The Cyclist

When I was 13 I decided to walk across the country. I told schoolmates I was planning to do it the following summer. Someone asked me, “What would you eat?” I said, “Cheerios,” meaning that would have been one of the foods I’d eat along the trip. But it spread throughout the school that “Steven Friedman is planning to walk from coast to coast and only eat a box of cereal.” People laughed at me to my face.

I once jogged two miles to my grandmother’s house and thought I was going to collapse. I was often picked last for sports teams in school. I was a benchwarmer for JCC basketball and rarely got a hit in Little League. 

I made it a habit often of waiting to the last minute to submit assignments in high school through college. I once resigned from a synagogue summer maintenance job by leaving a note not-so-indiscreetly in one of the classrooms I was supposed to clean.

Through my late teens and into my 20s, I saw myself as a quitter with few physical skills. Then I ran a marathon after training for a year and finished in under 4 hours. The discipline of running and training 5-7 times a week and then finishing the Boston Marathon gave me a newfound confidence that I could establish goals for myself and achieve them.

As I neared the finish line of my first Boston Marathon in 1981, the golden Prudential building looming in front of me, I started to cry at all that I’d accomplished. I couldn’t believe that I’d run 26.2 miles of the world’s most famous long distance race.

But, still, the tiny voice lingers in my head after all these years that I am not good enough. Even after I’d finished three more marathons, earned a Bachelor’s degree after 10 years and a master’s degree 5 years later, got my teaching credential, and raised two kids with and without a partner, I sometimes see myself as the physically inept quitter.

Four years ago, I entered a 20-60 mile mountain bike ride over the often arduous climbs along Mt. Tamalpais. I completed the 20 or so miles I’d registered for, but several times I had to get off my bike as I plowed over the dirt and walk it up a steep ascent. I was so mad at myself. I figured--incorrectly--that I was the only person to ever walk during a competitive bike ride. I was so stressed out and ashamed.

Fast forward to this past weekend and the 25-mile ride along the rim of Crater Lake in southern Oregon. The voice returned several times while Tricia and I were camping in Rocky Point, an hour from the entrance to the National Park outside Klamath Falls. Why was I biking over the steep ascents and descents, some that lasted 4 miles uphill? I was unprepared. Remember Mt. Tam? You are not worthy. I shared my fears with Tricia who believed in me. But I ignored her and let the voice grow louder and louder inside my head.

“I saw how you never stopped in Norway,” she said, referring to our summer bike ride along the southern coastal fjords.

She and I differ about the level of difficulty along the roads in Norway, but she insisted that I’d shown myself more than capable on a bike over varied terrain.

After the check in, I hopped on my Bike Friday and proceeded to the route and began a one-mile climb at 7000 feet. Over the course of the full 25 miles, I climbed several hundred feet with ascents ranging from two to four miles. The descents were even worse as I hit over 30 MPH and my small folding bike started to rattle along the car free road.

But an amazing thing happened up the first climb: I was biking--not in my granny gear--and maintaining a comfortable pace up the hills. I. Was. Doing. It. Even as I was pedaling up the longest uphill stretch at nearly four miles, I felt a surge of confidence from knowing all the biking I do each day, each week, each year had prepared to tackle these types of challenges.

The majority of cyclists were like me, regular people who love to cycle. Some were tall, some were short, some were skinny, some were actually overweight. One woman biked next to her 8-year-old son. Some used electric pedal assist bikes. But everyone was going forward. A few people walked their bikes up the steeper stretches of the ride. But nearly everyone finished the ride, which began at 8 am and closed 10 hours later, to accommodate all abilities.

I started crying as I reached the final rest stop which signaled the end of the ride, 25 miles, in just under two hours. I muttered to myself, “I did it. I fucking did it.”

While I’m not ready to tackle the Tour de France--and that’s not the point--I think that I am worthy of the title ‘Cyclist’.