So why a bike ride? Why a 210 mile, 3 day ride? There are lots of other great ways to raise money and awareness for Crohn's and colitis, most of which don't require sleeping in a tent for three nights. I don't know why I'm drawn to a bike, but I know where I started. The following is the story of how I first started bike riding. More importantly, it is the story of B.J. and I. B.J. was the first person I met that openly talked about colitis and his colectomy, which he had at 17. I called him when I was first diagnosed. I'd like to say he was a shoulder to cry on, but in actuality he is my antagonist. "Just get it cut out. Then you can move on with your life" was the piece of advice that he gave me over and over.Summer 2001
Want to go for a bike ride tomorrow? I'm going to Wetmore Landing. The instant message from B.J. popped up on my computer screen.How far is that? I typed.
About seven miles.
Seven miles didn't seem that far to me. Of course that would also be seven miles back, but I wanted to get in shape so I replied,
Sure. It might take me a couple of hours, but I'll go. I added a smiley face to let B.J. know I was only joking about taking two hours.
If it takes you two hours to get out there, I'll leave you behind. B.J.'s reply didn't have a smiley face.
I met B.J. the fall of my sophomore year at NMU. I was living in the dorms and he was an RA. We naturally had an antagonist friendship. One of the first times I was in his room I bumped a lamp shade and move it from it's perfect alignment. Within two minutes B.J. adjusted it back. Later I found out that he though I purposely came into his room and "bumped" things. In actuality I'm just klutzy. That winter I took a job as an RA. I called B.J. a lot to 'discuss' my RA problems. I was actually whining and he didn't hesitate to point that out to me. I also called him when I had my first bout of colitis. He told me to not fuck around and get it taken care of.
Summer came and the campus emptied out. Our jobs changed and we both worked as summer security assistants. Basically, we lived in empty dorm buildings and made sure they were not vandalized. It was a job that offered a lot of play time in the Marquette wilderness. We started rollerblading together a couple of times a week (yes, some of those times were down the empty hallways of the dorms!). Then came the big bike trip.
On the afternoon of the Wetmore Landing trip, I waited for B.J. outside his building. I knew he biked a lot, but it was mostly rough terrain mountain biking. He was just getting into road biking.
When B.J. appeared I realized that his idea of 'some road biking' and mine were polar opposites. Attached to the back of his Specialized mountain bike was a fully loaded bike bag, two water bottles, some fancy looking handle bars and his pedals weren't normal looking either. Later I'd learn that those fancy pedals required fancy shoes that 'clipped' into the pedals.
"Do you have water?" he asked while tightening his ponytail under his helmet.
"Yeah," I nodded to the Aquafina bottle I'd duct taped to my handle bars.
"You know water cages are like five bucks. Eight, if you get the really good kind."
"Right. I'll keep that in mind."
He just shrugged and started off.
"The goal is to keep your RPMs high, so keep your bike in a low gear. You don't want to have it in too hard of a gear because you'll just fatigue your muscles quicker. It's about endurance, not strength," he coached me. "Professional cyclist keep their RPMs at about 130. I can only go that fast downhill, with the wind pushing me. Other than that I try to stay between 90 and 100."
"When you start to go up a hill down shift so you are peddling at the same rate you are now. Once you start to go downhill shift to higher gears. You want to maintain the same amount of forces on the pedals at all times," I watched Brian's legs trying to mimic his steady rhythm.
"Also, I'd get a helmet." I tried to reply, but it was between breathing and talking and I choose breathing.
We were traveling on Country Road 550 from Marquette to Big Bay. The road really should have been named Rural Rough You Up Road 550. Pot holes, a non-existent shoulder and blind corners was the course of my first 'road bike trip'. I made a note to buy a helmet the next afternoon. B.J. led the way, his white t-shirt and green gym shorts billowing out behind him. I tried to mimic my cadence after his steady one, but the distance between us lengthened. Ahead was a small hill. Concentrating on B.J. I tried to keep up with him, but I lost sight of him around the wide curve at the top of the hill. I was at least a minute behind. When I finally crested the hill and corner he was waiting for me.
"Hills are evil," I gasped. B.J. had a full smile plastered on his face.
"I look at it this way. Hills are like your life. The more you dread them, the harder they are. You are just have to tell yourself you are going to get to the top and don't stop. Sure at first your thighs are burning like hell and your mind is screaming to stop, but once you get past that, you just go numb and all you thinking about it biking. Each hill makes you stronger for the next one. Just like life. Everything you do makes you stronger." B.J. re-clipped and started off again.
It did not take us two hours to make it to Wetmore Landing. Instead it took about 45 minutes. Following a trail that traced Lake Superior, we biked to an outcropping of rocks. It was almost July and the sun was finally taking the winter chill out of the smooth black rocks. Sitting on the edge of the rocks a cool mist from the Lake rose and covered my bare legs leaving me covered in goose bumps. Next to me B.J. was leaning back with his face raised to the sun.
"Truthfully, I didn't think you'd make it past five miles," he confessed.
"Why did you ask me to come then?"
"To see if you'd do it."
I studied a black lump along the shoreline and asked, "Isn't that Little Presque Isle?"
"Yeah."
"How far away is it do you think?"
"About another three or four miles, I think, if you follow the road."
We both sat in silence.
"You know we'll end up in Big Bay if we aren't careful," I joked.
"We have two months before staff training starts. What else are you doing this summer?"
"Nothing." That summer we rode our bikes twice to Big Bay, fifty-five miles round trip both times.
We joked that there was nothing to do that summer. That's why we rode endless miles every week-- we were bored. The truth was I was chasing B.J. trying to find the peace that he appeared to be at with his colitis. I wanted to see my life as a series of hills that were just making me stronger for a larger challenge. But I couldn't. I was becoming weaker. I was losing more blood. I ignored his advice to not fuck around and take care of myself.
Two months after my last Big Bay trip I passed out in the shower.
"When you start to go up a hill down shift so you are peddling at the same rate you are now. Once you start to go downhill shift to higher gears. You want to maintain the same amount of forces on the pedals at all times," I watched Brian's legs trying to mimic his steady rhythm.
"Also, I'd get a helmet." I tried to reply, but it was between breathing and talking and I choose breathing.
We were traveling on Country Road 550 from Marquette to Big Bay. The road really should have been named Rural Rough You Up Road 550. Pot holes, a non-existent shoulder and blind corners was the course of my first 'road bike trip'. I made a note to buy a helmet the next afternoon. B.J. led the way, his white t-shirt and green gym shorts billowing out behind him. I tried to mimic my cadence after his steady one, but the distance between us lengthened. Ahead was a small hill. Concentrating on B.J. I tried to keep up with him, but I lost sight of him around the wide curve at the top of the hill. I was at least a minute behind. When I finally crested the hill and corner he was waiting for me.
"Hills are evil," I gasped. B.J. had a full smile plastered on his face.
"I look at it this way. Hills are like your life. The more you dread them, the harder they are. You are just have to tell yourself you are going to get to the top and don't stop. Sure at first your thighs are burning like hell and your mind is screaming to stop, but once you get past that, you just go numb and all you thinking about it biking. Each hill makes you stronger for the next one. Just like life. Everything you do makes you stronger." B.J. re-clipped and started off again.
It did not take us two hours to make it to Wetmore Landing. Instead it took about 45 minutes. Following a trail that traced Lake Superior, we biked to an outcropping of rocks. It was almost July and the sun was finally taking the winter chill out of the smooth black rocks. Sitting on the edge of the rocks a cool mist from the Lake rose and covered my bare legs leaving me covered in goose bumps. Next to me B.J. was leaning back with his face raised to the sun.
"Truthfully, I didn't think you'd make it past five miles," he confessed.
"Why did you ask me to come then?"
"To see if you'd do it."
I studied a black lump along the shoreline and asked, "Isn't that Little Presque Isle?"
"Yeah."
"How far away is it do you think?"
"About another three or four miles, I think, if you follow the road."
We both sat in silence.
"You know we'll end up in Big Bay if we aren't careful," I joked.
"We have two months before staff training starts. What else are you doing this summer?"
"Nothing." That summer we rode our bikes twice to Big Bay, fifty-five miles round trip both times.
We joked that there was nothing to do that summer. That's why we rode endless miles every week-- we were bored. The truth was I was chasing B.J. trying to find the peace that he appeared to be at with his colitis. I wanted to see my life as a series of hills that were just making me stronger for a larger challenge. But I couldn't. I was becoming weaker. I was losing more blood. I ignored his advice to not fuck around and take care of myself.
Two months after my last Big Bay trip I passed out in the shower.
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