through this night, no stops.

    This past Wednesday I gave a condensed version of everything I post here to a room of about 30 people to promote a small tour I am doing at summer’s end. I’m garnering looks with the extremes of my experiences on a bike to draw interest to the rural communities I’ll be visiting and staying in and telling their stories like I do mine. I wrote my script exactly how I write these posts- a little messy, but very honest. At the end, one man said “have you considered being a motivational speaker? Because you had this whole room glued to you.” One woman came up to me in the parking lot before I left to tell me how alone I was not, and she gave me a tearful hug. Twice. One represented a tangible reward for my reflectivity; the other gave me a spiritual one.

    The critics in mine own mind are sourced from the people who moved through their lives with harshness. Endless criticism for what I wasn’t doing right, and relative silence for what I was. They shouted “I can’t help you, do it yourself.” Over time I realized that not only was that spray unfair and venomous to a teenager who was blockaded from normal development, but was also just not a characteristic of a family system that could stand on anything even distantly resembling love. None of them could exemplify anything that I wanted, so I never listened, but the scribe was still behind his pen. As I’ve said in past writing, I learned gentleness from its absence, but the sharp ridicule of generational abuses persists while I try to separate its fiery breath from my own. I heard so much automatic vocal feedback while I delivered my presentation that I intentionally paused after the heaviest lines to see if those moments singed them to any degree that they had me, because those past voices still gaslight me even though their owners are no longer in my orbit. They did. And so my speech was not just the retelling of a story- it was an active soldier in my internal defense. I learned that my experiences are unfortunately common, but still abnormal. And that paradox is what I’m currently chewing on while I go even deeper into my inner world because expressing its contents outwardly is not only what I feel purpose in doing, but is an act of combat when so many people haven’t yet felt capable of fronting theirs. Though, they will apparently come inside my fight with me without even flinching.

    And so, I draw my sword again.

    The power steering pump in my van sprung a heavy leak a little over two weeks ago. I kept the fluid topped off and was assured it would get me by in the meantime while I worked on the complicated logistics of getting a vehicle you live out of worked on with little time, little money, and few fail safes. I’ve had access to a vacant house to allow me some reprieve from all of the other complications of vanlife, but have been doing an excessive amount of driving between it and a new job. I’ve been moving so fast despite a breakup and residual move-out, and a PTSD attack during a huge race that resulted in bailing out, that the next part invites those voices to call back and say, “these are the consequences of your poor choices. This is what you deserve.”

    Yesterday, I took the van to a garage to address the leak and form a plan. Four minutes after I pulled in, the return line on my power steering pump broke at a connection by just the touch of a finger. It had at some point, before I ever owned the vehicle, been sealed with JB Weld instead of being repaired properly. It held for six years at least, and I never knew. So here I am, now grounded in front of a bay, with no replacement pumps available locally until the middle of next week. I’m 20 minutes from work, and an hour from the house.

    This saint of a mechanic, Jeremy, engineers a temporary hose connection with industrial-strength glue and a dream. He sends me on my way with a cautious optimism that it would get me through until a new pump arrived, and sent me on my way.

    20-minutes later, my steering bricks up as I’m turning into the next town. I muscle it to the gas station down the road and again to my job just down the street (thanks for that at least, universe), but that location unfortunately leaves me no access to a shower at the very minimum. So I call for a ride back to the house, despite the cobra in my throat hissing that I am an inconvenience, a disaster, and that I need to get my act together. For the second time in a few weeks I go almost deadpan as my friend Aaro picks up, but the siege, and that cobra, descend on the base of the castle that has already been cracking and tumbling since time immemorial.

    The ground keeps moving. The snake moves beneath black dunes and I am immobile with my blade across my chest. I bring you to ground zero as it plays out because I can’t afford one more bad step after all of these recent hits. I haven’t made a plan. I don’t know how I’m even getting to work, 40-minutes away, on Tuesday, let alone the days after that. All of my silver has been spent on the sword, and I’m so profoundly tired of holding it.

    And the cobra is well fed today.

    ~

    This is another interrupter. Trying to accomplish more than the basics when I keep bottoming out creates this dichotomy- an intense and automatic drive juxtaposed with the smell of smoke of another impending fight. If I’m going to have to keep doing that (I will), then I’m also going to continue weaponizing my awareness before I ever even reach the end. And I won’t reach the end, until I can no longer speak.

    Part two of this post, ‘The Edge,’ is on the way. But I have to let its contents happen first, I fear.

  • Fog on the Harbor

    In May of last year I went down to Arkansas for an experimental new ultra race. The massively popular Rule of Three, established in arguably the most bike-centric city in the United States, introduced a 200-mile category and I wanted in. It had been a spring of seriously unsteady income but the organizers got me a sponsored entry and a host of friends helped me put the rest of the pieces together.

    I took on the challenge with two objectives- add another ultra-distance merit badge to my proverbial sash and create a mini documentary of the experience with my phone. I found a handful of people also entered in the 200-mile event to ask one question, on camera- what are you in it for? Some seemed a little caught off guard by the question, and others delivered answers so nonchalant that I knew they were right at home on this horizon.

    The race started at 4:00 p.m. the day before the standard 100 and 50-mile distances and we had a 30-hour cutoff to beat. At mile 70, around 1:00 a.m. after hiking my bike up a steep powerline cut that spit me out to a dead-end road, I called for a ride back to town. I was aware this race was going to be a little rowdier than anything I had ridden before, but I went into it knowing that I was ready to take that step up. My limit turned out to be the building unsafety I felt from the combo of loose dogs in the dark, no-trespassing signs my navigation insisted I disregard, 20-miles straight of mostly unrideable (for me) singletrack immediately followed by mud pits and criminally steep powerline cuts that all slowed me to a drag. My body was in great shape but my mind already wasn’t, and I accepted that this was just not my style of race and not a reflection of some deficiency of mine before a support car even got to me. I missed out on getting the video content and the full-circle story I was hoping for, and so I had to settle for a 90-second Instagram reel that I am fond of but am equally haunted by.

    I still ache a little over abandoning the spirit of toughing that race out, but I had to call back that one question I had asked so many people before the race that I hadn’t taken the time to answer myself in entirety- what was I in it for?

    To briefly touch on themes from my past posts, I’ve labelled myself (or maybe my imposter syndrome has) as a major underdog whose drive to excel in the sport of gravel and ultra-cycling is mismatched with the reality of my life. My circumstances pretty consistently tell me that welfare kids from hoarding houses that feel safe absolutely nowhere can’t access, let alone succeed in, big-time athletic environments that eat resources by the shovel and demand consistent social connections. Despite those voices I persist, much to the discontent of my easily broken heart.

    And so I recognized easily that my answer to the big question was that I was in it in spite of everything- for the long haul and that one unsalvageable event wasn’t a threat to that. After a decade of chipping away at the confining factors that left me feeling so less than, I was rebelling again. I’ve experienced enough truly epic rides at this point that I didn’t allow one defeat to unravel that ideal for me, but it did remind me how fragile the pursuit of doing anything exceptional is.

    I talk about it so often because as if that saga wouldn’t be trying for anyone, I’ve inadvertently associated my efforts on the bike with the vindication of my broken adolescence. And for better or for worse, I don’t really want to untie them.

    I’m not sure I’ll ever write enough about the past to alleviate the weight of it, but ultimately it is time to direct these posts toward where I am now and where I hope to go, in spite of everything.

    I’ve been living in a town of 1,600 people for six months and in that time have had the most difficult time finding a stable new job (there are plenty of unstable ones). My boyfriend, Jeremy, has been propping me up and insisting that I not fold for something that doesn’t truly work for me, but I couldn’t have predicted it would be this difficult to even get a call back, and so I’m starting to sweat that my financial hiatus from racing might have to be extended into yet another spring. In the midst of that mess, I’ve been mitigating my job-board doom-scrolling and obsessive “apply” button-smashing by writing more, painting more, and reaching out to individuals I know in fitness and media for advice on potential longer-term ventures that complement life on a bike. The van has been parked on the curb, driven only every couple of weeks, I got my ass kicked by covid for two weeks, and I’ve gone through the motions of indoor training, riding outside when I can, running a 5k or two a week around the entire town, and will begin strength training again soon. I have some local target races I’m clutching to keep my goal-oriented capital-type-A personality engaged, and rejecting the expectations that come with turning 30 next month. Trans-Am is still the long game we’re playing even if it kills me.

    I have to remind myself daily that even though I’m deeply discouraged about how much I can’t do, I’m not allowed to let the mission slip away by not being ready when I finally can again. And as much as I am hellbent, maybe to my detriment, of creating this big story for myself, I am even more committed now to talking about it despite the massive political elephant in the room that might have me sounding a little tone-deaf. The loudness of all of those cogs turning literally keeps me up at night while I quantify the burden that passion has been on me, and I’m just going to let this life make whatever example out of me that it wants to.

    With a ridiculous fight, of course.