Day One: 100 miles via bicycle from Houston to LaGrange, TX.
Typically, this isn't too difficult, especially if you're in your early 30's, have routinely ridden century (100 mile) rides on a bike, shrug in an "aw shucks, it's no big deal" manner when people ask about past Ironman races, and have been down that stretch of road several times before.
It's a very different game when you're 62 years old, haven't exercised with much appreciation since junior high, think colorful Spandex clothing is for those "flat-bellied" people, and can't figure out why someone would ride a cotton-pickin' bicycle when a car with an internal combustion engine is a fine invention.
But there was my dad, rolling into LaGrange, battered and beaten, but victorious. Late last year, while he and I were enjoying some really epic anxiety attacks regarding our careers, I said, "Dad, we need an adventure. The rules are:
1. We have to train for it. Unlike fishing, we can't just show up and do it. The preparation is part of the fun.
2. Success cannot be guaranteed, otherwise there's no adventure."
He agreed, and I signed us up for the MS-150 ride from Houston to Austin. It's set for two days, with an overnight stay in LaGrange, then a finish line celebration in Austin behind the Capitol building with 13,000 of your closest friends and fellow riders.
April came and we hit the road. With 100 of our newest friends from Taco Deli, like two-legged lemmings we started our annual migration from Houston back home. 200 yards into the ride, he forgot to shift going up a hill, couldn't unclip, and fell over. Hmmm. This could be a long day, I thought. He swore quietly, righted himself, and pressed on. After nine hours on the road, we hit LaGrange, where we'd eat more tacos than allowed by law and try to get some rest.The next day, though, revealed that Day 2 would be tougher in every way than Day 1. Shortly after starting out, I noticed Dad was rather focused. His knee was binding on him due to an old ACL unjury and our pace was getting dangerously slow. At the first rest stop 10 miles in we pulled over.
"Dad, what's wrong?"
"My knee really hurts. My ACL is flaring up and I can't seem to get comfortable. I'm in bad shape."
"Let's pull it."
"No. I didn't come here not to finish."
"You didn't come here to go home injured, either."
We decided to catch the bus and ride it back to Austin. The day would be done. However, the bus volunteer indicated that the only bus we could ride would take us and our bikes to the next stop, 10 miles down the road. Good enough, let's just head toward Austin, we thought. A few stops later, I found the lunch tent while Dad found the first aid tent. The nurse wrapped his knee with the last bandage she had, and his spirits lifted. I found a volunteer to get info on the bus going home.
"Right there," he said. "White bus takes you back to Austin. No finish line. No pictures. Yellow bus takes you to the next water stop, and you ride home from there."
It's in those moments that you're faced with a choice. Suffer for victory, or cut your losses.
"Dad, it's your call. Can you ride 10 more miles?"
Pause
"Yep. Let's take the yellow bus."
We jumped on the yellow bus and bounced our way across Texas to the last stop outside of Austin where they dropped us off. Dad clipped in one more time. Weaving our way through east side neighborhoods, we finally crossed under I-35 and into the University of Texas campus. Cruising through campus, I knew he was in pain, but I smiled like a fool. Coming up the backside of the capitol, I yelled above the crowd noise, "This is what it's about!" He just smiled. We rode 120 miles across Texas, with the finish line in doubt, accepting help and encouragement along the way.
Now, I have a great picture of he and I in our colorful Spandex, crossing the finish line.
I love that old man.
Onward.
JRH
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