How is she doing it? How is she able to dig so deep, and just keep pedalling like that?
I think back to the things I’ve heard her say – and to the reason for her taking part in challenges such as this: she had her heart broken. When her husband left her five years ago, she was left staring into a deep void of lostness. That place caused her to set out on a quest to find herself. It led to her discovering things about herself – and about her own strength – which she hadn’t known before. I can see how the pain and the struggle has morphed into something else: it has been magically transformed into inner strength. I realise that the same thing is true for me. Just like Julie, my struggle has become my strength.
I get back onto my saddle, and I turn to face the climb. I can do this, I tell myself, inspired by Julie’s doggedness. I can fucking do this! We continue to silently crawl upwards, and the ground eventually breaks into a flatter, less severe, dusty track.
‘Thank GOD for that!’ I say to Julie as we are now pedalling side by side, finally able to break the desperate, exhausted silence. I look around and notice that the scenery is vastly different now: the ground is a deeper, burnt clay colour, and the sand is no longer beige. I shift the gears on my bike, and pick up my pace. We’re rolling again. I’m so relieved to be moving forwards – not up mountains, or over large, insurmountable obstacles, just forwards. A mini rush of adrenalin floods my body and replenishes my earlier fatigue. Julie is still cycling with me, and she’s making every effort to keep up with my increasing pace. As I put my foot down to speed up, she does the same.
‘We can do it, Rach! Only 5km to go. We’re almost there. We can do it!’ she shouts across from the other side of the clay track.
I look over at Julie, with her face splattered in mud, dust – both beige and burnt clay colour – streaks of sweat, and traces of white salt, and I smile.
This woman is fucking incredible!
34
SICK
It’s cycling Day #2. The camp waiting for us at the end of over 40 miles of mountain biking and 4,500 feet of climbing on Day #1 was … a large, empty room, not unlike an aircraft hangar, with a concrete floor. We moved our designated tent far away from the place it had been erected: next to one small toilet which didn’t flush, and had never seen a splash of Toilet Duck. I think I slept, but I don’t honestly know. Exhaustion, shock and anxiety over what lies ahead has completely overridden my ability to know what I think. Anyway, who cares if I slept or not? Even I don’t care about that any more. All I care about is getting through whatever the hell we must cycle across, around, up and over, en route to the Caribbean coast. We had a hell of a day’s riding yesterday, and some of the group can’t comprehend that we might face the same again today: I’m one of them.
Cockney Luke is inhaling scrambled eggs and a rice dish with some indiscernible grey meat in it. I can barely stomach food, let alone warm rice with sloppy eggs, and so I’m back to my faithful peanut butter protein bars. I realise that I now hate them with a passion – I can’t comprehend that these are my main nutritional sustenance for the coming days.
‘OK, guys, listen up!’ Sam interrupts the scraping of plates and chinking of cheap cups. ‘We’ve got another big day ahead of us, but nothing quite as technically challenging as the last part of yesterday’s ride!’ Audible relief spreads amongst the group, and Julie makes a loud whooping sound. ‘You all did so well yesterday, and I want to commend you for your amazing efforts.’ He goes on complimenting us – presumably delivering a classic ‘shit sandwich’, this being designed to make the bad news slightly more palatable. Here it comes … ‘Today, we have some more climbing in the morning, and then a long, flat road section after lunch.’
Fucking hell! I don’t honestly know how much more climbing I can face. And this is only Day #2! A quiet acceptance has now fallen between me and my Other Half, who is still in a deep state of shock following all that has happened over the past twenty-four hours.
‘Can you pass the chamois cream, please?’
‘Sure.’
‘Have you done with the electrolytes?’
‘Yep.’
‘Come on, guys, liven up! Let’s get some tunes on!’ Cockney Luke shouts through his perma-smile as the swarm of us hover nervously on our bikes outside the aircraft hangar campsite. It’s 5:30 a.m. and we’re ready for off. Music pumps loudly from Luke’s iPhone as we roll away and onto the next part of our challenge. I smile to myself, as memories of shuffling up and down on the sticky Acapulco nightclub dance floor twenty years ago to Livin’ Joy’s ‘Dreamer’ momentarily distract me from my saddle-sore arse.
‘I’m riding next to you and your nineties house music fun bus, today!’ I declare to Luke, who laughs as I cycle alongside him singing house classics at full throttle. The funky tunes cheer me up, and I’m thinking, I love this! I fucking love this! Movement, fresh air, freedom, heart thumping in my chest, and now, funky house tunes! Finally, we’re turning a corner.
* * *
I’ve had an epic morning riding alongside Luke’s fun bus. ‘Where Love Lives’, ‘Ride on Time’, ‘I Like to Move It’ … we’ve sung along to endless retro tunes courtesy of Luke’s mobile disco. What’s more, I’ve managed to keep up with him (although I did fall behind during the Ultra Naté track – I was never a big fan of that one).
I hadn’t noticed, but the sun has been blisteringly hot today and it’s getting hotter. It’s early afternoon now, and this section of the ride is very different to the meandering, sandy tracks of the morning. We’re now cycling single file along a main road. Enormous articulated lorries thunder past as we roll mile after mile along the flat tarmacked motorway. That’s what it is: it’s a motorway. This would be illegal back home. Regardless of the minimalist Costa Rican health and safety laws, or non-existent traffic violations, it’s good to be moving at a fast pace and eating up the miles.
This is flat … We’re cycling on tarmac … Luke’s playing his party tunes … What’s not to like?!
But, crikey, that sun! And the pace … Luke with his enormous calves is still pushing on ahead, with little old me pedalling like merry hell. I’m trying – and just about managing – to keep up. But it’s so hot.
It’s just soooooo hot.
There’s no shade here. Gone is the lush vegetation of the volcanic mountainous climbs; there are no trees, just sky. Veronica has zero chance of spotting an orphaned sloth for the next 30km, unless one has sleep-walked far away from its usual treetop habitat or been abducted by a lorry driver.
‘I hope you guys have covered yourselves in sun cream!’ the ever-present, safety-conscious Sam shouts as he cycles at speed down the line, aware of the intense UV rays we are now subjected to. He knows that there will be no reprieve until the next pit stop in approximately 30km. My shoulders are bare. I’m wearing an all-in-one triathlon suit, comprising (very short) padded shorts, combined with a zip-up bodice. It has the look (and feel) of a swimming costume/nappy combination, and is perfect for these temperatures, but much of my skin is exposed. I hadn’t realised it until now (largely because of my immediate shock and survival mode) but the sun is slowly baking my body. Sure, I slathered myself in Factor 50 at 4:30 a.m., along with the various other gloopy substances I’m required to coat myself in, preventing everything from nappy rash to insect bites. I’m like a lubricated condom on a bike.
Mile after mile goes by, and I wonder how much of my Factor 50 gloop is still effective. How much of it has been washed away by the constant streams of salty sweat running down the entire length of my body, and the water from my bottle which I douse myself in at any given opportunity? I can feel my exposed flanks burning in the relentless heat, and my shoulders are a clear ten degrees hotter than the rest of my body. I gulp electrolyte solution faster than my body can process the salt replacement, but I’m focused on just one thing: pedalling.
We’re on our fifteenth rendition of Black Box’s ‘Ride on Time’ when the vision of Coco and his bus appears in a lay-by.
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br /> ‘Thank God! It’s the lunchtime stop,’ I tell my cockney friend as we speed up to reach Coco’s bus. Luke pushes on ahead, and I get another glimpse of his calves, which still stun me by their size and shape – I’ve seen racehorses with smaller thighs. The bus is tucked in just off the main highway, but there’s still no shade here. Coco has brought out his pop-up table and has laid out some food and drinks for us, but the place is swarming with flies. Our salty, sweaty bodies don’t help, as we stand side by side, swiping flying creatures away from our mouths so that we can replace some of the 4,000 calories we’ve just burned. Sadly, the heat – and the flies – are ruining my appetite. I feel hungry, but I can’t stomach much food. My body has worked so hard, yet it feels too tired to cope with an injection of fuel.
Back to peanut butter protein bars, then …
* * *
We’ve finished riding for the day and have finally rocked up at this, our third non-glamping location. Only this time, it miraculously IS a real campsite complete with showers, a BAR AREA (I gasp in awe) and the most important thing of all: a flushing loo.
Ahhhhhh! This is more like it!
‘Are you coming rafting with us, you two?’ Sam asks, once we’ve had all of ten minutes to regain some feeling in our nether regions following another forty-four tough miles of riding up and over volcanoes. I wonder, have I heard him correctly? He’s talking about GOING RAFTING? FFS! After the day we’ve had, who amongst us is in any fit shape to be careering down fast-moving water in an inflatable dinghy?
‘No. Not for us, thanks,’ I say definitively to Sam, before my Other Half has a chance to speak. I can tell from his sunken, hollow eyes that he’d rather sit motionless in the river and allow the cool water to numb everything from the waist down. And I’m right: the next few hours are spent doing precisely that. The few of us who are not derived from some superior gene pool sit in the cold river and reflect on all that has happened. Sometimes, we sit in comfortable silence listening to the unmistakable barking of the tree frogs and the constant singing from the giant grasshoppers as the cumulative tiredness washes over us. But this is frequently disturbed by random bursts of hysteria which – I can only presume – come from the utterly surreal experiences we have endured thus far and from our complete exhaustion.
Tonight’s evening meal should be enjoyable. This place is, by all other standards we’ve experienced on the trip so far, sheer luxury. As per the normal drill, we congregate at a designated time around a collection of long tables. But I don’t want to go for tea, tonight – I wish I could just stay in my tent. Cockney Luke and his posse are the first to order rounds of bottled beer, whilst large plates of food are hurried out from a hidden kitchen somewhere upstream.
‘Are you not going to eat that?’ my Other Half asks me, as I sit staring blankly at a white plate stacked high with varying kinds of beige stodge.
‘To be honest, I’m not feeling too good,’ I reply quietly, simply unable to force any of the pasta/rice/fried chicken/potato salad combination into my mouth.
I hadn’t picked up on it earlier, but now I can sense that something is wrong. My head feels funny. Is it dehydration? I turn down the kind offer of a chilled beer and opt for a bottle of water instead. No, something definitely isn’t right. I’m sitting listening to the laughter and chatter going on all around me. Everyone is so relieved to have arrived at this place. Many of the group are buzzing from their earlier rafting experience, whilst Julie and Karen are laughing about numbing their throbbing nether regions in the ice-cold river. I can’t join in.
‘I’m heading back to the tent,’ I whisper to my Other Half, who is fast sweeping up the many leftover carbohydrates on my plate. ‘Maybe I just need an early night.’ I don’t want to make a fuss. It’s nothing – I’m probably just tired.
Thankful for some peace in the confines of our small tent, I’ve crawled into my sleeping bag. My head is thumping, and I can feel the heat radiating across my shoulders and down my flanks. It keeps making me shiver. Fucking hell, I’m shivering! Bedtimes are early here – unless you’re Cockney Luke and his beer-drinking super-species, that is. I have my riding kit all ready for the morning but, more importantly, I’ve prepared myself for what I know instinctively will be a long night ahead. Bottled water? Check. Paracetamol? Check. Ibuprofen? Check. Imodium? Check. Electrolyte tablets? Check. Peanut fucking butter protein bars (as I haven’t replaced circa 4,000 calories from today, yet)? Check.
‘Right, I’m off to sleep,’ I say to my Other Half, who has finished his second bottle of beer and has come back to the tent to check on me – and get some rest himself before another long day on the bikes, tomorrow.
‘Jesus, you look pale, Rach! Are you sure you’re OK?’ he says before cocooning himself into his sleeping bag for the night. My tummy is aching. Gnawing pains are shooting across my abdomen, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I grab my stomach, trying to comfort myself, and to make it stop.
‘No. No, I don’t think I am,’ I squeak, before urgently unzipping my sleeping bag and dashing out of the tent, only just making it to the loo. This is where the night of horror begins. The pattern is this: I go back to the tent, crawl into my sleeping bag, try to sleep whilst sweating and shivering, roll around in pain, sip some bottled water, contort myself with yet another abdominal spasm, wake my Other Half (again) whilst squirming about reaching for the head torch and/or one of the many over-the-counter drugs I have lined up next to me, squeeze myself out of the tent, eject the remaining contents of my body. Most times, I make it to the loo. A few times, I don’t. I don’t get much sleep. Well, I don’t get any sleep. My Other Half insists on going to talk to Sam when the group wakes at some ungodly hour the next morning.
‘You’ve got heatstroke, Rach,’ Sam says, poking his head into our tiny, and now stinky two-man shelter. ‘I really don’t think you should ride today.’
What? What has he just said?
‘No! I’ll be fine to ride, Sam. I’ve had some rehydration salts, and I’m eating again. Honestly, I’ll be fine.’
I make a determined effort to rally myself, shoe-horning my aching limbs into an unforgiving triathlon suit, and I step outside the tent to go to the bathroom (well, the single toilet cubicle which has a mirror in it), but I feel shaky, as though I could collapse onto the floor at any moment.
‘I think Sam is right,’ I splurt, crying breathless tears onto the shoulder of my Other Half, who is equally exhausted. ‘I can’t ride today, I just can’t do it.’
* * *
It’s Day 3 and I’m lying listless on a bus seat, with bottled water and small amounts of bland food being forced into my mouth at frequent intervals.
I can feel the bus pull up for lunch. I’m still lying in the recovery position with my body curled up on one bus seat, my legs spanning the aisle and propped up onto the seat opposite. The rest of the group begin to trickle onto the bus to pick up various bits and pieces from their hand luggage.
‘Oh, Rach, you poor thing. You look like death!’ one of the Marks says as he gingerly steps over my legs, which are blocking the aisle of the bus (it’s one of the problems with being longer than 2’11” – the width of a standard bus seat). I don’t reply; I can hear him, but I’m completely zoned out. With some help, I’m managing to force down tiny sips of water, and even the occasional nibble of a salty biscuit, but my body is in virtual shut down. The previous two days of relentlessly push, push, pushing myself up and over the roller-coaster tracks of volcanic mountains, whilst trying in vain to keep up with Cockney Luke and his nineties house music fun bus – combined with the intense and prolonged heat of yesterday’s motorway section – has finished me off. I’ve lost more body fluids than I can possibly replace, and all I can do is sleep. I don’t even care about the fact that I’m the one who has been forced to utilise Coco’s mobile safety bus as a means of emergency transport, because I’m simply unfit to ride the bike. Thankfully, the severe heatstroke has wiped out my Bastard Chimp as well as myself.
The group are about to visit a local primary school, where – we’ve been told – we will be entertained by the throngs of young children, who I can hear whooping and cheering outside.
‘Are you coming to see the kids, Rach?’ my Other Half asks quietly, as he is getting ready to join the gang for this welcome break from the relentless riding. He has been sitting with me on the bus for the entire morning, holding the water bottle up to my mouth at frequent intervals and breaking off small sections of food for me to eat.
‘No, I’m good here, thanks,’ I say, still unable to bring myself to a seated position after approaching six hours of horizontal rocking and rolling on Coco’s converted ambulance. ‘But I would like to speak to Tilly. Please could you pass me my phone?’ I ask weakly. ‘I just want to hear her voice.’
Ring ring … Ring ring …
‘Hello, Mummy!’ an excited little voice on the other end of the phone answers.
Silence. I cannot speak because I’m sitting by myself, on a bus in a strange country, in floods of tears: I’m broken.
‘Mummy, are you there?’ the voice continues – she sounds so far away.
‘Tilly. Tills, it’s me!’ I gulp desperately, but I’m struggling to string more than three monosyllabic words together. ‘Oh, Tills!’
‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ she asks.
‘Oh, erm [gulp] I, erm [gulp harder], I’m just so tired, Tills. And I miss you – that’s all.’
‘Are you all right, Mummy?’ she says, sounding concerned.
I pull myself together, whilst silent tears continue to stream down my face.
If only you could see me, Tills.
I try to think of something interesting to tell her, because I’m very aware that a long-distance phone call with a parent has the excitement factor of a bag of salad for a seven-year-old girl.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 21