The Best Bone’s Outside Your Comfort Zone

I have the mind of an ultradistance runner and the body of a chess player.

And that makes most of it fun and the rest of it interesting. Circa 1990. – JDW

The flesh was weak, but the mind was confused. Months ago, with the weather cool and New Year’s resolutions fresh, I had hastily agreed to participate in the MS 150. As blues singer Curtis Salgado says, “I musta bin nutz.”

MS is Multiple Sclerosis, a disease of the central nervous system which affects young adults. Symptoms vary, with paralysis topping the chart. It is not a good thing. There’s no known cause, no cure. As many as three thousand (3000) Oregonians are victims. More will be.

The 150 represents the number of miles we traveled on a tour of the Tualatin and Willamette Valleys. On bicycles. Two days, one-hundred-and-fifty miles. One-fifty. I typically don’t drive that far in a fortnight.

I figured getting up at 6 a.m. – six in the morning – would be the hardest part. We started in Beaverton. where the most surprising sight was all the new buildings constructed since I’d been there last. Which was two weeks ago. Pumping up a hill alongside a fortyish nurse, I overheard her say, “I’m doing this to get away from the kids. Seventy-five miles is nothing compared to raising a two-year-old.”

I achieved my initial goal – the first rest stop. Imagine my disappointment to learn it consisted of water, oranges, bananas, nuts and oatmeal cookies. Oh, yes, and a body-fluid-replacement drink developed over a period of years by a team of scientists to taste exactly like the sweat of a chubby guy who’d been hauling trash all day. Apparently, this is what cyclists like to eat. I had been hoping for cold beer and a pepperoni pizza.

Lunch was more of the same. Plus a whole lot of other nutritionally-laden edibles. We will not starve.

Especially if you bike with your mouth wide open. Call it the Ultra Slim Bug Diet.

Of course, this was the hottest day of the year – 102 degrees. Freakinhot. All one-hundred-and-two of them focused directly at me. Like there’s a little kid with a magnifying glass between me and the sun.

Forty-five (45) miles, and I am doomed.

I am getting cramps where I don’t even have muscles. The contractions start to come every five (5) minutes. I think it might be twins.

I pedal until I can’t. Then I walk. Trudging up a hill, a nine(9)-year-old cruises by.

“You know, mister,” he sings out, “if you move to a higher gear, you can go right up this easy.” I hope he stunts his growth.

I’m starting to hallucinate. Mostly about my couch. At least the cramps will take my mind off the pain in my butt, I tell myself. Then I realize my behind doesn’t hurt at all. It’s numb. There’s no feeling whatsoever in my posterior, not to mention a significant part of my anterior. If NIKE can put air-cushions in running shoes, why can’t they do the same thing with cycling shorts?

I entertained myself by studying road kill. I’ve come to the conclusion the natural state of the opossum is squashed-dead-in-the-middle-of-the-road. A live animal is actually the larval stage. Yeah, I know it’s sick, that’s why I sat down in the shade.

A farmer ambled over. He just looked at me.

“Howdy,” I said. Trying to be folksy.

“Kinda hot for bicycling, ain’t it?,” he said. “Where you all comin’ from?”

“Portland,” I told him.

He thought about this for a moment.

“No, I mean, where did you start pedalin’?”

“Portland.”

He absorbed that and chuckled. Took his hat off and scratched his head with the same hand.

“Do this for fun, do you?”

“Actually, no,” I answered. “I’m doing it as punishment for my errant ways.”

“Sonny, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Even had to pay twenty-five (25) dollars.”

“You don’t say. Hmmm.” We just stood there silent for a few minutes.

“Where you headed?,” he asked.

“Linfield College, twenty (20) more miles.”

He smiled. “I know a shortcut. Hasta be less than six (6).”

A moral dilemma faced me. I wondered… what would Richard Nixon do?

Decided to stay the course. And I survived. Awfully proud of myself.

I hurt from the base of my neck to the top of my ankles. Needed a forklift to get off the comfy wrestling mat on the gym floor where many of us spent the night. For breakfast, the condemned man ate a hearty meal. And an extra banana.

The MS 150 is the charity’s top fundraiser. With the blessed assistance of some 200 volunteers, 450 cyclists pledged over $125,000 for this oh-so-worthy cause. If I can stay on my bike for ten (10) hours, you can certainly write a check.

https://www.nationalmssociety.org/Chapters/ORC