In my life, there are two big passions that sound very similar, so I often need to over-enunciate when talking about them: riding and writing. The one has helped me understand the other and I often think and talk about the two concurrently, hence the need for over-enunciation.
This is top of mind for me because I finished an event on Sunday: the Apple Cider Century, held annually in Three Oaks, MI. With various routes and distances to choose from, I chose the 100-mile route, a proper century. I’ve ridden a metric century before (roughly 64 miles) and I rode an event called Shoreline with the League of Michigan Bicyclists, which was about 350 miles over 7 days, with the longest day being a 76-mile slog from Mackinaw City to Charlevoix. It had been long enough since that ride that I was craving a new challenge.
Long enough to forget the misery of those 76 miles. And the absolute crisis of existence riding 60 miles the next day.
I started the ride shortly after sunrise, which was officially 7:39 a.m. this past Sunday. It was about 48-degrees, no wind but 100% humidity. As I started, most of me was warm enough. I’ve ridden enough in different kinds of weather that I was prepared. Mostly. I had on leg warmers and a wool-fill vest over a wool baselayer. But I also had on my fingerless riding gloves and wet feet from tromping through the wet grass at the starting line. As I turned right and left, following the route, I rode into the sun, nearly blinded, with my back to it, and cross-wise, until it got high enough in the sky that it was no longer an issue, just part of the scenery.
It was like when I start on a story. I think I’m prepared, but there are always little details that I didn’t think about until I’m in it. There’s also some stuff–not necessarily in my way, but obstacles nonetheless. Whether it’s overcoming inertia or making time for the story with my day job or whatever, something is always trying to distract me.
The point is that it’s easy to give up in the early stages, when things haven’t warmed up yet.
I rode the first twenty five miles in a little under two hours, which is my usual pace when that’s the total distance I’m riding. At the first supported rest stop, I took off my leg warmers and stowed them in my frame bag. I ate some snacks, refilled my water and headed out after minimal rest. The second twenty five miles passed in a beautiful haze. I achieved what I often seek when I go out riding: empty mind. Fully present in the moment I am in, a physical body moving through and reacting to the world. Nothing extra or unnecessary.
Often, after I’ve struggled to start, stutter-started, or spent longer than necessary in my head about it, there’s always a point in writing a story of what Taoists call wu wei, or effortless action. In those moments, when I’m writing a story that is just flowing, I feel as if I’m doing what I was meant to be doing. There’s a saying in tattoo culture: the pain is the point, the tattoo is the souvenir. For me, that feeling of having achieved effortless action is the point and the finished ride or story is the result.
Then, came the support stop at 50 miles and the realization that I had to do everything that I’d just done again.
To be honest, that’s why I frontload so much of my writing process into the notebook. I don’t rewrite stories. I work out everything (or almost everything) in the notebook before I start so I don’t have to rewrite. The second novel I wrote is pretty decent, I think. There’s just enough about it that I would change that I think it would be easier to rewrite it completely, rather than edit it.
And the idea is so repugnant to me that it’s been in my drawer for almost twenty years.
After support stops at 25 and 50 miles, the third support stop was at 60. This threw off my cadence badly. I see why they did it: they wanted two support stops in the back half of the ride. But still, I made myself choke down an Uncrustable, refill my barely emptied water bottles, and got back on the road with hardly a pause to rest.
Which was probably my worst decision of the day.
Because it’s important to allow yourself time to rest. At least, that’s true for me. I need time for stories to stew, to marinate, to develop. I need to strike that balance between allowing myself time and keeping myself going. Too much rest and I get cold; too little and I burn out. It’s something I still struggle with.
And something that I felt the consequences of on Sunday.
The final support stop was at mile 84. Those 24 miles between were grueling. Anyone who tells you the Midwest is flat is a filthy liar. Anyone who rides a bike will tell you that it’s flat like waffle. Those rolling hills rolled me over and took me to church. During that interminable no-time between mile 60 and mile 84, I questioned myself, my decision making abilities, my physical fitness, and my ability to finish.
I seriously weighed the practicalities of calling my wife, who was waiting for me at the finish line, and tell her that I’d hit my limit. Though I hadn’t done what I set out to do, I had ridden farther than I ever had in a single day. That was something to be proud of.
But not enough for me. Because I am a stubborn bastard.
I made it to that final support stop, realized that I couldn’t choke down another Uncrustable, and had a bag of chips instead. I forced myself to rest for 20 minutes, even though I just wanted to keep going and get it over with. As I sat on the ground, I realized that wasn’t enough, so I laid on the ground, my head pillowed on my helmet. That still wasn’t enough, but since I couldn’t get any lower, that’s what I got.
I decided to keep going. But started taking quick breaks, usually at the top of hills. Then, I started taking breaks before climbs as well as the top of hills. As those last sixteen miles ticked down to 10, then I got to see as the tenths of a mile ticked down, I thought I’d get reinvigorated and cross the finish line like a hero. Instead, I did the bike equivalent of stagger over the line.
But I did it. I did what I set out to do.
I’ve found with this experience that I have no driving desire to do another century. Maybe it’s just that I’m not fully recovered yet. But I think it’s more accurate to say that this experience reinforced my conclusions from riding Shoreline: my happy place is about 50 miles a day. Enough for a challenge, but something that can be done with enough time and energy left to explore what’s down the road.
I think that’s the kind of writer I want to be as well. I love writing. But I also truly enjoy my life outside of my stories.
But that’s just part of the process: you try to find your happy mileage, your effortless action. Sometimes you’ll overextend and do too much. But you’ll also learn from those experiences. I know I did:
No more centuries!
