A Glorious Downhill Run | Sept 9 2023

This past Wednesday, 9/6, was one of the top ten weather days in my corner of the Pacific Northwest. I was riding my bike out of cancer, to the Columbia River Gorge, to do the big ride we’d planned to do last week– that is, until wildfire smoke sent us in another direction. The big ride had been designed to help me build mileage as well as give me a chance to wrap my head– and quads– around the biggest hill on the way to Multnomah Falls. I’ve been training to make the ride to Multnomah falls since last year. I’d already experienced the final hills of the ride in an earlier practice run from Women’s Forum to Crown Point. This plan had me reaching the starting point of that ride, Women’s Forum, then turning back home.

My plan was different. I’d suspected for more than a day that I was going to get to Women’s Forum and keep going. Because, enough already; after a season’s worth of training, the anticipation of doing the whole ride was starting to kill me. I’m pretty sure DH (Dear Husband) knew, but he never said anything.

When Wednesday morning’s temperature hit 59° (the lowest temp my cranky lungs can tolerate), I was ready.

I’d gone through my checklist carefully: wallet, cash, credit card– all of which I’d forgotten once– many snacks (energy bars, fruit snacks, pretzels for the salt, a juicy PB&J.) Inhaler. Lights and spare batteries. Mask. External battery for phone. Tubes and tools to change a flat tire. Wind jacket. Check, check, and check.

And off I went.

Have I mentioned I live at the bottom of a BIG hill? I rode up, turned northbound, and one block later realized I was not wearing my helmet. 

–PSA–

NEVER RIDE A BIKE WITHOUT A HELMET. Just ask the guy who crashed outside our house one midnight this past July. He cracked his skull. Helmets, people. Just wear ’em.

–BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOG POST–

This was NOT an auspicious beginning. I rode home, got the helmet, rode up bloody the hill again, then began the real adventure. My DH-coach had used an app to make a route I could follow, which was great in theory, but in practice was maddening. Every time the road curved, the app sounded to tell me to expect a turn, then it sounded once more to signal I should make the turn. Then it signaled to indicate I was off course. It was kind of like a dog begging for attention: exasperating to the nth degree, but you tolerate it for the benefits.

We’d disagreed about the route. I wanted to go on a main street through Gresham (the next town over) and into Troutdale, the town where the climbing starts. I’d ridden it before, in the rain, so I knew exactly what it was. He was adamant: it was a crappy route. Busy, ugly, and besides, not the usual route people took. I capitulated; took the section of road he’d planned, part bike trail, part bike lane on a busy thoroughfare– yay trucks! Yay broken glass and crud in the bike lane!– the GPS app sounding whenever it thought I was on the wrong route, which, for some baffling reason, was often. Eventually, I entered Troutdale’s scenic (ahem) industrial park.  I turned onto a bike path to follow the route around the Troutdale Airport, when WHAM, I was gobsmacked at the alluring view:

I texted DH to share my delight:

But not long after:

I may have been riding by myself, but I did not feel alone. DH was watching my progress on Google maps and responding to my texts. As I wrestled with the tire (yes, there was a little colorful language), a friend texted that he was home from the hospital. I met dogs and their walkers, a guy on a monowheel eating his lunch as he toodled along. And I kept in mind a friend from the Peloton Cancer group on Facebook, who’d asked me to send pictures so she could see what I saw.

And I saw so much. A huge steelhead trout leaping from the Columbia River to capture lunch. Mount Hood, rising into view as I approached the Gorge. A sign in a park warning about a cougar sighting. People wading in the Sandy River. And, as I started uphill toward Women’s Forum, dozens of beehives with their keeper, fully masked, lifting the frames. He paused to wave. Vegetable stands, the sign for a lavender farm, the Corbett Country Market.

Let me interrupt theses bucolic remembrances. This was the hardest hill I’ve ever ridden, simply relentless in grade and length. Five and a half miles, topping out at a 5% grade. I fixed my eyes on the road just beyond my front wheel, blessed every pedal stroke I’d put in on the backside of our volcano, and, as DH says, just ground the pedals. I’ll never love hills, but I was so grateful as I rode this one. I felt strong and whole. And I swore to myself I’d never do it again. That quashed any shred of doubt I may have had about going all the way to the falls. It also raised the stakes.

I reached Women’s Forum and texted DH. Set off downhill to Crown Point, a little faster than the last time I rode it, just for fun, then on to Multnomah Falls. Now DH was cheering me on via text at every milestone.

At the Falls, I bought a 24 ounce latte, a cable for the external battery– my phone was down to 25% and I’d brought the wrong one to charge it– and postcards. I would send them to Drs. Pulmonology, Radiology, and Oncology, thanking them for their encouragement and care. I met Bentley the 7 lb. dog who gets washed with baby shampoo between trips to the groomer, and a busload of elderly Amish men and women. They’d traveled from Indiana and were headed out to the coast, then down into the Redwoods.

I’d revived a little by then. I finished my chocolate sea-salt energy bar and got back on my bike. I was tired but determined– after all, I’d met this section of road before. A white Tesla drove by and the driver give me a thumbs up as they passed. I met them at Crown Point. “We’ve been seeing you for like 10 miles!” the man exclaimed. Other sightseers were listening. “Where’d you ride from?” Tesla man asked. I told him. One of the spectators whistled. “You’re going back today?” I nodded. “You must be in really good shape,” she said. Tesla Man and his wife nodded vigorously. I said goodbye to them, joking that I’d probably see them at Women’s Forum. Sure enough, they were parking as I turned in.

Tesla man told me he rode abut 70 miles a week, but could never imagine doing that mileage in a day. “I’ve been working on it for a long time,” I said quietly. “Two years ago, I could barely walk 2,000 steps.” They didn’t ask why; I didn’t say more.

Wishing them a nice visit with family– they were from New Jersey– I pushed off. Somewhere in the midst of the big, swooping downhill (remember: what goes up must come down thank God) I realized I should probably check the time of sunset. In downtown Troutdale, I texted DH. Sunset was not far off and the final part of the ride was on two major multi-use trails. Although these paths would be the easiest terrain of the day, there was no way I’d ride them in the dark. Later, I realized there’d also been no way I should ride city streets I didn’t know in the dark.

A text came in. “Do you want me to come pick you up?”

I really wanted to get all the way back myself. “If you come and get me, can I still say I rode to Multnomah Falls?” I answered.

“Absolutely!” What a gift that statement was.

I rode some more, we texted some more, then I arrived at the Gresham-Fairview Trail. It was 15 minutes until sunset. Color had pretty much disappeared from everything around me. A woman briskly walked her small dog in the other direction, toward the street. Lights shone from condo windows. Down the path, a disheveled man stood next to a broken-down bike trailer, zipping his pants.

It was time to call it.

I was very, very tired. Afterwards, DH and I agreed that with three weeks more of training, I’d have finished with much more gas in my tank. But we also agreed that with the days getting shorter and cooler, and the rain coming on a schedule known only to itself, deciding to go for it had been wise.

Was I proud of myself? Not so much proud as deeply, deeply satisfied. I’d felt driven to do this ride. Before cancer, I’d started training for it with a small group, but bad weather and travel kept me from finishing. That nagged at me. But I didn’t realize how essential moving is to the way I make sense of the world until I had neither breath nor strength to walk down the block. So I set a goal, not for the sake of setting a goal, but as an anchor I could use to haul myself up. I held fast to that even as I ran into obstacles, mostly deep, unfinished cancer Stuff. And fear. I had to either settle it or carry its extra weight up the hills.

Yesterday, I was trying to explain what I’ve learned through this process. I heard myself say, “You see, it’s not about the bike.” (Too bad Lance Armstrong got first dibs on that sweet phrase.) Because it’s not. It’s not about mileage, or even about riding. Those are just the vehicles I happened to use, and there are as many vehicles as there are people who long for something more.

I met myself anew all along the way to Multnomah Falls.

I’ve grown strong in new ways of knowing what matters and how I want to be in the world.

I’m grateful for the whole experience, and for all the people who sweated and celebrated with me.

And I’m grateful I have the chance to make some new goals.

Thanks for reading. I’m going to rest and reflect for a few days. I hope you’ll have a moment of deep satisfaction this week, and maybe even a glorious downhill run.