The open road is a scary place. Miles and miles of a beaten path, full of twists and turns, rises and falls all under the supposed light of day. There are places there the road is bumpy. There are places where the asphalt has been torn up to be re-paved. There are places where light cannot reach and places where the nature is abundant. Of all the places on the road, any road no matter the town, city, county or state, there are few places where you can stop and ask for help. If you have problem, you have to call someone else. If you need assistance, you are expected to call someone else. If you need medical care, a tow, mechanical assistance, or something as small as directions, you are expected to call someone else. Your problems are your problems. No one is going to stop and help you. The public has bills to pay, places to be, things to do, appointment to keep. Even in a car, when you have a problem, you are taught, stay in side and wait for the person, service, office or official you have called, to arrive and help. No one is coming to help you. You must wait. In an open, occupied, consumer based world, you place is to wait. That is scarier than any ghost, goul, or creature that might go bump in the night. In a car you have a place to sit and wait. You have protection from the elements, traffic, passerbys and prying eyes. You are encased in a shell of steel, glass and iron. You have a locked door, ventilation, a way to see out, lights on the front and rear as a way to communicate. You have a battery to power your cell phone, a seat that will cradle your body. If you have a bit of paranoia, you might even have some none parishible food in the trunk or some snacks to keep your energy up. You are relatively safe enough to doze off and know that you will wake up with your liver, kidneys and lungs intact. Inside the care you are safe. Not as safe as you would be in your home with the door locked, but safer than you would be on the side of the road without a vehicle. This is a danger that all cyclists embrace. We know that the road is dangerous and lonely. We know that anything that can happen will happen. We know that if something can go wrong, it will. While we cannot stop bad things from happening, we can be prepared for them when they do. Despite what commercials, internet videos, movies and grand tours would have you to believe, heading out on two wheels requires more than just a helmet, a credit card and a phone. You will also need to have confidence that no matter what happens, you can handle it. Such was the case with my ride yesterday. It was a nice warm end of autumn day. The sun had not yet made it to its peak when I rose from my quite comfortable mid-morning nap. Having already risen at six in the morning, it seemed like a good idea to get some much-needed sleep to as to make the most of the daylight when the opportunity presented itself. I remember opening my eyes, looking at my sunlight coated walls, having not a single thought running through my mind. No suggestions of getting up. No pressure to make something happen. No predetermined standard to achieve or supervisor to impress. Today, was a day to do what I saw fit. Funny enough the first thing I thought to do was to sit in my bed and think about what I wanted. At first the thought was to cast my mind back to a dream state. I remember trying to call back the images of my imagination where emotions could run high without consequence. I had no need for food, or drink. I was comfortable and yet comforted in complete uphoria. Compared to my minds world, reality felt bland. Like being in an amusement park where all of the rides and attractions had an overbearing cost that was advertised in place of the name of the attraction. I saw up in bed, looking at my feet, pushing the blankets and pillows aside. My muscles and bones stretched as I looked for the what it was I wanted to do. Really anything is possible. I could make my way over to the theatre and watch the latest ‘hit’ that was being pushed. I could take myself over to the mall and enjoy some of their overcooked imitation ethnic dishes that are supposedly healthier for my body and mind. I could, if I wanted, sit on the park bench with my camera and take photos of the tourist, neighbors, birds and squirrels that happened to be infront of my lens. Watching a movie, eating greasy food, taking photos, all of which were in their own right things that could make a feeling. I could watch a protagonist go on an adventure. I could eat and pretend to be on an adventure. I could take photos and imagine I had been on an adventure. Why not go have an adventure? The world, at least for the next six hours of daylight was mind to explore. Before I could think of where I wanted to go and what I wanted to see, thoughts of why I shouldn’t flooded my mind. Each thought more pronounced, more vivid and more resounding than the one before it. You don’t need to do this No one is watching you No one will care You will look stupid What if you get lost What if you get sick It wont matter if you do it It will cost you more than you can afford to spend You will ache from this The thoughts repeated as I began to dress for my day. I slipped in to my bib shorts and tossed a jersey over my shoulders. I complimented this with a light wind breaker that would keep my body heat close and any water off of my core. A pair of clean ankle socks were placed over my feet. A thin skull cap covered my head. A backpack full of supplies was locked in to place. I carried two sets of sunglasses. One set with tinted lenses and another set with clear lenses. Both of which contained inserts containing my prescription. I grabbed a cold water bottle from the fridge, my navigation computer from the desk, my wallet and keys from the tv stand and my bicycle from the space near the front door. As the front door closed, I locked my feet in to my clipless pedals and started pedaling. You don’t need to do this No one is watching you No one will care You will look stupid What if you get lost What if you get sick It wont matter if you do it It will cost you more than you can afford to spend You will ache from this Unlike days past I didn’t want to ride up to the neighboring all and back. I had seen those sites to the point where they were committed to memory. I didn’t want to ride up to the neighboring city, there was no place to sit and rest. I didn’t have a clue as to where I was going but I knew I wanted to go there and I wanted to have a rest while I was out. So instead of riding north to the neighboring town or east to the neighboring city, I would cycling west in to the closest major city. Surely there would be some place to sit and rest. I would be assure some place where I would be able to eat and relax before heading back to home. I shifted the bike in to gear and began pedaling. It was not lost on me that this was the very road where I had started my cycling journey so many years ago. I would get up, before sunrise and tackle these very roads. Unlike now, the city streetlights cast of illumination, cause the rocks and glass to glitter in the asphalt. One of my first concerns would be that a loose piece of glass or a stray piece of garbage would find its way in to my tire causing me to either walk the rest of the way to work, or hobble my way back home to get my car. When I did take the car, I was left with a sinking feeling in my gut. It was a feeling of defeat and shame that held on to mind like thick wax being pulled from a honey comb. I felt I could make those rides. If I was stronger, faster, had more gear or just planned a little better, I could have made those ride that had defeated me. The rides where I had to turn around and get the car. The rides where I reached a point where I could not pedal. The rides where I stopped and took the train, or a cab. Those rides haunted me. They were the rides that beat me. There was no way to go back to those rides. This ride, on the same roads, with better health, conditioning, a backpack full of gear and no time constraints, was like a victory lap. I was coming back to the battlefield and making the decision that should have been made. I was stronger, wiser, better equipped. Ready for anything that the terrain would toss my way. I was ready for a fight, that had long gone its way. I arrived in the city, and stopped at a local sub shop. Bringing the bicycle inside, I ordered my food and waited for it to be prepared. The number of times in the past I would have killed to have this much time before my work shift started was exciting. Unlike before I wasn’t tired, anxious, nervous or worried. I was calm. Peeling off the helmet, backpack, and cap, I sat and ate my food, peering through the glass at the pedestrians and vehicles outside. Today like every other day the city was alive an in motion. Everyone had to be somewhere and someone be it a driver, pedestrian, a traffic light or a passing stray animal was in the way. Life was happening. People were moving. Yet, the more I looked the more I noticed that no one was conversing. The pedestrians where focused on their cell phones. The drivers were either waving their arms pointing angrily at their wind shields or out the windows. For all the activity and motion outside, it looked like everyone was looking at their world through glass. Safe to say and do as they like, provided that their particular glass was not disturbed. My mood shifted from a sense of uphoria to pity. After eating I made my way across the street to the local bike shop. If anyone would be available for a quick conversation, it would be someone here, I thought. I could talk about bikes, look at bikes, determine what features I needed in a bike. If I was lucky I might learn of a new route to get round in the city. No matter what I found there I knew I would not over spend on anything I didn’t need or could not make use of. My backpack was already loaded and I didn’t have the storage. At the bike shop I met the staff, talked about bikes and learned a few things about my bike. First of which being that I installed the chain incorrectly, the rear needed to be replaced, and the chain was no lengthened properly. A new chain purchased, the current chain, lengthened and routed correctly and the rear tire replaced, the bike was better than new. The bike may not have been brand new, carbon fiber, glazed in unicorn tears. It was now as good as new. It shifted like a dream. The new tires were smooth. The bike was quiet and I was happy. I paid for the services rendered, and headed our the door ready to complete my little adventure with a lap around downtown before heading home. I turned the corner looking to my left and right for oncoming traffic. I remember watching the grass traffic island rush up to meet my face. I felt the rear of the bike rise beneath me, sending me over the handlebars. The pressure of the ground pressing on the top of my head was unique. It was like I was living a previous accident all over again. The next thing I remember was seeing all black. When I opened my eyes, a frantic panic woman in sunglasses was standing over me. “Sir, are you alright?” She repeated. I couldn’t tell if I was hit or if I had hit something. All I knew, was that I had opened my eyes. I slowly rose to my feet and lifted the bike rubber side down. The wheels seems straight and full of air. The brakes appeared to be working. The frame appeared to be fine and I didn’t feel anything on my body that would prevent me from pedaling on. I assured the woman that I was fine before tossing my leg over the bike and slowly pedaling off. Down the street, over the city roads, the bike and I slipped through the bikeways and footpaths like water rushing down a mountain. It was like the old days when I would be rushing to get home after work. The difference now being that the city streets where not saturated in cars and buses. I didn’t feel like a hamster fighting my way through a maze so much as I felt like a water droplet gliding down a windowpane. The freedom was invigorating. In my mind I was a tour de France competitor, fighting for the yellow jersey. Cutting my way around obstacles. Gliding over obstructions. Mapping my route based on what was in front of me like lightening searching for the ground. I was flying. Without pressure, or constraints I was flying. I stopped about three miles from the bike shop when I noticed that the front wheel didn’t feel right. Before I left the shop, both wheels refused to collapse beneath my weight. Now the front wheel was giving way. I pulled off to the side of the road and immediately pressed on the tire with my fingers. The tire was as flexible as a wet sponge. I pulled off my back pack, found my electric air compressor and attempted to inflate the tire. The compressor failed to activate. I pressed and pressed on the button only to have the small piece of electronics and plastic stare back at me blankly. I had with me a replacement inner tube. I had with me a hand air pump. I even had with me a spare usb battery that I could have used to jumpstart the compressor. What I didn’t have was the calm state of mind to use any of these tools to repair my tire. I was panicking. Here I was in the middle of the city, near downtown. I immediately thought of the stories where people were stopped and disappeared. I had no one I could call. No one was coming to look for me. No one was going to know I was missing. People walked past gazing judgmentally at the man dressed up like a cyclist, standing on the side of the road. My heart was racing. My breath was short. Had I been asked to speak I couldn’t even think of how words were supposed to sound. I pressed and pressed on the button to start the compressor with no result. Even if I could get the tire off and the inner tube replaced, my hand pump would not be able to restore the tire pressure. It was not equipped for that. My cell phone read fifteen thirty. I knew there was a second bicycle shop about two miles from my location. As it was the weekend, I assumed that it would be closing soon. Even at my best running pace there was no way that I could get there in the next thirty minutes. I called the shop on the phone and learned that they were open. ‘Yes Sir. We close today at six. If you can get here, we would be more than happy to get you up and running.” This was music to my ears. I packed up the air pump, placed the backpack over my shoulder, plotted the fastest route to the shop and started walking. According to the weather report, the sun would set at about sixteen forty-five. I hoped that the service the bike shop would provide would be quick enough for me to be at least on my way home before the sky went dark. The last time I walked a distance in cycling shoes, I ruined the cleats. The sole of the shoes are fixed, making the flexibility of the foot mute. Walking would require, taking a step without bending the foot. To add to the compromise, the cleat on the shoe is plastic. Pressing on the toe to get any leverage on the step placing that pressure on the cleat, compressing it under bodyweight. The cleat, for all its acclaimed strength was not designed to handle that kind of stress. Pressing it between your foot and the concrete risks spreading the plastic across the bottom of the shoe like butter over toast. Replacement cleats are expensive. They are designed to be replaced. Walking on them as I was, would ensure that what ever time I spent in the bike shop would include finding suitable replacements. New cleats, replace inner tube, my mind ran wild of how much time I was losing walking through the crowds in the city. Between the people heading to the festivities, people standing around taking photos, people selling homemade art and candles, I stood out like a clown in a platoon of soldiers. I felt every step, every crack in the sidewalk, every rock, every bump in the road. I walked hoping and wishing that the cleats survived. I imagined that the cleats would be pressed like pancakes and needed to be replaced. I could already see the salesperson tell me either the cleats would take another hour to install. “We like to do things the right way. You have a long commute, I would hate for you to have a problem.” To the cleats that I needed would not be in stock, requiring me to purchased new pedals. New pedals, new cleats, all because I wanted to go out and have an adventure. I was a powder keg, filled to the top desperately begging for spark. I reached the bike shop and immediately went to the back. “I need a new inner tube and a new front tire as fast as you can.” I said. The mechanic nodded and took the bike to the back. I paced around the mechanic’s area like a new father in the waiting room, watching both the clock and the sky. It was sixteen fifteen. The mechanic had just started to take off the quick release skewers to remove the front wheel. I convinced myself that there was no way that he would have this done in enough time for me to have some light for the ride home. There was just no way. I removed my tinted lenses sunglasses and placed them back in to my back, exchanging them for my new prescription lens sunglasses with clear lenses. If ever there was a time to test this setup, it would be now. The new lenses made everything look crystal clear. I could see for miles head of me. Anything that was close was a blurry mess. It would have made sense to change the inserts from one set of glasses to another, but the inserts were not compatible with one another. I could have ridden home with tinted lenses or ridden home without eye protection at all. A decision I could come to regret if it was not correct. I repacked the backpack, and walked over to the mobile hand pump display stand. All of the hand pumps that were ‘in stock’ suffered from the same problems. They were to small, meaning that they would take a substantial amount of time to get the appropriate air pressure in to the tire. They did not have a gauge, meaning that even if you could get close to the correct pressure, you would have to trust your ‘gut’. The locking mechanism was plastic and flimsy, There was no sure way to keep the nozzle on the stem to ensure that the air pressure being pushed in to the tire was not allowing air to be pushed out at the same time. My mind continued to race. The setting sun. The dimming sky. I was going to pedal in the dark. There was no doubt about that now. From the windows, I could see the slow moving lights of the city’s traffic and the brightening building lights. People were heading home or the maintenance staff was starting. Traffic was going to start becoming congested. The cooling air meant I was going to be cold. In my travels on this route, I knew there was a distinct difference between uncomfortable because of the cold, Cold, and numb. Uncomfortable because of the cold would be that of a short winters kiss against your skin. Cold is when you can feel your hands and feet, overwhelmed with the sensation of being cold. Numb is when you are so cold, your limbs are hard to move. This is where things get scary. The harder you work, the faster you move, the more numb takes over. You feel that you cannot move as fast or as effectively. The mechanic took the bike off the stand and rolled it to me. Your all set. I raced over to the register, paid for the services rendered and immediately raced out of the store. I felt the rush of adrenaline and panic hit me like a train against a volvo. Just like before, like in the past I was in a race against the clock. At night drivers are not looking for cyclist. Here, the claim of ‘I didn’t see him’ or ‘he came out of no where’ was the go to excuse for any driver that collided with a cyclist. It could happen, to night. I might happen tonight. It wasn’t going to happen to me. Head and tail lights flashing, I raced out of the city. Flying like electricity over wires, I negotiated every car, truck, bus and pedestrian, without losing so much as a pedal stroke of momentum. Having had ridden this route before I knew that the closer I was to home the hiller the terrain would become. This has the added benefit of the route from the city would be flat with few steep climb to navigate. Cutting through traffic, hiding in shoulders, zipping through intersections and flying through neighborhoods, the world beyond my route was a blur of lights and wind. People were shadows off to the side. I wasn’t flying. This was not freedom. This was panic. A fuse had been placed in the drum and the flame was inching its way closer. Every straightaway where I could I pushed the bike. Brushing upward of twenty-two, twenty-three to twenty-five miles per hour. I couldn’t read the display on my gps computer aside from the speed. I had no idea if I was pushing to hard or not pushing hard enough. I didn’t care. The only objective now was getting home. My finger has progressed from uncomfortable to cold. As I focused on the road ahead, I tried placing them in to my palms to relieve the cold. My knees and thighs surged with a familiar feeling or stress and ache. A stitch had formed in my side. My back was becoming sore. My shoulders felt stiff. My nose began to run. My arms felt weak. My body was hurting, alarming me that I was not comfortable in the work I was performing. I had worked this hard in the past. I had ridden this very route. The difference being that back them it was my lungs that were feeling desperate. I could not take in air fast enough to keep up with my legs. Back then it was my heart that felt it was about to leap from my chest. I would taste blood in my mouth. I would have been crying to take a breath. I would have searched and fought to find a reason to stop. Its just for a minute No one will know You can take a break No one is watching You’ve gone far enough The body needs to rest Just for a second Is not like anyone will care. That was then. Today, on this ride, everything else hurt, except my heart, lungs and legs. I was moving, breathing comfortably, fighting a past battle renewed by panic, pressure, fear and time. I wasn’t going to stop. Spinning the pedals at or about eighty revolutions per minute, the bike cut through the night like a fresh blade through bamboo. On the descents the bike spun upwards at thirty miles per hour. One the climbs, a shift allowed the cadence to remain the same. Even if the powder keg was blowing slowly, the explosion was happening. I was moving. I was doing it in spite of the pain, in spite of the darkness, in spite of the fear, in spite of the past, I was doing it. I was making my way home. The route had come to one of the last junctures of the ride. A road that paralleled the state route, with far less traffic. This road was the count down to the last number of long stretches of road I would have to overcome. A sharp right turn and I was astride a long dark pathway. The twisting turning dark route felt like the climax of any horror movie. Rodents rustled in the in the woods. Deer peaked their head and antlers in to the sprite of the bike. It was less concerning of something coming up behind as it was having my path obstructed. “I can only fight what I can see” A final rise before the final set of rolling hills. The road led down to a bridge, overtaking a creek. Had it not been for erosion or lazy engineers, this drop could have been avoided altogether. The bike sped upward toward thirty miles per hour. My hands had move from cold to numb. If anything would have pierced my tire at this point I would have no choice but to walk the final five miles back. But I was close. I was moving. The road was clear. The traffic was light. I felt a sense that victory was only a breath away. Had I the strength to cheer I would have become excited. I would have prematurely celebrated and called out to anyone listening. I had not the energy. I had not the breath to waste. The rolling hills lay in wait before me. The road perched upwards on a steep climb. The bicycle light illuminated only the path, negating the curves that led toward the top. The speed of the wheels dropped to single digit. As cold and numb as my hand had become, I had enough feeling in them to know that I had to closely grasp the hoods of the bike to climb. In the past this would have been a perfect place to put a foot down. The excuses for doing so blaring in my ear. Its just for a minute No one will know You can take a break No one is watching You’ve gone far enough The body needs to rest Just for a second Is not like anyone will care. I would care. I would remember. I had come this far, covering seventeen of a twenty-one mile journey without stopping, without quitting, without giving up. I had come this far and I would not stop now. I pointed my head toward the top of the first curve and stood on the pedals. I focused on the shadows that lay within the darkness. The pedals kept moving. The wheels continued to spin. I watched the shadows change and shift, revealing the sky and road beyond the first turn. I was moving. I was doing it. I was making progress. I shifted the bike to a harder to pedal gear, allowing my body weight to turn the pedals. In my mind this would make the wheels spin faster, propelling me to the ascent quicker. I focused and watched as the road snaked beneath the wheels. The shadows waved. The sky, crept in to view. I could hear the creeks and cracks of branching breaking, leaves rustling and grass bending from the darkness. The urge was to look. I wanted to turn and look at what could be behind me, around me. The distraction was tempting. Yet I remained focused. Watching the curve reveal the top of the ascent, it was a thing of beauty, watching the shadow slowly move aside to reveal the path, the sky, the road, the deep awaiting descent. The bike turned the corner and hurried down in to the rolling hill. The gradient jolted the wheels to spin. The cold night wind roared in my ears. I could feel the bitter bite of winter against my face. From a steep descent, right in to a steep ascent, the road kicked up. I pedaled furiously trying to carry the momentum from the descent with me. By the time I had reached the three quarters mark of the second hill, I was pushing the pedals alone. Stroke after stroke, I pushed the pedals, against the cold, against the temptation against the very thoughts that had all but begged me to fail. Stopping now, this close, so with so much covered, so much to gain? A break was not an option. A pause was not an option. Quitting as not an option. Up to the second ascent and down to second descent. This time, with a plan of attack. Still numb, still cold, still tempted, I pedaled as hard as I could to increase the speed. Forcing the bike to collect more momentum. The bike sped to the bottom of the descent, rolling across the valley floor before shooting up the other side. Just before the front wheel reached the crest of the hills, the momentum had been exhausted. I carried the weight over the top and down to the final descent. Cutting the last corner, fighting the final set of hills, I took the last section of this fifty-six-mile ride, and finished it at home. My hands felt so numb, I couldn’t hold the keys to open the lock. I entered the house, placed the bike inside, closed the door and peeled the gear from my body. I was home. I had made it. I fought this battle from the past, the temptation to give up and had come out the other side victorious. I could have quit but I didn’t Its just for a minute - That was more time I would have spent in the cold. No one will know – I will know and that is the only person that I have to live with You can take a break – I don’t need a break, I want a break No one is watching – I am here You’ve gone far enough – I can go further The body needs to rest – I need to get home Just for a second – Its never just a second Is not like anyone will care. – I will care The open road is a scary place. Miles and miles of a beaten path, full of twists and turns, rises and falls all under the supposed light of day. There are places there the road is bumpy. There are places where the asphalt has been torn up to be re-paved. There are places where light cannot reach and places where the nature is abundant. Of all the places on the road, any road no matter the town, city, county or state, there are few places where you can stop and ask for help. If you have a problem, you have to call someone else. If you need assistance, you are expected to call someone else. If you need medical care, a tow, mechanical assistance, or something as small as directions, you are expected to call someone else. Your problems are your problems. No one is going to stop and help you. The public has bills to pay, places to be, things to do, appointment to keep. Even in a car, when you have a problem, you are taught, stay in side and wait for the person, service, office or official you have called, to arrive and help. No one is coming to help you. You must wait. In an open, occupied, consumer based world, you place is to wait. Or you can depend on yourself, your mind, your body and your skill to simply get you home. Nothing feels better than doing just that.