Memories holds many things. When you win, they can hold the thrill. When you lose, they can hold the agony. When you struggle they can hold the work. When you suffer they can hold the goal. A memory repeated over time can be come a belief. A thing can be hard, soft, easy or unfathomable, all depending on how it is remembered. A memory can be a of things. It can even be a border, a firewall that keeps away any attempt to overwrite what is remembered. Many years ago, in the early mornings of a particularly cold fall day, I took it upon myself to pedal my bicycle from my home, across the twenty-two miles of varied terrain to get to work. The ride into the mysterious darkness was not the greatest challenge. The brush of cold, the crackle of the woods, the bustle of leave, nor the whisper of the wind, were enough to cause a second guess. The biggest challenge to this commute, would be the first three hills that would send me on my way from the County in to the City. Straigically placed at the bottom of a descent, these hills would be a barrier that is as strong as the water is wet. Unlike climbing hills in the past, there was not rhyme or reason for these hills. Where some hills could be considered stairs or walls, these hills were nothing more than obstacles. A bicycle would climb a long steep gradient to each the top only to drop down on the other side to sea level, and do it again. One after the other, these hills repeated the same pattern until finally the road would resemble something of sanity. In the early days, these hills combined with ignorance were torture. In the approach to the first one point three precent gradient, lulls in to a false sense of security. The hill doesn’t feel hard. It feels like one that could be climbed in a harder gear. So, as an ignorant one would, a shift of the gears and a stomp on the pedals, until the top is reached. Down the backside, reaching water level before the road begins to rise again. The gradient is now seven point two percent. From all accounts, this close, on the road, the gradient looks the same. Only now pedaling is much harder. The pedals barely turn over. A high gear feels to hard, an a lower gear feels to easy. The muscles in your legs feel like the very blood within them as clawing at your skin. The next hill rise approaches as you have barely begun to recover. From seven point two percent to five point three percent, the road begins to rise again. This time, like before, the road looks the same. The legs, they burn. The lungs, feel smothered. A breath takes to long to take, as there is not enough air in the mouth to fill this need. Up and over, around and down, where the descent awaits. Finally approaching the final hill, at a gradient of two point four, everything hurts. The lungs, the ribs, the legs, the back, everything aches. Everything hurts. The mouth is filled with the tastes of blood. The legs, feel like bricks. The hills have been ascended an now only four-teen miles remaining. That was the memory. That was the reality. That was my belief of these three hills. If there was a way to commute to work around them I would find it. If there was way to drive over them I would take it. If there was a way I could avoid these hills, these god forsaken ascents, I would consider it. A more dangerous route, a longer route, a narrower route, any route that didn’t involve these hills was the preference. So much so that one early morning, in the dead of night while commuting, the unthinkable happened. Pressing onward, on the busy main road, racing a traffic light, I found myself in the middle of a construction zone while traversing a more dangerous road. At first the traffic was held by a lucky traffic light. It appeared that I would have enough time to sprint on the bike from the start of the light to the end of the zone. Then I heard the all to familiar roar of the combustion engine approaching from the rear. I was aside a k-rail, unable to access the shoulder. Before me was at least 100 feet of construction zone to traverse. Behind me, fifty feet completed. The sea of cars approached, like a wave of water attacks the beach. I remember the blinding lights, the press if the wind against my skin, the roar of the engines. I even remember the feel of the metal of a passing trucks passenger mirror as it struck the back of my helmet. I remember it like I was still there, dangling over the K rail, scared to move, to cold to remain still. As I look back, the memories of that day and the days before it, the lung busting efforts, and the near death experience. As I look on those memories, it makes sense to simply stay away from those hills and the more dangerous road. No sense in pushing myself to exhaustion only to have covered six miles of my commute. It doesn’t make sense to brush again with death after almost succumbing to her whims. It is better that I stay to the roads that I know. The safer roads. The slower roads, the roads without hills and descents. The roads where I would travel. This decision outlined my initial borders, my firewall without knowing it I was reinforcing the notion that the roads beyond what I knew were safe, were dangerous. It would be a few years before I would even pick up the bike again. I would ride within the roads that were safe. These roads did not hold my interest. The hills on these roads were equal to the rise and descent of a speed bump. The most challenging being the ramps and falls of the stairs that surrounded the neighborhood. These hills were steep but quick. By the time the momentum from the previous fall abandoned you on the climb, the climb was completed. It was not until the winter of the next year that I started taking cycling seriously. Between paying for a social media account where I could track my rides to paying for equipment, components and gear to make the rides efficient. I was going to start treating cycling like a prescription. I set a goal of pedaling twenty miles everyday period. I purchased a indoor bicycle trainer that would allow me to pedal indoors. A new television would give me something to watch while I pedaled. Sensors for both my rear wheel, my crank arm and my heart, would keep track of my speed, cadence and heart rate. I even took the extra step of getting clipless shoes and pedals for the bike so that I could have an efficient pedal stroke. The first week was hard. It was a struggle to get on the bike. In a moment, between the comfort of the bed and the thought of getting on the bike, more than one hundred excuses pass through my mind. Its to hot. Its to cold. The weather isn’t right. The body is to sore. You need time to recover. No one is checking on you. You don’t have to do this. There is no reward for this. No one cares. The bike isn’t ready. You are not ready. You can always start tomorrow. You don’t need to go that far. Its only one day. You can rest today. There isn’t enough time. You have responsibilities. The chores are not going to get done. You need to study. You need to clean the bike. You can start when you order the right kit. You can start when the right kit arrives. You need to rest more. You need to consider more. You need to eat first. There isn’t enough time. The more I thought the louder these thoughts felt. They were as persuasive as a salesmen desperate to sell a used car. The offerings were sweet and simple to understand. Who would not want a few more moments of sleep? Why would I put myself through this torment? What was the end goal? What was the point? Then I would get out of bed, place me feet on the floor, walk over to the bike and strap the heart monitor on my chest. A fan was placed in front of the bike, a jersey was slipped across my shoulders, a pair of cycling shorts snapped across my hips. I slipped in to a pair of socks and cycling shoes, placed the phone on the cycling app and started pedaling. One hour and fourty-five minutes later, I had accomplished my goal. Twenty miles covered, no excuses remaining. Everyday for the first five days this was the struggle. I would wake, fight through the reasons why I shouldn’t, get dressed for the bike, get on the bike, pedal the bike and feel good when I finished. Each day felt like the first. I saw no progress. I saw no reward. I was struggling. I was hurting. I was ending the ride covered in sweat, tasting my own lungs, fighting a stitch in my side and counting the pedal strokes toward each one hundredth of a mile. My feet ached. My back was killing me. My shoulders were stiff. The my eyes were watered. Nothing about the way I felt after the ride, made it worth while to get back on the bike the next day. Nothing except the one day that I stopped. It was a Saturday. I remember it well. I was in bed, comfortably wrapped in warm blankets and cozy sheets. The winter morning was uncommonly warm. The house was comfortable. The quiet and stillness of the room was inviting. The moment between waking and placing my feet on the floor felt like an eternity. I remember sitting on the bed, pulling the covers away from my body and thinking aloud, “Ill just ride during the week.” Immediately after allowing the words to escape my lips, I felt both a soothing sense of relief and a deep sense of regret. I rested well that day. The time that would be spent spinning, thinking about spinning, worrying about spinning or recovering from spinning, was instead filled with thing that I enjoyed. Watching television, eating snacks, taking naps and idly watching the world outside my window move from morning to noonday to afternoon, to night. “Ill just ride during the week.” The words themselves seems harmless. One the one hand I would give myself plenty of time to recover. My muscles should be stronger, faster, with more stamina for when I get back on the bike. I should be fine. After all it was only one day. The very next day, that Sunday, I was back on the bike. This time with a sense of urgency, I tossed my kit on my body and immediately regretted my words. Pedaling the bike was equivalent to pushing a square stone up hill within a river of honey and tar. Everything hurt. The bottom of my feet felt like they were walking across barbed wire. My legs were heavy and stiff. My chest and shoulders ached like I had fought the night before. My neck throbbed. I could taste me lungs. My heart felt like it was about to jump clear from my chest. What was I thinking? I thought. At least I got some rest, but at what cost? The gains I had made for the past five days, were all but gone from one day of rest and relaxation. At two hours and thirty minutes later, I hopped off the bike and carried myself back to bed. As I lay in my bed, aching, sore, coughing, feeling every muscle in my body, I decided I would have to ride everyday. No excuses. Nothing was worth this amount of pain. More than two hundred days later, rides taking both inside and outside, I am have changed. No longer do I have the aches and pains. No longer to have the tastes of blood in my mouth or the pins and needles in my feet. My indoor hour and forty-five minute ride has been reduced to only forty one minutes. Just enough time to watch the beginning of Act II to any movie. Outside where I keep to my safe roads, with fewer hills and slower traffic, now I venture out to find higher hills and faster traffic. I long for the roads that would challenge me in my apparent strength and persistence. I wanted something harder. I wanted something challenging. I wanted to go beyond what was safe and familiar. Thus I have returned to the place where the original memory started. This was not preplanned. I did not go to sleep thinking that I would wake in the morning and tackle these hills. Didn’t plan to wake up, get on the bike and relive a memory. I didn’t plan on riding outside at all. It was something inside that told me to get on the bike and take it out on these hills. I lifted myself out of bed, slipped in to my kit, loaded my bike and took to the streets. The afternoon light shone brightly as the morning sun had begun its descent. Unlike rides in the past I was not tormented by thoughts and excuses. Nothing about this part of the ride was covered in the worry from rides past. I was comfortable, content as peace with myself and the bike. I arrived to the hills thinking only of the traffic that I would have to negotiate. In times past traffic has always been light. Today was no different. Where on the main road the speeds would exceed fifty to sixty miles per hour. Here on the single lane country asphalt, the speeds though no liberally posted, would be considerably slower. The first ascent was slow. The gradient was light, forcing me to keep the cadence slow and consistent. The bicycle upgrades I had purchased, converting the it from an eight speed to an eleven speed, made finding the optimal gear that much easier. Now I would pedal and keep the bike moving without having to worry if I was working to hard or if I was not working hard enough. “Your doing great!” a passing car called. I reached summit of the climb and started my descent. On the second climb the road was considerably steeper. A shift to an easier gear allowed me to keep the cadence the same, even if the wheels spun just that much slower. I went from keeping a steady pace of ten miles per hour up hill to only keeping a pace of eight miles per hour. One thing about pain is that you rarely notice it when it is not present. When it is present, you forget where it was an how bad it can be. I glanced behind an saw a trail of three to four vehicles pacing behind me. Up the road another five or sex cars where slipping down the other side. As I reached the summit, each car that passed spoke encouragement into me. “You’re doing Great.” “Keep going. ” “You got this.” “Don’t give up.” I smiled. Never at the time minding the lack of burning in my legs, blood in my mouth, ache in my back or surging in my neck. I was delighted to take on the third and final climb. Down the steep descent and back up the final climb. This time with no fan fare, no encouragement, no traffic and most importantly, no pain to speak of. I was over the hills. I was on the other side. The rest of the road was mine to negotiate. I had covered only six mile of my former twenty-two mile commute. Now I had done it without having to fight, gasp, bleed or suffer. I had done it. Memories holds many things. When you win, they can hold the thrill. When you lose, they can hold the agony. When you struggle they can hold the work. When you suffer they can hold the goal. A memory repeated over time can be come a belief. A thing can be hard, soft, easy or unfathomable, all depending on how it is remembered. A memory can be a of things. It can even be a border, a firewall that keeps away any attempt to overwrite what is remembered. I had succeeded in making a new memory and that is worth celebrating.