‘We’ve cycled around two volcanoes!’ I say, wondering if this will hit the ‘vaguely interesting’ vibe.
‘Oh. I’ve been to the park,’ she replies.
I feel more tears welling up and stinging my eyes through my snotty, spontaneous laughter.
My phone call with Tilly has made all the emotions pour out of me: the build-up of anxiety, the apprehension, the extreme fatigue, the sleep deprivation, the aching limbs, and the disappointment that I am here – sitting on the bus – and not out there, on the bike.
Have I failed? Why has this happened? Why do I feel so weak?
‘Rach, I’ve been thinking. I reckon we should stay in a hotel tonight. You’ve been so poorly, and I can’t imagine you’ll be much better after another night sleeping on a concrete floor,’ my Other Half says as he steps back onto the bus after his Costa Rica’s Got Talent experience. I can’t tell if I feel ridiculous or relieved at the suggestion.
Julie, Karen, Veronica and Sally are all still managing to ride across Costa Rica. Why can’t I?
‘Yeah, I think you might be right.’
The silent tears are still streaming down my face.
* * *
It’s sooooo good to finally be in a bed! My heatstroke + complete exhaustion combo brought me to my knees. One full day spent riding on Coco’s minibus-turned-emergency-ambulance was unavoidable in the circumstances, and I was – at that point – in no fit state to concern myself with any bruising to my cycling ego. Even my Bastard Chimp couldn’t be arsed to join in with his usual mocking diatribe, so I know without any doubt whatsoever that I was really quite poorly.
So far on this trip, I’ve been existing on a diet of predominantly peanut butter protein bars and packets of salty biscuits (with a few slices of watermelon thrown in for my one-a-day vitamin requirements), but I’ve struggled to eat proper meals. Today, for the first time, my appetite has returned … AND. I. WANT. FOOD!!
‘Hi. Could I order two chicken club sandwiches with fries for Room 211, please,’ I say to the non-English-speaking person on the other end of the phone. This feels like complete, unadulterated luxury.
It arrives and is quite simply the best thing I have ever tasted. I look over at my Other Half, who is in a deep trancelike state, unable to engage in any kind of conversation because he too is busy focusing on mopping up all the greasy remnants on his plate with his last remaining fries. I’ve never known either of us eat so much, so quickly. My tummy feels kind of bloated and is now protruding like a small child’s after eating too much cake at a birthday party. But I can already feel the energy flooding back into my system. It feels weird, like being plugged in, recharged. The listless shell of a person I was only a matter of hours ago is about to be replaced by a living, breathing, fully-functioning human being!
In my head, I’m processing the miles I’ve missed riding on the bike and I’m rationalising the contributing factors that have led me here. The rest of the group have been nothing but supportive, offering to help in any way – not that they can do much about my ongoing ‘Power of Yet’ versus ‘The Curse of Enough’ tightrope walk. Now and again, the strive to push myself tips over into something dangerous and potentially damaging, and kicking my own arse cycling up and over volcanoes whilst trying to keep up with Cockney Luke certainly falls within this bracket.
‘We don’t have to go back tomorrow, you know,’ my Other Half says sheepishly, once he emerges from his carbohydrate-induced coma.
What? What is he talking about?
‘We don’t have to prove anything to anybody, Rach,’ he adds in response to my continued, bemused silence.
‘What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t we go back and finish the ride? What do you mean?’ I honestly don’t know where to begin processing what he’s quite clearly suggesting.
‘You’ve been completely wiped out, Rach,’ he says. ‘And I’m worried if we carry on with the ride, you’ll push yourself too hard, and you’ll become really poorly.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing: he thinks I’m not fit to continue, and complete the cycle ride to the Caribbean!
‘But I’m eating real food again,’ I say, gesturing to my empty plate, which has just a few oily smears left as evidence of my recent calorific intake. ‘I’ve got my appetite back, and I feel tons better for having some proper food.’
My Bastard Chimp is quick to jump onto this apparent vote of no confidence and chaotic thoughts begin to swirl around in my head about the feasibility – or not – of my continuing with this epic cycling challenge. I know that I’ve been poorly, and I’m very aware that my body has been pushed to its limits. Admittedly, I feel weak. But, surely there’s an element of bad luck at play here? Yes, the first two days of inconceivably tough mountain biking has kicked my arse good and proper, but the heatstroke? I know that I’d be better prepared next time. I’d cover up any exposed areas and take greater care slathering myself in Factor 50+ … absolutely everywhere. I’d make a determined effort to eat proper meals rather than rely on my God-awful protein bars for sustenance, and I’d perhaps think twice about trying to keep up with Cockney Luke on the relentless roller-coaster climbs, allowing myself to settle a little further back in the pack.
I would learn to PACE MYSELF on the bike, too. Because you know what? I’m new to this – I’m still a learner, here. Sure, one who’s been on a hell of a steep learning curve, but I’m undeniably wet behind the ears when it comes to two wheels. I need to accept this fact and be kind to myself about the predicament I’m now in. Hear that again: I need to be kind to myself. This feels like a strange and uncomfortable notion and it makes me slightly nauseous. All I’ve ever done is buy into the ‘DIG DEEPER, TRY HARDER, DO MORE, BE BETTER’ mantra. This feels wimpy, and as though I’m giving myself an excuse to be shit.
Is that what I’m doing? Giving myself permission to just be shit?
‘I’m going to have to think about it,’ I say to my OH who has now snuggled down into his feathery-light, duck-down 10-tog duvet for the night. I don’t feel like launching into a big discussion about this, just now. I’m busy having my own internal battle, which is enough for me to manage. And as hard as the last twenty-four hours have been, I keep coming back to one thing: I desperately want to complete this challenge and reach the Caribbean coast on my garish green Trek mountain bike with the rest of the group in just a few days’ time.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP … The offensive alarm on my iPhone sounds. It might as well be a person standing over my head, banging on a large pan with a wooden spoon. It’s 4:30 a.m., and I’ve slept! We’ve BOTH slept like babies being rocked gently in Moses baskets. But it’s still objectionably early, and it’s time to break the bad news.
‘WHAT?! You want to ride again? TODAY? Are you serious?’
My Other Half doesn’t mean to sound so utterly incredulous at my decision, but he can’t help it. After days of trashed travel plans and a thorough arse-kicking on bikes with minimal sleep, one fried chicken sandwich (with delicious salty fries) plus a single night’s sleep in a bed of any description is more than enough to make any sane person want more of the same and to politely refrain from partaking in any further ludicrousness. Surely, enough is enough? And he’s right … to a degree. We don’t have to prove anything, to anybody; this is our cycling challenge, and we’re doing well to just be here and place ourselves amongst these ‘real’ riders. Plus, this is meant to be fun, right? It’s supposed to be an adventure, and anyone would be pushed to consider that twenty-four hours suffering the effects of heatstroke (nine of which were spent lying in the recovery position on a minibus) could constitute ‘fun’ of any description. But, despite all these undeniable truths, the fact is I HAVE enjoyed many aspects of this trip, and I don’t want it to end. Not here. Not like this.
I contemplate all that we have done so far and a wide smile spreads across my face at the realisation that the most meaningful, satisfying and even enjoyable parts of this adventure have also been the most challenging
: facing my fears and riding through them – literally up and over them, being fully immersed in uncertainty but embracing it anyway. Realising that just because something is scary and alien to me doesn’t mean that it’s too big for me to face. Even when the best laid plans go to pot, even when there are NO WASHING FACILITIES OR MIRRORS available for days on end, then I can still be OK. Realising that I don’t need those things, when – at one time – just like the daily Prozac happy pills, and later, just like my running – I firmly believed that I did.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, feeling bad that I may well have ruined my Other Half’s dreams of three days’ relaxing on a sun lounger by the terraced pool, ‘I’m sure. I’m going to send Sam a text. Coco can pick us up on the way to the start of today’s ride.’
That’s it, decision made. Thanks to one chicken club sandwich and salty chips, and a bed for the night, it’s game on: we’re getting back on the bikes.
35
BACK ON THE BIKE
WOO HOO! This is I-N-C-R-E-D-I-B-L-E! I’m intoxicated by the rush of endorphins as we ride up and over the Costa Rican trails, making me feel alive again. I’m so glad that I didn’t bail out when I had every opportunity to take an ‘easier’ option. But four nights spent lounging by the pool of a luxury hotel with the best fried chicken and chips in the world couldn’t come anywhere close to compensating for this. I’m back riding, and everything feels to be flowing. My strength and confidence have returned, and I feel more settled, having finally managed my Bastard Chimp, with his pathetic chuntering about me not being ‘good enough’ or ‘fast enough’ or ‘whatever … enough’.
Bore off, Chimp!
‘Hey, look! Up there!’ Julie hollers as she screeches her bike to a dramatic halt. Those of us riding closer to the front wonder if she’s had a mechanical malfunction and make an about turn. Luke and one of the Scots have ridden too far ahead, so they will miss out this time.
‘Oh, my goodness, it’s a sloth!’ Veronica screeches in her high-pitched West Counties accent. I look up and see a small furry ball hanging motionless in a tree. We stand around in a huddle, gaping up at the high branches in silence. No one knows what to say, other than ‘Wow, it’s a sloth!’ but the group is patient and kind, and we know what this moment means to Veronica. To be fair, this is what sloths do – they hang around motionless in trees – but there’s something special about knowing that we are on their turf, and this is their backyard. We are riding our bikes across Costa Rica, apparently in the middle of nowhere, on desolate, rough tracks, and I’m just so happy to be here. I feel proud of myself for not giving up; for turning my adversity and disappointment into fuel for getting up, and back on the bike. I look across at Julie and think how watching her over these past ten days has inspired me to keep going, and – regardless of circumstances – find my inner strength. And I think about how Karen has reminded me that superheroes come in all different shapes and sizes – there isn’t a one-size-fits-all. Veronica’s joy at seeing her mystical sloth is enchanting. Right here, right now, there’s nowhere else I would rather be than in this incredible place, with these incredible people. Finally, I am learning to live in the ‘now’ and see the beauty right where I am. I’ve been freed from waiting for some unspecified time in the future when everything will be perfect: when I will be perfect. It IS perfect – right here, right now.
The sky rumbles and then belches loudly, reminding me of my upset tummy from the previous day. We’re standing around admiring the sedentary sloth snoozing in his penthouse when everything changes. The air is suddenly filled with foreboding. A thin slash of sunshine pierces through the heavy raincloud, which has just placed itself directly overhead. Within seconds, the gash of sunlight has disappeared, leaving only the swollen cloud, now spewing out relentless, warm rain.
‘Let’s get moving, guys!’ Sam shouts from the front. ‘And say “hello” to your first taste of a tropical rainstorm!’ he giggles, riding away with both arms out wide as though he is catching water in his open palms.
How does he do that? I have no idea.
The warm, swollen droplets make it feel like we’re riding through a hot shower rather than the cold, piercing stuff back home. And it doesn’t make any difference to the oppressive heat. It feels as though the earth has absorbed all the warmth it could from days of baking under the blistering sun and is now smouldering like a hot massage stone. We have all brought our waterproofs on this trip – as per the suggested ‘list of essential items’ – but the mere thought of wrapping ourselves up in long-sleeved cagoules is akin to a chicken voluntarily jumping into a bag and being roasted in the oven.
Instead of the usual discomforts of riding in a cold downpour back in the UK, the challenges are very different here. The main – undesirable – effect I notice is that of my now entirely drenched padded shorts and the impact on my already saddle-sore arse. The warm, wet skin all around my legs and upper thighs – and, well, absolutely everywhere – is now rubbing against the sodden fabric. I can feel these areas beginning to burn and chafe, without any lubrication to protect the most badly affected parts. Nothing is dry. No part of my clothing, shoes, undergarments, Camelbak (or contents thereof) is unaffected. Any items such as iPhones or other mobile electrical devices are tightly encased in dry bags. This is one opportunistic airport lounge purchase that I’m very grateful for.
We continue riding in the hot, sticky rain for what feels like hours. I’m hypnotised by the sound of the water falling, bouncing off the trees and hitting the ground. Puddles develop on the uneven, bumpy track, making it more fun to navigate our way around – and more often through – the muddy pools. Miles tick by, and I’m getting used to the way the bike feels riding over the increasingly saturated ground. I can feel my speed increasing as I’m growing in confidence.
‘Hey, HEY! Coming through!’ I shout to my Other Half, who is riding along, chatting away happily to one of the non-Scots. I look to my left and then my right: there’s nowhere for me to go. I have no option but to ride between their two bikes, it’s too late for me to consider slowing down. This is NOT mountain biking etiquette. This is NOT how to overtake a rider – or riders, plural. This is NOT going to end well.
My Other Half is stunned by the sudden appearance of my front wheel between his and Non-Scot’s bike. He instinctively turns his head to look, but unfortunately for me, he swivels the front wheel of his bike as well.
‘SHIIIIIIT! WATCH OU—’
But it’s too late. His front wheel has collided with mine, and I hit the floor: my knees, elbows and palms skid along the scree, picking up small stones and leaving much of my skin behind. Fortunately for him, he has landed on top of me.
I’m stunned.
‘SAM ... SAM!’ my Other Half hollers over audible gasps from the group as I lay splayed out on the gravel. Like a homing pigeon, our group leader makes an abrupt U-turn and I can hear his wheels skid up to where I lie face down on the ground.
‘Bloody hell, Rach! You’re determined to make me earn my corn this week, aren’t you? Do you think you can move? Can you stand up?’ he asks, reaching down to help scrape me up from the gravel track. I suddenly feel very alert and tingly all over. Aided by Super Sam, I do a quick scan of the most vulnerable, bony areas: knees, ankles and wrists. I figure that at least I haven’t broken any bones. My body is throbbing, and is now completely flooded with adrenalin. Blood gushes from both knees, and there’s a large flap of skin hanging loosely over a gaping wound on one knee. I can’t feel any pain. It probably needs stitches, but I don’t have that option available to me. Instead, Sam and I slowly make our way to the steps of Coco’s emergency bus, where I sit down as he opens the large First Aid box, preparing to assess me for damage. I can feel my entire body stinging, as though I’ve just been harangued by a mob of very angry bees. The stinging is all over my body, because the impact areas are quite evenly spread – my knees (which have suffered the worst of the impact), both elbows and the palms of my hands, both of which are severely grazed, and m
y palms now have indented, bloody pieces of gravel embedded in them.
Sam has his medical gloves on, and methodically works his way around my battered and bruised body, doing his best to clean up the mess I’ve made of myself. Saline solution cleans the more superficial wounds, but we both know that my knees will need more comprehensive treatment later – we’ve still got another twenty-five miles of riding to complete today. If he can bandage me up so that I can at least get through to the end of today, then we will deal with the bloody carnage later. Above all else, I DO NOT WANT ANOTHER DAY TRAVELLING HORIZONTALLY ON COCO’S MINIBUS.
I want to get back on my bike. I want to ride.
‘God, Rach! What is it with you on this trip?’ Mark asks, looking concerned as I bite my lip, grimacing through the reality of making my bloodied limbs pedal again. The nauseating pain hasn’t kicked in yet, just throbbing and tightness. My skin has been shredded from both my knees and I’ve packed them tightly with a pair of adapted compression socks (with the feet cut out), covered by Sam’s First Aid bandages. The tightness I can feel is my body trying to protect itself from any further damage. My knees have stiffened up completely, but I’ve no option other than to force my limbs to bend and to move again. Stinging, tingling, throbbing, aching, and flashes of acute pain follow me along the next twenty-five torturous miles. Blood seeps through my compression sock/bandage combination, and I don’t honestly know how I’m still moving forwards.
Why me? Why this?
After the dreadful experience of heatstroke, I made the firm decision to get back on the bike, and complete this challenge. And now this.
WHY?
‘Watch out, guys! There’s a large pit of water coming up around the next corner. It’s quite deep with rocks in it, and there’s a sharp rise out onto the banking on the other side,’ Sam shouts, riding back towards the group of us. Luke and the fast boys have forewarned him of this unhelpful obstacle, so that he can pass the word on to the rest of us. I’m struggling to process how much more difficult this day can possibly become. Riding through this murky – dirty – water and submerging my now-shredded, bandaged knees in a pit of filth is simply too much for me to comprehend: how can I possibly get myself through this? I can feel that my head has gone into survival mode.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 22