Just stay calm, Rach. Keep calm, and breathe.
‘You OK, Rach?’ Sam asks quietly, riding up alongside me before we reach the dreaded corner. ‘You can get off the bike and just push, you know. You don’t have to ride this.’
I stay close to the back and watch as one after the other take turns in riding through the deep, muddy pit, scrambling up onto the banking on the other side. Cockney Luke and his fun bus pals have been there for a while already. They stand whooping and cheering as they video everyone riding through the obstacle, making it safely across to the other side in whatever way they can.
‘WOO HOO! Go, Mark!’
‘HEYYYY! You made that look TOO EASY, Sally!’
‘NICE ONE, KAREN! LOOKING GOOOOOD!’
‘OMG, JULIE, YOU LEGEND! Through in one go!’
Two of the non-Scots didn’t make it through the muddy pit and Veronica decided to push her bike in the end, after her Ironman husband was one of those who didn’t successfully navigate his way across. Being in the wrong gear, and therefore not being able to maintain sufficient torque (this being the force applied to the pedals) proved problematic. In the murky, muddy water, being in a gear that is too low, i.e. ‘granny gear’ (no offence to any arse-kicking, cycling grannies intended, this is a familiar term used in cycling), there was not enough force to push through the water, mud or any obstacles, and so the wheels slipped and spun around, making the bikes wobble uncontrollably. This is exactly what happened to Ironman and one of the non-Scots (it may have been PJ or Duncan, I can’t recall) to the delight and amusement of Luke, who caught it all on camera.
And now it’s my turn. I can feel the sweat trickling down my neck, and the throbbing and oozing of my bandaged – and now increasingly swollen – knees. But I want to give this a go. I want to be like Sally, Julie and Karen; I want to at least TRY to ride my bike through the murky pit. I don’t want to be that person who was too scared to give it a shot – despite my very convenient (and very visible) – Get Out of Jail Free card.
‘Come on, Rach, you can do it!’ Luke shouts across from the other side of the muddy pit. I look across the banking, and I can see that the whole group is standing, watching and willing for me to make it through.
‘Yeah, go, Rach! We know you can do it!’ Julie shouts, whilst Karen whoops and pumps her fists above her head.
My confidence has been severely dented by the collision and I’m still in a state of shock that I’m having to ride the rest of today’s already challenging route with painful, open wounds. But in a way, it helps me to focus, because really, how much worse can it possibly get? Even if I don’t make it across the muddy pit and I fall foul of the same mistakes as Ironman and PJ (or Duncan), resulting in me being buck-aroo’d off the bike and into the stagnant filth, so what? It can’t possibly be any worse than a day on the minibus with heatstroke, or an unfortunate bike collision and subsequent face-plant onto bumpy gravel.
So, what the actual fuck have I got to lose?!
My gears are high enough to stop me from sinking into the pit (I think), and I’ve ridden back a little way to get a decent run-up. I’ve chosen my line (this being my preferred route through the muddy filth) and there’s nothing left for me to do but pedal. I push down hard, gripping tightly onto the handlebars, knowing that I will be riding over some invisible loose rocks, stones and debris lurking underneath the burnt-orange water. The only thing I can do is to hold tight and pedal. I can feel my compression socks and bandages becoming saturated as my wheels spin in the water, dousing my legs. But the water feels cool, and it has an incredibly soothing, anaesthetic-like effect on my shredded flesh. My handlebars jerk as I can feel the wheels weaving and dodging their way over and around small, moving rocks underneath the water, but I push, push, push down on the pedals and ride over them.
I WILL MAKE IT TO THE OTHER SIDE.
I’m through the deepest part of the pit and I can see the incline of the banking on the other side. One of the Scots shouts at somebody to make room for me to come through, and I know then that I’ve done it: that I’m safely across. I’m elated. I’m in pain, and the most physical discomfort I can recall ever experiencing, but inside I’m dancing around, setting off fireworks in celebration of … riding through a muddy pool of water. It doesn’t seem like very much, but to me, in this moment, it is everything. I had a plethora of fears – real fears – about cycling through the murky, filthy pit and my ability to get to the other side. And after falling off my bike and hurting myself so badly only hours before, I had every possible reason to opt out and take the easier route. But in choosing to commit to at least trying to ride across, I caused my Bastard Chimp irreparable damage, from which he may never recover. This is what I had absolutely no idea I had come here for. I had no clue when taking on a challenge like this, that in one single, victorious moment, it would all make sense. This is that moment. Despite all the pain, and the struggle that has gone before, I chose to ride through the deep, muddy, filthy pit – and I made it to the other side.
* * *
It’s our last day of cycling through Costa Rica and we’re into the last 25km. Over the past two days, we have ridden for miles along tiny, narrow tracks through banana plantations. We have seen men wearing harnesses, sweating profusely as they drag hundreds of harvested bananas on pulleys behind them. We have been transported across crocodile-infested rivers, our bikes piled high on rickety old wooden boats, with zero thought to health and safety, and minimal confidence that either ourselves or our bikes would reach the other side. We have slept (and I use the word liberally) in an eclectic range of distinctly unglamorous locations. But these last few days – ever since making the decision to return to the group, and to get back on the bikes – have by far been the best.
On the evening of the bicycle collision incident, I did end up having to bite down onto a towel whilst Sam scrubbed my open flesh clean with lint and hot water. Riding the bike since then has been far more challenging – my knees wanting to seize up and heal, rather than be forced to pedal for mile after mile. But, the tightness eventually loosened, and I’m now accustomed to the pain. Of course, I would far rather have avoided this particular part of my experience, but then again, what doesn’t kill you …
And so here we are … Approaching the final 25km of riding up to the Caribbean coast. I simply cannot believe that we’ve made it this far – that now, we are so close.
‘OK, guys!’ Sam shouts over the general murmurs and conversations going on between the newfound friends. ‘We’re going to be turning onto a train track shortly. It’s a long section of about 15km. But please know that this is perfectly safe, you don’t have to worry. JC will be leading from the front, and it is very narrow, so it will mean that you will need to ride in SINGLE FILE, and you must give each other SPACE. If one of you stops suddenly, then it will be like dominoes. You all good with that? Right then, let’s go!’
Cycling along train tracks? OK, that doesn’t sound too bad. And 15km? That seems perfectly feasible – it’s only another 10km from there to the Caribbean coast.
FUCKING ACE! Yes, I can do this. I can do this, Sam.
We turn into the start of this next section of the ride, and I decide to hover close to the back of the pack. Sam’s message about riding in single file hits home: I do not want the pressure of somebody cycling up my backside when my now-scabbing-over, pustulating knees are doing their very best to continue pedalling, to keep my bike moving forwards. I’m happy with my decision. The train track isn’t what I expected, although I’m not quite sure what I had in mind. These are traditional, old-fashioned railway sleepers. Large blocks of timber laid out horizontally, with wide gaps of fresh air in between. Pedalling along these horizontal tracks, it soon becomes apparent to me that the next 15km may be the worst of the entire trip, or possibly my entire life. Why? Because the rhythmical bouncing and sharp jarring over the sleepers and the spaces in between feels like being repeatedly punched in my most sensitive female parts. And there’s simp
ly no way to escape the pain. Punch, punch, punch. Punch, punch, punch. It’s not like feeling ‘a little bit sore down below’ or ‘slightly irritated downstairs’, this is a full-on assault on my female genitalia, and it’s simply the worst physical torment I have ever experienced. My knees are torn to shreds, but pain? What pain? THERE IS NO PAIN COMPARED TO THIS.
I let the two people behind me move past, so I’m now riding at the very back of the group. Only Sam is left behind me, metaphorically holding my hand as he knows how much this is killing me. Physically, I’m in such agony that tears are streaming down my face with every revolution of the wheels. Yes, I’m crying – no, sobbing whilst continuing (only just) to move forwards along the wretched tracks. At times, I try to stand up on my pedals, but the track keeps narrowing and then we ride over several high, exposed bridges (still on the railway sleepers) so I don’t dare to do anything other than keep my bottom firmly on the seat and inch forwards despite my pain and my terrified tremors (I don’t do heights).
I stop and get off my bike – the agony is just too much to bear. I’m even berating my external female genitalia, which now feels to be protruding – bright-red and swollen like a baboon’s anus. I can only hope that there are no male baboons lurking, as they would no doubt mistake me for one of their species who is clearly demonstrating that I am ‘in oestrus’. I’m not: I’m just a very tired, very broken – and now a very swollen novice cyclist who wants to reach the coast.
I take some (more) high-strength Ibuprofen, slather myself in yet more lubricant and other seemingly ineffective anti-chaffing goo, and sob loudly on the shoulder of the ever-patient Sam before mounting my bike with the only goal being to reach the end of this wretched train track.
When will it end? I want it all to end.
* * *
‘Guys!’ Sam shouts above the rising, excitable chatter. ‘You all know that we’re now just TEN KILOMETRES away from the Caribbean coast.’ Loud cheers and whoops spread amongst the group. I’m standing quietly beside my Other Half, silent tears running down my grubby, salty face. My nether regions are throbbing. ‘So, listen up. The final track we’re taking will be very twisty and turny. It weaves in and around trees – so watch out for hidden tree roots – and it’s mostly on sand. Please be careful, because sand can be tricky to ride on. Stay in a low gear, and try to keep moving: stopping and starting in sand will be difficult and frustrating, especially when riding in a group like this. Give each other plenty of space. And finally, keep your focus and concentrate on steering: it can be more difficult to handle the bike on this kind of terrain.’
I’m not an overtly religious person, but from my early years of Sunday School teachings, I vaguely recall the story of the Ten Plagues of Egypt, when God sent down plagues of frogs, flies, hail and locust (amongst other insufferable things) to send some message or other to the kings of Egypt (I’d stopped listening by this point. I was only seven). And I wonder, is this my equivalent? I count the intolerable conditions I’ve been faced with thus far, which are gargantuan considering my mental health challenges. Flunked travel plans, sleep deprivation, zero access to basic hygiene amenities, heatstroke, bike collision and face-plant onto gravel, being injured, riding through deep, murky filth with seeping wounds, suffering potential long-term damage to my female genitalia .
Are we at ten, yet? No. So, we can’t be at the end – or in my case, the Caribbean Sea.
I listen to Sam’s preamble, but in all honesty, nothing matters now. All I want is to get back on the bike and ride the last ten kilometres to reach the Caribbean coast. Nothing he – or anyone else – says will alter the fact that we must still mount our godforsaken chameleon-green Trek mountain bikes and pedal some more, until we reach the end of our journey.
Warn us all you like about the perils of riding on sand, and tricky, gnarly tree roots, Sam, but we’ve still got to ride over and/or around them.
I take a large swig of electrolyte solution from the now-battered, filthy water bottle mounted on my bike, and a reluctant bite of my last remaining peanut butter protein bar.
I FUCKING HATE THESE BARS!
I’m pumped, ready to go. We set off riding in our usual non-peloton (nope, we’re still not that good) and I’ve pushed my way to the front. Just like the first few days (which feel like they were a decade ago), I have Luke’s bulging calves within sight. I’m pushing down hard on my pedals, and enjoying the challenge of weaving in and out of the sandy track. Having to focus and concentrate on the ever-changing terrain, and moving at speed across ground which shifts momentarily from hard to soft, wet to dry, and rough to smooth is taking my mind off any of the pain I’m in. The goal – the ONLY goal – is to cycle this last ten kilometres and arrive at the Caribbean coast on two wheels. Not on Coco’s minibus, not by taxi, not limping whilst pushing the wretched bicycle: I want to arrive at that coastline on two wheels, despite all of the biblical calamities I’ve endured over the last ten days. This is the reason I came here: to prove that I can do this. And now, I can smell the sea. I have visions of Levi Roots cooking up some jerk chicken with Reggae Reggae sauce for us on the beach.
This is happening, we’re almost there.
I grip tightly on my handlebars and push down harder on my pedals. I’m concentrating on reading the track ahead, and picking my line. My mind is solely focused on moving forwards as fast as possible. Nothing else matters. No pain, no discomfort, just focus on reaching the end. The track is narrow, and just as Sam said, it weaves around tight corners. Handling the bike on various types of sand takes some getting used to, but hey, where’s the surprise on this trip? Unlike the days of riding the volcanic up, round, down roller-coaster trail as we set off from the Pacific Coast, this isn’t a wide, open expanse – it feels like we are enclosed here. But then, the sky widens as though someone has just turned the dimmer switch up.
‘IT’S THE SEA! I CAN SEE THE SEA!’ I shout to anyone who will listen. WE’RE HERE! IT’S THE CARIBBEAN SEA!’
The group of us rush to abandon our bikes at any reasonable location. Mine has been unceremoniously dumped next to a tree. We remove our shoes and socks, and like a stampeding herd of turtles, stagger down to the sea and immerse ourselves in the cold, salty water. Everything is numb. The cold water washes away my pain, as the brightest, bluest Caribbean sky lifts my broken spirits. We’ve made it! I stand with my arms raised high in the air, making a victory pose on the wet sand, the vast ocean behind me. People in the group take photos of the evidence that we are here. We have cycled just over 480km, and we’re at our finish line: we are standing in the Caribbean Sea.
I don’t care how I look. I’ve forgotten about anything relating to my own image, and I’ve stopped picking myself apart on the endless quest for imperfections. My body dysmorphia doesn’t exist. There’s no place for it here. It has been swept away into the sea, and carried by the waves to a different place. It’s no longer my burden to carry, as the focus of pedalling on my bike and surviving this trip has usurped anything my Bastard Chimp can possibly throw at me.
I have arrived here, and I feel like Superwoman.
EPILOGUE
I’ve erupted in large, ugly cold sores, I’m bandaged up heavily on both knees and one elbow, and I have visible dark bags under my eyes. Not the imaginary ones from a few months ago, but real ones. I have baboon’s arse genitalia, and I’m struggling to sit down, walk, move – or do anything without wincing in pain. I’ve written my future sex life off as a bad job, and resigned myself to a relationship of hand-holding and companionship – and possibly The Times crossword – going forward.
This cycling adventure was always meant to challenge me; it was supposed to force me to look in another direction to realise what I was capable of, both physically and mentally. And as I sit here, reflecting on the experience of not only cycling for 480km across another country, but the months beforehand of self-discovery and learning, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I would go through it all again. The enormous cold sores on my face
will eventually disappear, my battered knees will heal. My nether regions will (I hope) return to some reasonable proportions. My body will recover from the serious bashing it has endured over the last ten days, but my mind will never be quite the same again.
I have faced so many of my anxieties in the run-up to this trip and all the way across Costa Rica, and my ability to cope with those challenges without the need for medication or running is now indisputable. The body dysmorphic disorder therapy earlier in the year enabled me to access a mental health tool box which has undoubtedly made an extraordinary difference to the way my mind selects, interprets and accepts thoughts as being the truth, whilst this epic cycling challenge has made me see myself and my own physical capabilities in a whole new light. And it’s for these reasons that losing running back in 2017 was quite possibly the best thing to happen to me, because I’ve finally learned how to manage my anxiety and how to tackle the Dream Stealer.
What does anxiety feel like?
It’s a daily battle with the Dream Stealer.
It rears its ugly head like one of the bullying, meat-head giants who trample across the BFG’s hillside.
It’s a cat pawing at a cornered mouse, a bully taunting the vulnerable kid at school. It’s always there, lurking in the background, ready to rouse and pounce, paw and taunt – you just don’t know when.
It laughs and says, ‘You can’t!’ when otherwise, you might have – just possibly – dared to consider that you could.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 23