The Finish Line

We reached Anchorage this past Friday the 15th--day 70 of our journey.


It's hard to tell, but there's rain in this photo. Ironically, that day's weather conditions brought our journey full circle, because (if you remember), our send-off in Austin was just as wet as our arrival in Anchorage.


The Texas Exes network in Austin welcomed us with an Alaskan dinner featuring halibut ceviche, grilled salmon, moose sausage, as well as various desserts and pastas. Right now, I'm sitting in the dining room of my hosts, Dora and Spencer, who also part of the UT alumni network here in Anchorage. The Olympics are on television in the background (television!), my teammate Mike is chatting on his cell phone (we finally have reception after two weeks of wilderness in the Yukon Territory and eastern Alaska), and a beautiful backyard of evergreen and (I think) poplar trees calms me.

70 days later, I'm a different person: I've reached greater peace with my mother's death, I'm more self-confident, and (I regret being so honest) 10 pounds heavier!

It might be muscle mass. I ate about 4,000-5,000 calories per day this summer and burned about 3,000. You would be appalled by the amount of food we all ate! I'm sure we scarfed down as much as an elephant would, daily. One of the challenging parts of coming back to my normal life will be exercising restraint in my diet; when biking an average of 80 miles a day, you can eat pretty much anything and everything without feeling any sense of guilt.

Beyond matters of weight, something else is different these days. But, I have a hard time in articulating the way I feel or the way my attitudes have changed. And, I don't think I could really figure out whether I have really "changed" until I get in the swing of usual life: having an hourly schedule, living in the same area for an extended period of time, working full time, and multi-tasking (as opposed to eating, biking, and sleeping again and again).

One feeling that I am nevertheless sure of is peacefulness. I went through anger, grief, and sadness as I pedalled across the north american continent thinking of my mother, her devastating illness, what life would be like if she were still here, and the millions of Americans who battle cancer and lose. My biggest emotional struggles were in dealing with the fact that I had no answers to many questions: what were Mom's mannerisms, what were hopes for me, what was she thinking about on the day she realized her illness was terminal, and what would Mom say about the person I've become?

As I pedalled downhill through valleys and canyons and uphill through various mountain passes, and as I crossed the continental divide amongst snow-capped mountains while rolling through rain, wind, and haze, asking such questions made me angrier with my loss. I began to realize the importance of acceptance and of simply not knowing. I would look to the mountains, hoping that their beauty and stoicism would help me to find the answers. I would look to the glacial rivers of Banff, hoping that the gentle sounds of streams and rushing water would whisper something in my ear—something that would tell me about the life my mother led. However, each time I looked to nature for the answers I could only pretend that my questions were being answered. My imagination would give the only reply.

Right now, I'm thinking of a 40-mile descent to Sutton, Alaska—day 69 of our journey. Alaskan tundra was on my left, red and greenish-gray mountains were above me, and I could see glaciers in the distance. I was traveling 40.2 miles per hour on a long downhill slope of 7% grade. I remember being sad about the inevitable tragedy: I am going to forget the details of these mountins, I am going to forget many similar moments from this past summer, I am going to misremember the changing highways. On that day in Sutton, however, I tried hard to ingrain that particular moment in my mind, because it was the most beautiful moment of my entire summer.

Though I might forget the way those mountains looked, I hope to remember the way they made me feel—the way the downhil descent deafened my sense of hearing, the great conversation I had with Ivan right before we started dropping in elevation, and the sense of joy I felt in thinking that my mother was a beautiful person for who she was, despite the imperfections she might have had and more so because of the life she lived.

This summer became a celebration of her life, and even though the summer's journey has ended I will continue to ride for those who can't.

Playing Telephone

Peter, Trish, Amy, and Scott with a BC Ambulance Driver

***

On day 50, we biked 97 miles from Smithers to Kitwanga, British Columbia. Midway through, some of the teammates pictured above were involved in a minor accident. We were traveling on Highway 16, a road nicknamed the "Trail of Tears" for the several deaths that occurred just off the road: three female hitchhikers were picked up and killed along the highway. We saw several signs announcing it a crime to pick up hitchhikers, and such accidents are one of several influences. This is kept quiet, but during last year's Texas 4000 ride, a driver attempted to abduct a female Rockies rider along that road. She managed to escape from the car as a fellow teammate caught up to the car, and she was unscathed. The experience was, nonetheless, surely traumatic for her.

Anyhow, on day 50 Peter, Trish, Amy, Ivan, and Scott were traveling ahead of my group. Some kids in a black coupe were pretty ticked off about us being on the road: when they passed us, they shook their fists and yelled at us from an open car window, but when they passed Peter's group they threw an open soda can. Even though we were clearly in the shoulder and out of the lane, we somehow managed to make them angry (a lot of drivers get mad with us, but we're used to it).

The soda can didn't hit anyone, but Amy swerved in her surprise, touched wheels with Peter, and collided with Trish. Both Amy and Trish fell off of their bikes and had minor scrapes, but were shaken nonetheless. A passing motorist stopped to check that everyone was okay and offered to help by catching up with the black coupe, taking note of its license plate number, and reporting that number to the police.

When the Samaritan retrieved the license plate number, she turned around and caught up with Mike, who was driving the 15 passenger van that drags our trailer (the transport vessel for our food, personal duffel bags, tents, and all additional supplies). In her excitement, she relayed a concise message that was entirely true, but entirely misleading to Mike: "six of your cyclists were involved in an accident; I just reported it to the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police)." Mike interpreted the worst case scenario.

Mike, in his panic, caught up with Peter's group and was relieved to find that the accident was minor and that everyone was okay. Unfortunately, he hit a culvert and the trailer got a flat in its right wheel.

Four miles from our campsite in Kitwanga, four ambulances from surrounding towns caught up with our biking group expecting to find a large accident—which was actually our minor one. The ambulance drivers were surprised to find that everything was good and fine, because the message they heard was, "six motorists were hit by a car." We all laughed about the mix-up, and Amy was silly enough to take a picture at the end of the day.

The wheel took hours to fix because we were in the middle of nowhere, and the worst part of our day was only an hourlong wait at the RV Park for the trailer to arrive. But, waiting really wasn't bad at all: we made a great curry dinner that night and slept warmly in our tents as a soft rain lulled us to sleep.

Pictures from Canada!

Crossing in to Canada, with Alberta being our first stop (I'm in the white!)



Peter and me, in Banff National Park

The ladies, at Lake Louise in Banff

Geoff and me, enjoying a morning at Lake Morraine (also in Banff)

Long hair!

Short hair!

(It's Rockies team tradition to do drastic things to your hair once you reach Prince George, AB. All 10 of our boys got either mohawks or uncle haircuts; the girls either shaved their heads or cut their hair significantly shorter. Dorrie, our host, cut our hair--in the dark night and in rain. Dorrie claims that she only cuts the hair of dogs and Texas 4000 cyclists; we nevertheless entrusted her).

Day 54: Dease Lake, BC, Canada

It's been a month since my last post, and a lot has happened since then. My legs are becoming more tired and worn as each day passes--mainly because we've been on the road for almost two months, and we're still 1,000 miles away! These past few days have definitely been the hardest, emotionally, because my mind is ready for rest, but my body needs to continue pedaling.

We crossed the Canadian border on July 11. My first response to the Canadian landscape was that the scenery seemed a lot more pastoral than I had expected. The hills were rolling and green, and every so often they were dappled by brown dots--grazing cattle. In retrospect, the landscapes weren't much different from those of Montana, but for some reason I wanted the change to be drastic, so that my surroundings would constantly remind me, "You've made it thus far."

My first days in Canada were hard and on several occasions I was brought to tears. I began to think more of my mother and how little memory I have of her. I was amidst the mountains and glacial rivers, and I couldn't remember the faintest details of her existence: the way her voice sounded, the texture of her skin, or her mannerisms of speech. I would try to talk to her as I pedaled through the hills, but the only audible response was the sound of wind rushing through my ears.

Banff and Jasper, national parks in Alberta, have been by far the most beautiful, and I am sad that my mother couldn't see the beauty that I witnessed. The morning that we left Jasper, I cried so hard that I couldn't breathe. I tried to pedal faster, but my lungs couldn't take it, and the headwind was so strong that I couldn't move too quickly. My teammates, MJ and Ivan, pedaled next to me, quietly. That was all I really needed, and they somehow understood.

***

Some of our most gracious hosts have been in Alberta and British Columbia, and most of the people we've met have been laid back and easy going. A Canadian once told me, "Americans say that we don't have a back bone, but I don't care. I just live comfortably and take my time!"

Since my last post, three teammates have returned home: one, for a non-cycling related leg injury, and two others for disregarding Texas 4000 policies. They are all in good health, but I am sad to miss the rest of the summer with them.

I'm on a tight internet schedule right now, and there is a lot more that I would like to share, but I'll have to tell you more the next time around! Please know that you all are in my heart and that you are giving me warmth and strength during this last and challening stretch of my summer journey. Alaska is 15 days away, and I'm looking forward to seeing Anchorage.

Tim Rickett

In Fort Collins, we met Tim Rickett. We arrived in Fort Collins on June 25, and Tim joined us for breakfast the following morning.

Five years ago, Tim was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. At 10:30 pm the night before we met him, Tim learned that he had 100% remission from his illness. Tim attributes his success to two reasons: 1) MD Anderson and 2) his daughter, who he wanted to see graduate from high school. Since our fundraising supports MD Anderson, Tim was especially excited about Texas 4000 and its mission.

Tim's case is extremely rare. Most pancreative cancer patients die from their condition within a few months of their diagnosis. It makes me think that a lot of one's struggle with cancer has to do with one's determination to live.

I wonder what went through my mom's mind as she struggled with brain cancer and whether she gave in to her condition. A part of me wants to think that the cancer was too strong for her, but a part of me also thinks that she was simply tired of fighting.

My dad believes that chemotherapy kills people faster than does the cancer, and I think he's right. Maybe Mom really was tired of fighting, but I don't know. I think back on our last moments together and wish that I had asked Mom more questions or had taken more time to listen to her. Maybe I was too young to realize the gravity of Mom's sickness. I think, had I been able to grasp the concept of cancer and of death, maybe our fight would have been different. Maybe it would have been successful.

I think about Tim's daughter and am glad that he had such a strong inspiration to go on with his fight. Since I can't change the past and the path of my mom's struggle, riding with Texas 4000 gives me hope that those who are still fighting might have simlar success.

Las Animas, Colorado (Day 13--June 19)

There's a myth that the name, Las Animas, derives from bloodshed. A group of Spanish priests were killed by a Native American tribe, and in commemoration of their deaths, the city was named after the "lost souls," or las animas, that passed away.

During the night of our stay in Las Animas, my host Pam Valdez was worried that the story of the name would make Las Animas appear haunted or spooky. In my own short experience, however, I found that Pam had nothing to worry about, and that Las Animas was indeed a charming and warm town for us to stay.

Las Animas was the first city in which our group was divided among host families. We ocassionaly split up the group among hosts, and even though it's kind of sad to break up the team (even if only for a night), doing so allows us to interact more closely with the communities that welcome us.

In Las Animas we were separated into groups of two to three riders per host, and Kasaundra and I stayed with Pam Valdez, a mother of three. Pam is a chiropractor in Las Animas and has been for the past 26 years.

That night we had a pot luck dinner at Pam's church, and we gave a presentation about Texas 4000 and its cause. I was one of the three presenters, and I mentioned my inspirations for riding. I was touched when my own teammate, Abby, shared her major reason for riding: her friend Will Devonshire, who had passed away from cancer when he was only in high school. Even though I spend day and night with my teammates, I still learn more about them each day.

After the presentation, Pam drove us to her home, where we were able to chat and learn more about each other.

Pam's best friend, Brenda, had passed away from pancreatic cancer just a year ago. I didn't probe with too many questions, because Pam seemed sensitive about the issue.

That night, Pam also offered to "adjust" Kasaundra and I the night before. I had never visited a chiropractor, so I was pretty excited about the whole event.

Pam popped almost every joint in my body: the bones of my neck, the bones all along my spine, both of my wrists, as well as my ankles. She also moved my stomach downwards. According to Pam indigestion may result from a poorly positioned stomach; mine was positioned such that it was scrunched up towards my esophagus.

I also couldn't help from laughing the entire time. I'm extremely ticklish, so everytime Pam tried to adjust parts of my back or my ankles, I would squirm and giggle. Pam said that squiriming from ticklishness is actually a defense mechanism, because ticklish areas are points of nerve damage.

I felt pretty good the next morning, and was well-prepared for the 85-mile day to Pueblo. That day, Kasaundra and I rode in Brenda's memory. It was an honor to do so.

Rocky Mountain High, Colorado

We crossed in to Colorado on June 19, the thirteenth day of our trip, into a town called Las Animas. From There, we biked 85 miles to Pueblo, traveled 60 miles to Colorado Springs, made a 62-mile trip to Denver, had a short 35-mile bike to Boulder, where we rested for a day, and then crossed into Fort Collins for a relatively short 45-mile trip--the 19th day of our summer.

Colorado was a beautiful place to be: the weather was clear, the air was clean and refreshing, and scenic, paved bike trails carried us safely in to Denver and Boulder. I couldn't help thinking of the website, stuff white people like, everywhere we went: we were surrouned by Subarus, Chaco sandals, New Balance tennis shoes, REI superstores, organic and locally-owned food markets, and recycling centers.

My teammate Scott started a game called, "Sum up the Subarus," in which we counted up all the Subarus we could find within one location. Outside of Ideal Food Mart, we found 11 altogether. I think I saw only three for every two days in Austin.

Colorado was exactly what I expected, and more. Although I didn't take part in a particular adventure during our stay in the state, I think it is expecially noteworthy: 10 of my teammates made a life-changing bike ride to the summit of Mount Evans. Mt. Evans is over 14,000 feet above sea level, and the road to its summit (according to Google search results) is the world's highest paved roadway. Mike Casey made a great blog entry on the Texas 4000 website about his journey.

My teammates and I are becoming closer and closer with each struggle and success. We're becoming a family, and we need to work together as such in order to make it to Anchorage.