Strength
My right to move through this world was being written into the fibers of my body. For a fat kid with no apparent athletic talent a bit of strength was good.
When we first arrived in Ohio, weekends often featured family rides with Mom and Dad. I have no deep memories of these rides beyond that they were neither short nor flat. I dented a rim one time flying down a hill and hitting a pothole, but it didn’t throw me. I learned the rules of the road, how to manage the sections where we had traffic and got comfortable burning through some miles. Jackson Hill was always waiting for me at the end of those rides. I always made it, and that I was proud to be the only one of my friends that could. That I was the only one on a 10 speed had little footing in my 9 year old brain.
Here was the dawn of that secret knowledge only riders have. I knew that hill in a way none of my friends ever would. I knew where the shoulder had crumbled and where to find the smooth spot through the paving patch. It was laid out in terms of shifting points, where to spin, where to grind. It was my private crucible. It had drunk my sweat and it had spoken to me. There is a tiny, inward smile etched upon that hill that only a fellow rider would know.
We must have been doing some decent distances because one Easter we decided to do a family bike trip in Kentucky. We were in the heart of Spring so the temperatures were reasonable. I recall most acutely the impression of being in deep. This was a narrow landscape hemmed in by both rock and exuberant vegetation –– beautiful and dark. There were places that never saw quite enough sun to dry out; mossy, rich, and unexpectedly exotic. Rhododendron clustered in mighty groves among the cliffs. Back home we knew them as large ornamental shrubs –– well mannered, decidedly domestic and polite enough to never extend beyond the reach of Dad’s pruning shears. Here they towered some 20 feet above us, twisting, gnarled and draped in moss. Familiar only by leaf and flower, they contributed mightily to the sensation that we were the smallest of garden elves lost in deep forest.
The gently rolling hills of southern Ohio were poor preparation for this particular slice of The Bluegrass State. These bastards went on forever –– winding through those deep green canyons. Inevitably, they ended with a swift kick in the teeth –– steep pitches across the final quarter mile up to the rim. On the bigger climbs we could catch a break in the trees and behold forest primeval rolling across the horizon.
Only the second of our three days stands out in my mind. For a while we rolled beside big rivers, fed by tumbling streams falling down the canyon sides through the thick rhododendron forests, and then we would start a climb. We were doing a 60ish mile day and so we went through a few of those climbs. The last climb of the day was a fearsome beast. I have no recollection of when or how it started. I only knew that it was never going to end. At some point in the midst of that long pull Mom’s chain broke. She was rescued by a well-intentioned fellow rider with a complete workshop in his garage. A prompt return to the route with a fully functioning chain wasn’t the outcome Mom most desired at that moment.
I guess the hill ended at some point because we reached a destination with an impressive view, picnic tables, and a menu where everything looked amazing! Though tired, my hunger was bottomless. I was not alone. And so we all learned it is possible to have ridden so hard that eating is less satisfying than the hunger itself. Our bodies just couldn’t process the food. I don’t think my parents even finished the beers they ordered. It was one of just two times in my life when I have been so destroyed after a day of riding that consuming food was impossible. The next morning, I was shocked to discover the Easter Bunny found me in the hotel room during the night. To this day I have no idea how they pulled that off, nor desire to find out.
Memory is a slippery thing. I have no recollection of being wise enough to protest this state of affairs. I must have complained, though my parents insist I did not. Was I so passive as not to protest the injustice of laboring 60 miles through such challenging terrain? Could I have been so completely mesmerized by the enchanting scenery? What did it mean to do a ride that left my parents exhausted at the edge of their abilities–– other than that we were together. It was a grand adventure. Adventures are supposed to be hard. The subtle threads of ‘that was something special” and “that is just what we are doing” cannot be teased apart. In the back of my childhood brain the exquisite flavor of “I did that” inhabits the same space as “We did that.”
I have no way to know if I enjoyed riding at this point in my life. I do know I loved the power that it gave me. I could go places and do things alone that others would only do with a car ride from Mom or Dad. I also knew that riding set me apart. None of my friends rode like I did. I had a different relationship to distance and elevations than any of them. “10 miles from here” meant something different to me – instinctively the calculations of how would begin in the back of my mind. My calculus of the world had already started to shift. Bottles of water and hours of sunlight were as much units of distance as any number on a sign.
I had started to develop a certain flavor of strength. There was no flex – no currency to be traded among my fellow 9 year olds. This was not the gift of pumping iron or big muscles that we saw in magazines. And yet, I already knew that given enough hours, water and food, I could get from any given A to any given B. I could endure. My right to move through this world was being written into the fibers of my body. For a fat kid with no apparent athletic talent a bit of strength was good.
Yes, it was in Ohio that I officially became a fat kid and began my life-long battle with obesity. It didn’t go well. They never do. The diets were endless and accomplished nothing. I lied. I snuck food. I ate junk with friends. Of course I didn’t want to be fat, but I didn’t want to be controlled either. The battle sparked a tiny, but fierce and ill-defined rage inside of me. I can see now that my parents desire to control this aspect of my life was a reflection of their own struggles to regain control over their crumbling lives.
All was not well in my world. One Sunday, when I was taking a bath, my parents came in to tell me that my Dad was leaving and would be staying at a hotel. I was outraged. I have no idea how I learned where his hotel was but I raided our garden for a couple of cucumbers that served as my supplies, jumped on my bike, and showed up in the lobby. It was a harbinger of many things to come.