I’ve been away from the blog for some time, due to some family illness, as well as some Big Travel. Today I’m back from a bicycling trip along the Danube River (plus other adventures) with the story of a hill outside of Vienna, a few things I learned along the way, and a report on recent scans.
Bicycling in Austria
My husband has long dreamed of bicycling along the Danube River, and who am I to argue? So we selected an adventure travel company, put down our deposit, and prepared for a little more than a week of cycling by day and cruising the Danube by night. Who knew we’d run into a once-in-a-century flood? Who knew the flooding would be so extreme that the first two cities on the itinerary and all the cycling routes leading to them would be completely under water?
Our first day of riding, on a route cobbled together by the extraordinary guides, was in a torrential rain. Five degrees cooler and we would have been in hypothermia territory, but the temperature held, I had a wonderful new rain jacket, and it was a unique adventure to ride through saturated farmland while not being able to see the GPS route guide. (If I got thirsty, all I had to do was open my mouth to capture a few good swallows.)
The next day we learned there had been unexpected rain overnight, leaving the gangplank and the dock itself completely flooded. We weren’t getting off that ship. Who knew the government had closed the river to all shipping traffic? At that point, we didn’t. We watched as the crew struggled to free the ship lines from mostly submerged pylons. We were going somewhere unknown.
Our group of intrepid cyclists crowded into the dining room at the bow of the ship. We watched through floor to ceiling windows as we headed into the river. The captain ordered everyone off the top deck, all the structures up there collapsed. As we watched the ship maneuver the powerful current at the middle of the river, his intent became clear: he was going to go for it.
The ship moved partway under the bridge and what became equally clear was that we weren’t going to make it. The ship began to back up. We were surprised it had the power to push against the roaring current. We were even more surprised to watch the ship move into a new position mid-river. He was going to try again.
And he made it. We cheered, riling other passengers– non-cyclists, not part of our group– with our delighted fascination. We learned later the captain had been assessed a healthy fine for moving the ship. But we were grateful– his bold act meant we were docked in an industrial side port where we could at least get off the ship!
The Reckoning Outside Vienna
The guides continued to cobble together routes around often-impassable bikeways. One route, born of a late-night planning-and-scouting session, would take us on a loop through the hills outside Vienna. There was one hill, though. A monster. Anyone who didn’t want to do it could easily get shuttled back to town. There was a little nervous joking as we set off, but we settled in and began to ride.
I was at the back, as usual. Sometimes, this was because I wasn’t organized enough to start immediately, sometimes it was because I was slow, or looking at something. Until that morning, it had been fine with me. But one moment I was riding along, and the next I was overcome. I saw faces of friends from the cancer group, one newly referred to hospice care, another dismissed from a clinical trial due to more metastases in her brain. Me, riding out of Vienna with a scarred and distorted right lung that worked diligently to pull its weight but could no longer deliver. I wasn’t equating my situation to the much more serious conditions facing my friends, but neither was I like other cyclists on our trip. And I never would be.
I know, I know: duh, right? But from the start of the trip and even the days beforehand, when we’d been visiting friends in NY, I’d just been me. A regular person. In that moment, for the millionth time, I realized, I remembered, I wasn’t.
It’s not so easy, trying to hide ugly crying as you pedal along. My poor husband heard me– what’s wrong, Karen? What’s wrong?– but how do you console someone again for circumstances that are both terrible and terribly unfair? I will never be the rider I once was or want to be, I sobbed.
What is anyone supposed to say to that? Luckily, we were riding and he didn’t have to.
I felt I had to decide: hill or van? Or maybe, a third way. I want to do this, I told the guides, and I will. But I will be slow. And I want you to know why, and why it’s so important that I try. There were a couple of moments of awe that I was even doing the trip– jeez, I wish people wouldn’t go there. But then they left me to ride.
It was a long, hard hill. The road switchbacked again and again. The sun was impossibly hot, my tongue, my mouth so dry, I wasn’t sure I could cope. But then I remembered, I know how to climb. I fixed my gaze on the road just ahead of my front wheel. Yes I can I told myself. Yes I can.
My husband told me later he’d been sure I would do it. You’re just so determined, he said.
Here’s the other side of grief. It was a 150 mile week, which is very cool. I’ll be back on the bike soon. I think it might be fun to have a weekly mileage goal. Not 150 to start– doing that consistently would be too much to start– but something…. It’s good to have a goal.
It’s good to not let lung cancer be in charge.
The Scans
Meanwhile, there were scans this past week. The situation in my chest is stable, with no new metastases. Brain scan in a few weeks.
Hot damn.
Thanks for reading. Here’s hoping you’ve got summer adventures coming up, with big hills only if you want them.
