Harder Things Before

Snake River Road, Grand Tetons, 2018

It’s March 31, 2018. I am on a 180-mile ride in Kentucky, in preparation for Dirty Kanza 200 and Race Across the West. I am struggling on this ride, even though this is far from the longest ride I have ever done. I am up in my head, berating myself and questioning my worth. It’s an annoying habit, yeah? My coach’s words ring around my head, “Control the controllables.” Despite repeating that over and over, I push back on it.

And then I am hit by a car. Just like that: one second, I am on my bike. The next I am knocked on my ass. I am Icarus. I am roadkill. I cannot move.

Too long, didn’t read? I had 2 compression fractures in my lumbar spine. I kissed my bike dreams good-bye. I withdrew and healed and acted like I would be okay.

It’s September 2, 2018. I cross the finish line of Rebecca’s Private Idaho with Laura Furey and Josh Gillam. 100-ish miles on gravel with scenes unlike any I have ever imagined having the privilege of visiting, let alone riding my bike. I get a high-five from my queen, Rebecca Rusch. I hug my friends. I am too happy to realize all that I’ve managed to do in six months.

I return to Indiana. I say, “You only die once. Make it count.” I mean it. I track down my friend & co-worker, Dr. Sandy Taylor, and agree to join her crazy bike dream of Race Across the West, a 900+-mile relay race from Oceanside, CA to Durango, CO.

Too long, didn’t read? I threw myself into rehabilitation so that I could return to my demanding career and bike life. I realized that life comes and goes so quickly – embrace the pain and seek out the joy. Overcome. Adapt. Persevere.

It’s June 15, 2019. I have crossed the finish line of Race Across the West with my teammate Sandy. Our crew cheers us on, I am trembling as I hug everyone. The euphoria and disbelief of finishing such a huge journey is overwhelming… and shadowed by my reality.

Because somewhere between Flagstaff and Tuba City, I had a panic attack of undocumented proportions because a semi-truck passed with within six inches. I was ready to DNF right then and there, as the fear of not only myself, but of Sandy, getting killed on that highway terrified me to the bone. Sandy finished that segment of the race like the queen she is, and I got back on my bike. But as I was recovering from that binding panic, I whispered to Laura, “I am so, so angry.”

Too long, didn’t read? No matter how physically prepared I was for finishing Race Across the West, I had been hauling around the terror and fury of that crash in ’18, and it had taken up residence in my brain with an insidious familiarity.

It is December 17, 2019. One of my closest friends calls me a truckload of crazy. He’s not wrong. I’m savagely drunk and incapable of stopping my sobs. But he is also so, so cruel. Because he knows exactly how brutal he is in his accusation, and he does not care to check his words.

Several months before, I was diagnosed with PTSD. Throughout Cognitive Processing Therapy and rounds of antidepressants, I struggled with the shame of a mental illness that was reserved for valiant soldiers. But every symptom, every struggle and every ghost pointed my therapist to the obvious. I must accept that I am who I am, or I would not survive this. Desperation pushed me from suicidal ideation to intention.

Too long, didn’t read? In the aftermath of that night, I must reconcile my actions and I must recognize that people do not always deserve my unconditional love. I wear the Scarlet Letter G for my guilt. I muddle through.

And now it is March 24, 2019. It had been a hell of a year this week. For every time someone says, “unprecedented times,” I take a mental shot of whisky. The worry and fussing and extremism and denial and anger at COVID-19 is exhausting. The fear of the unknown is exhausting. I am immunocompromised, my sister is pregnant, and my parents are old. I swing from a nervous silence because of that worry, to a dark humor that sees me through to the other side. I fall back to that which comforts me: my bike.

I look at what feels like an uncertain future, and I say, “You have done harder things before.”

Because I have. We all have. Shit is real. But so are we. 

Too long, didn't read? I will say it louder, for the people in the back, “You have done harder things before.”