episode 162: NOT DEAD YET. (the last post from my trip)

As I may have mentioned before, I am a pretty simple man. That being said, I had never traveled away from home for 21 days, and certainly I have never been away from Diane for that long. On day 12, I cracked, and in a big way. On the bike I was fine, I knew my job. I cherished my opportunity to ride with my teammates, to help them, to be a good team player, to get some great base miles, enjoy the country and fall in love with the bike again. Off the bike, despite the kindness of the Keeners, I missed my wife, I missed my life. And I cracked. Hard.



In Big Bear Lake, I slipped off by myself and I just started crying. I was pretty hysterical. I was done, I wanted to throw my bike off a mountain and just be done with the freakin’ tour. It was late but I needed to talk to someone. I called Diane. No answer. I called my mom. No answer.

I leave hysterical messages to both. I start to call my boss, thinking if nothing else she’ll put a foot in my ass and get me straight. Then my phone rings. Thank God it was Diane. In her own inspiring way, she told me to get my head out of my ass, and to finish this thing off. She furthered that in 2 more days we would be together and everything would fine. It was just enough to get me through the night.

The next morning I woke up, and I was spent. Not so much physically, as emotionally. As I lay on my back and looked up at the top of my tent, the first thing that popped into my head was “not dead yet.” I sat up, grabbed an ink pen out of my man purse and on my forearm, wrote those words. “not dead yet.”

As I kitted up and started getting ready, my Keener friends could see I was pretty shattered. Erika, who dreamed up this long and strange trip, looked at me and said, “What have I done to you.” Shannon looked at my forearm and said, “that’s a little dark …” and thus my nickname for the trip, Dark Marc was cemented. Brent looked at me and commented to his lovely fiancé, “Marc’s broken…” then went into his best Pantera impression. (it was actually pretty good)

To me, it wasn’t dark at all. It was inspiring. Physically the riding was tough, but not tougher than some of the stupid long and hard races I have done with the Spot boys, Not harder than racing with monkey butt, not suffering like I have in some of the cross races I have done, where my compatriots and I routinely turn ourselves inside out, fighting for freaking 10th place.

To me it was hope. It was that no matter how much I missed my wife, my job, my family, that I wasn’t done, I wouldn’t stop fighting, I wouldn’t quit, I’d keep crawling forward, I’d keep suffering, no matter what. You want to stop me? You better kill me. I’m not dead yet, and I’m still coming.

Riding that day was one of the hardest days of the tour, if not the single hardest. The route was 82 total miles, 5 miles right up a mountain off the bat, over the pass and out of the valley, 20 into the headwind, then 16 miles of steep climbing into the headwind. Over the first pass, I paced my teammates, trying to give some shelter from the headwind.

In the flats, the group was cooking. I got in a bad spot and was off the back with Erika. We decided to not chase but make our own way across the flats. Then the climb started.

I understand that the views from the climb were beautiful. I wouldn’t know. I pegged the heart rate at 175, and only saw the white line as I focused on that, and just drilled it. I was very happy in my pain cave, and in fact had set up a hammock and was enjoying a cold beer in there. I was so much in my own world, that I didn’t notice Harry riding along side me in the sprinter offering me a water bottle, and I was totally startled when Dan, the filmmaker, was all of a sudden next to me asking me about the pain cave. For the record I could only manage a grunt as answer, as drool hung off my bottom lip, and I kept pushing the pedals for everything I was worth. It was a beautiful moment. 1 hour and 12 minutes later, it was over, I made the top, and pulled into the rest stop where Harry handed me a coke and a piece of beef jerky.

I knew this climb would be hard. I looked at my forearm. “not dead yet.” I had jumped on the pedals, and turned them in anger. All my homesickness, all my frustration with mountainbike season, all my anger about having to listen to so much hippie music, all my insecurities and fears about failure, all my stress about what lie in my work email bin, I laid it all right there on that white line.

In hindsight there is no doubt that this day was the hardest of the trip for me. Emotionally bankrupt, I looked deep into myself and I remembered that I can’t quit, I need this, I need to suffer, I have to struggle sometimes to remember that I am alive. I have to fight to get home to my baby, to never give her anything but my best. Sometimes I need you to feel my pain, and sometimes I want to feel yours. I want to keep going.

“not dead yet.” This wasn’t morbid or dark at all. It was about looking at what was hard, biting my lip, slamming my hand in that proverbial car door, and just keep going. Never quit, never give up, do your best. Sometimes I forget that. This day, perhaps the hardest, perhaps the most cathartic for me, I remembered that. I remembered why I am alive. I remembered why I was here, and I did my job. On that mountain I fought hard to get home to my baby. I fought hard to be alive, and to remember I will never quit.

After the climb, we enjoyed a 30 mile decent into wonderful Huntsville, Utah were we camped on a luscious lawn, and the Keeners, Shannon and I would enjoy our final meal together as what had become a great team. It was bitter sweet for sure.

The next day we would arrive in Salt Lake, and slowly slip back into reality. Day 13. Amazing. And for the record I’m still not dead yet.

respect.

fm